Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a bartender. Bartenders are so serious. They don't take crap and they don't joke around with the customers. It would seem to me that they would certainly get more tips if they participated a little more. Don't they care about making more money? Or maybe they should tell jokes. Maybe that would do it. How perfect would that be? A bartender who doubled as a comedian. I for one would pay big money to sit at a bar like that, but it's fruitless to even dream about.

Last night, I met some friends at a local restaurant. We weren't sure who all was showing up for dinner, so we sat at the bar for a few minutes before taking our table. It seemed rude to be within such close proximity (two feet) to someone and not include them in the conversation, so we tried engaging the bartender. When one of us would speak directly to her, she would answer. Otherwise, she just pretended not to hear us. (They must teach you that in bartender school - how to artfully ignore a conversation that's close enough for you to breathe on.) No matter how many funny and clever things we said to her (and we're pretty funny people), the bartender never cracked a smile. She would simply look at us with that Prozac face, make a controlled comment and then wipe down the bar for the seventh time. I've met Wal-mart checkers that were more animated.

I guess bartenders are pretty important. A lot of them know it. I guess they're so high on the restaurant business food chain that they know they don't really have to bend over backwards for the customer like the poor servers do. Talk about your crap job. Servers are the lowest on the totem pole - lower than busboys. They are the Marines of the service industry - meeting customers head-on in the Battle of Wills. They have the torturous job of listening to customers bitch all day and all night as they turn on the Doris Day. They have to know the menu inside and out and give calculated advice on what to order. If the food doesn't live up to the customer's expectation, it's their neck. I feel particularly bad when I order something extra after they've already brought all the food and refilled all the drinks. "Sure, sure! No problem! Be right back with that!" in that strained, happy voice. That sad little cheeful voice always makes me want to cash out and go somewhere else.

I wonder if there's a restaurant workers' secret society - a place where they all meet up after hours or before hours as the case may be and talk about the stuff they see. Somewhere they can all go to talk about who was with who last night, who's a drunk, who's a cheapskate, who's stepping out on their spouse. They have to be chock full of insider information. How great it would be to get inside that secret society even for just a day.

Namaste