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White Zinfandel is Fancy

White Zinfandel is Fancy

Two women are sitting at Booth 3, presumably on a “Girls Night Out.” Under the misleading idea that wearing all black would be slimming and that sequins class things up, it is clear that these girls are ready to party.

“Hello, ladies. Can I get you anything to drink tonight? A Pear Cosmo? Or maybe a glass of wine?”

‘We were thinking of ordering a bottle of wine, actually but we don’t usually order a whole bottle. What do you suggest?” one of them asks.

I cringe at the question because I am the first to admit my lack of wine knowledge. In the types of restaurants I usually punch in at, bottles of wine are not a top seller. Seven years of serving breakfast and lunch didn’t really require me to know a lot about bottles of wine.

“Well, would you like red or white?” I ask.

“What’s the difference?”

I do a mental face palm and realize that even though I grew up drinking Boone’s Berry Farm and California Coolers, I am practically a sommelier compared to these girls.

“Red is served room temperature and white is served cold,” seems to satisfy their quest for wine knowledge.

The ladies hem and haw trying to decide what to get when they finally ask me the most important question that anyone who is ordering a bottle of wine can ask:

“Can we get a taste of the White Zinfandel?”

A taste of the White Zinfandel? What are you tasting it for, to see if it’s tastes like ass? I can tell you right now, it does. It will taste like Mr. Kool-Aid took a piss inside a wine bottle and then shit out a couple of Splendas. It will taste like a raspberry Fla-vor-Ice that was in the freezer too long and got a mean case of freezer burn and then sat outside in the sun for two days. It will taste as bad as your make-up looks.

“Absolutely, I will be right back with a taste of our finest White Zinfandel.”

I return moments later with two glasses. It would have been sooner, but the bartender had to dig deep into the reach-in to find a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. It was behind the whipped cream, the huge jar of olives and an old container of yogurt that the hostess had left in there about two weeks earlier.

I place the glasses before the ladies who each pick one up and sniff inside giving their olfactory senses a a workout trying to decipher between a “subtle floral aroma” and “nasty ass whiff of Hawaiian Fruit Punch.”

They swirl the wine around in their glasses and hold it up to the light to see if it “has legs.” Finally, they let it wash over their taste buds and I await their reaction.

“Hmmm, I think I like it, what do you think?” one says to the other.

“It tastes really good. That is a very nice bottle of wine. I say we go for it.”

They do indeed “go for it” spending a whopping $28 for a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. They pair it with a hummus plate and spinach artichoke dip, because these bitches are fancy like that.

When they are done, the bottle is empty and they tell me how much they loved the wine. I can’t really judge because I have been known to drink wine out of a box, champagne out of a can and a margarita out of a plastic to-go cup on the Q32 bus. What I can do though is write a blog post about the two nice ladies at Booth 3 who think that a bottle of White Zinfandel is a sophisticated night on the town.

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Ahh, New Jersey, How Do I Love Thee?

My first day back to work after three weeks off was as special as I had hoped it would be. I got a ten top from New Jersey who wanted separate checks. Ten. Separate. Checks. What the fuck, New Jersians? New Jerseyites? What in the hell do they call themselves anyway? There are New Yorkers and Texans but what are people from New Jersey? For now, I’ll just call them assholes. I convinced the assholes to find a partner so I could give them five checks instead of ten and they were okay with that, but fuck they were on my nerves. The women looked like rejects from The Real Housewives of Poor White Trash New Jersey. They had come all the way into the big city to live it up in my station.

One lady wanted a glass of wine. “Hmmm, do you have white zinfandel?” Why was I not surprised at that request? “Yes, ma’am, we do. Is that what you’d like?” She tilted her head to think about it and as she tilted it, I was pretty sure I could see part of her brain slipping out of her left ear trying to escape and see the light of day. “That’s like a rosé, right?” It isn’t, but I told her it was pink and she was satisfied. When I brought it out, she told me she had an idea. This is what it looks like when someone stupid has an idea. Do the following: tilt your head, purse your lips, raise your eyebrows and inhale all at once. Did you do it? Do it again. This is what she did and then said, “bring me a drop of seltzer, a drop of ice and a lemon wedge. I’m gonna make me a wine spritzer.” After she farted out that idea she looked around for validation like she thought someone would bestow the Pulitzer upon her for such brilliance. She thought she just invented the wheel. Instead, she had just reaffirmed that I hated her.

Another lady wanted a bite to eat. “Maybe I want hummus.” But she pronounced it who-miss. This is the conversation she had with herself and the people around her who pretty much ignored her. “Do I want whomiss? I dunno. Honey, do I want whomiss? Would you eat whomiss if I bought a whomiss. I dunno if I want whomiss or not. Do I like whomiss? Would anyone wanna split a whomiss wid me if I bought a whomiss? I think I wanna try the whomiss.” She ordered the whomiss. But first, “Are the pita chips fried? They aren’t fried, are they because I don’t want fried.” I assured her that we do not fry the pita chips. Which is true. All we do is open up a bag of pita chips. Maybe someone else fries them, but we surely don’t.

They ended up tipping me pretty well and they all ordered their two drink minimum. When they left, their glasses had huge lipstick smears on them and the air wreaked of spray tan and Britney Spears’ Curious Eau de Parfum available at K-Mart for $20.64. I was back at work. Life was good.

And seriously, what do people from New Jersey call themselves? And people from Massachusetts too while you’re at it.

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What, No Long Island Iced Tea?

What, No Long Island Iced Tea?

It was a special night at work a few evenings ago. The whole audience knew each other because they were all there to support one of their own from their local Long Island Community Theater. It was like they were there for the yearly trek into New York City and I was the one who would benefit from this mass migration. I knew things would be odd when I went to my first table.

After I explained the whole two drink minimum thing and they let that sink into their over-processed heads of hair, lady number one informed me that she would like a “milky drink.” I wasn’t sure what she wanted since we’re not a fucking Dairy Queen. I suggested a white chocolate martini since it has a cream liqueur . “Naaaaa.” I then suggested a Bailey’s and cream. “Naaaaa.” Her friend suggested a Pina Colada. I had to tell her we don’t do Pina Coladas because we don’t have a blender since we are a performance venue and it would be too loud, but her friend said I could just stir it. And to make sure I knew what she meant, she spun her fingers in a circle. Oh, stir it, thank you. “Naaaaa.” Tap tap tap went my pen on my pad. She finally decided on a Kahlua and milk, very little Kahlua and almost all milk. Yum.

Table number two. Three Pinot Grigios and one white zinfandel. With two sides of ice. Do I need to say anything more about them?

Table number three wanted a Dewar’s and water, but not too strong. I gave her a rocks glass filled with Dewar’s and water just like she asked and I put extra water in it so the glass was pretty full. “Is there water in that?” Yes. “Are you sure?” Let’s see, unless my short term memory is so bad that I can’t recall what I did 45 seconds ago, then I am certain that put water in it. Besides that, the glass is almost full to the top, so that would have been a lot of Dewar’s. Three minutes later she was at the bar asking for more water because she wasn’t sure I had put any in it. Okay. Next time order a glass of water with a splash of Dewar’s.

When it came time to give them the checks, one table was confused by the total. Surely I had made a mistake and added something extra to their check because there was no way that four people could spend that much in such a short amount of time. I looked at the check. It was right. New York City is expensive. Maybe a glass of Zinfandel is cheaper on Long Island but I bet you don’t get to have your drinks brought to you by The Bitchy Waiter. Have a safe return to your own little world.