Territoriality. I've seen Wild Kingdom, I appreciate its purpose in nature. Dogs mark their territory. Lions, muskrats and low land gorillas all protect their territory. But bartenders? Well, apparently in some clubs they do.
Last night I was doing some recon for a client in a Southern California town that shall remain nameless (San Diego). It was a fairly cool operation on a respectfully busy night.
I made my way to the bar and grabbed a barstool. There were four bartenders working and eventually one of them--a collegiate looking guy I'll call Sam (his actual name)--took my drink order. When it came time for another cocktail, I looked around for Sam.
Not seeing young Sam, I eventually flagged down a bartender I'll call Duane (which according to his plastic name tag is his real name). I pointed to my cocktail glass, which by now had been empty so long it had air dried, and ordered another. Duane could not have seemed less interested. "I'll let your bartender know." With that he departed for points unknown.
My bartender? What's with that? Why was Sam now my bartender? Was there some sort of courting period that I wasn't aware of?
Well, time never moved more slowly. I sat there dumbfounded, empty handed like a thirsty, second-class citizen. I even scrutinized the pile of cash in front of me. It seemed authentic.
Then out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpse of the polyester clad Sam. I waved him over and placed my order. Upon his return I asked him about Duane's comment.
"You're seated in my station. We split up the bar so we don't have to pool tips. Barry and I work as a team and Duane and Rich work the other end of the bar."
Now granted I just had a cocktail, but I was sufficiently sober to realize that the arrangement was absurd. You mean that if I on the stool to my right ol' Duane could have served me? Good grief, I thought to myself. In all of my years I'd never run into such a thing. Inbreeding bad service to facilitate some lame tip sharing scheme?
For some reason, I thought all bars had accepted as universally sensible the notion of bartenders pooling tips. A guest is a guest regardless of where at the bar he or she is seated.
I suddenly grew concerned that Sam might spray me like a provoked male cat, so I promptly drained my drink and left. On the credit card slip I wrote in a tip of $5.71. Let's see San and Barry divide that equally.
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