One of the more awkward instances a restaurant employee has to deal with is knowing when to shut off an inebriated asshole. This can become very difficult because it places the employee in a situation in which the forthcoming tip is potentially jeopardized. However, it is much more worth it to jeopardize a tip as opposed to jeopardizing someone's life.
Did you know?
If a server/bartender/restaurant employee overserves a patron, and that patron goes on to kill himself, and a family of 4 in a drunken collision, then blame will fall solely on those employees involved in a court of law. This is precisely why it is very important to keep a cautious eye on these matters because, in the end, it is totally not worth it.
What makes it interestingly tricky is that sometimes it is almost impossible to detect when someone is intoxicated, while other times it is alarmingly obvious. Sometimes, as it pertains to the former, a person can enter a bar already on the verge of being drunk--having spent the hours prior to slugging shots and cocktails at other bars along the strip, or what have you--and it is completely possible that the ONE drink you give him is enough to send him overboard. These types of situations need a wary eye, and must be dealt with both strictly and seriously.
One night I happened to find myself involved in a situation like this:
I had been tending bar on a Saturday night at Joe's American Bar and Grill in Dedham, MA. In walks a gentleman (at least he looked like one) in his mid-fifties or so. He sits at the bar, informs us that he wants to place an order to go, and orders a Captain Morgan and coke.
Nothing suspicious about this behavior; in fact it is very commonplace, and so we didn't even think twice about this guy seemingly minding his own business.
Until...
The manager brings his food out, and places it on the bar next to him. At this point--still not providing any problems--the man extracts his credit card to pay for it all.
This is where shit hits the fan....
After he signs his slip, he balls it up and throws it directly in the face of the other bartender, and says, "fuck you!"
At this point the two of us are shocked. He proceeds to stand up, swearing at the top of his lungs telling everybody at the bar to go "fuck themselves!" As he makes for the door the female restaurant manager tries to diffuse the escalating situation--obviously we cannot let this asshole leave and injure himself or someone else. He informs her that he is staying at the Holiday Inn, directly behind the restaurant, and that no cab is necessary. Still concerned for this guy's safety, the manager offers to walk him to the Holiday Inn. Not feeling too safe about this crazy whackjob being escorted by a woman, I decide to join, as well, to oversee the whole debacle.
As the three of us make our way--the manager in front, the drunken shitbag in the middle, and me behind--the douche bag turns around, looks me in the eye, and says, "Hey what the fuck are you following me for man?!?! You gotta fuckin' problem, buddy?!"
I tell him, "No, sir! I am just helping you to your room, that's all." With the usual drunken caprice he retorts with, "Oh yea, man! No problem, brother! You're a good guy, man! We cool? We cool?" At this point I am a little concerned at how volatile of a situation this could become.
My suspicions are only confirmed when the douchebaggery of the drunken mess ignites in an incendiary inferno when we reach the front lobby of the hotel, and he looks at the manager and says, "Hey fuck you, you fucking bitch!" As he spits this vitriol he follows up by inching his way closer to her, raising his fists mightily in the air.
Fearing the safety of the manager, I drop my bullshit restaurant facade--and the customer-is-always-right shit--and place myself directly in between said asshole and my manager. I push the guy to the curb as I say, "Don't you ever raise your fucking hands to a woman again!"
With the drunken fuck-head lying flat on his ass, the manager provided the coup de grace by throwing his take-out order directly in his face. With that, the two of us slapped fives, and headed back to close the shift.
I happened to close that night only to be back the following morning to open the bar.
At around 2 in the afternoon, in walks a gentleman (except I knew he wasn't a gentleman) in his mid-fifties or so. He sits at the bar, and orders a Captain Morgan and coke.
Can you spell B-L-A-C-K O-U-T?
...Drunken Mess...
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