Our New Orleans Trip (And One Literal Fiasco)
Should someone in the service industry literally act like a bitch on wheels?
So, it’s been quite a while since I’ve made a blog entry. I’ve been considering in which direction my blog should go, as I’m going to make the transition to using a pump and continuous glucose monitor some time in the near future. Stay tuned, as I’ll keep you posted.
This entry, however, is about the trip Meg and I are currently on in New Orleans. It’s the first time we’ve been away since Owen was born, and a return to the scene of where I proposed to Meg some three years ago.
I love this city. I love the food. Everything’s been wonderful. Then we stopped into our hotel bar.
We’re staying at the International House on Camp Street in the Central Business District. The hotel is lovely, close to a lot of the things we want to see, with a very nice and accommodating service staff.
Yesterday, April 20, we took a cemetery tour and walked around the French Quarter, leaving the hotel around 9:30 a.m. We returned to the hotel at 3p.m., thinking we could get a drink at the lauded Loa Bar before resting for a while and then going out to dinner. However, we were told the bar wouldn’t open until 4 p.m. by the big, burly bartender who was prepping.
(A little background: Loa is known for its selection of cocktails made with herbs that are grown on-site.)
No problem, I said to Meg. We’d just go to our room and return shortly.
At 4:05 p.m. We returned to the bar to find a youngish blond bartender making a couple drinks for the three patrons at the end of the bar. Meg and I reviewed the three-page “Potables” menu (about 35 items total on the menu). I ordered a gin-based drink called a “canary.” Meg’s request was for a drink that was on the sweeter side, but whose ingredients escape me. (I’ll try to update later.)
When we placed our orders, the bartender said to Meg, “I don’t have the ingredients ready for that yet. I literally opened the bar 30 seconds ago.” (This was not true, as we were at the bar for literally five minutes watching her make drinks for other guests.)
She made my drink, then returned to Meg, asking what she wanted. (Note: not what she’d like or how she could help Meg, but what did she “want.”)
Meg was a little flustered, as she wanted what she had originally requested. She asked the she-bitch bartender what she recommended, as she wasn’t familiar with a lot of the ingredients on the menu, and stated that vodka and gin make her deathly ill.
The bartender literally threw her hands in the air as if Meg had literally asked her to donate a kidney. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and started concocting something, only for Meg to say “No vodka, please.” She was met with a stare. “It makes me deathly ill. And gin, too.”
She-bitch bartender then made a variation of an old fashioned, and made a point of letting another patron she was none-too-pleased about it.
The point, of course, is that you should not work in the service industry if you dislike people quite so much. I worked as a bartender (badly, I might add), and learned very quickly that having a shitty attitude was a great way to screw yourself out of a tip.
We asked waitstaff and receptionists their opinions all weekend, with great results literally every time except one. I wish I had yelled at the petty bartender ruling over her tiny fiefdom. Unfortunately, I only have Yelp and my blog to offer her comeuppance.