OK, so it's a lame Tuesday night at my bar shift. The drinks are pouring slower than a wet carton of salt, and I'm just staring at the paint on the wall when the front door opens and in walks these two Extraordinarily Gorgeous Girls, or, as I like to call them: EGGs
Now, I'm not talking about merely gorgeous girls here. Gorgeous girls are a dime a dozen, especially if you happen to work in the SoCal bar business, where spying gorgeous girls isn't so extraordinary and a gal needs to be extremely gorgeous to be noticed anymore. But these girls, with their silken cheeks, yellowy hair, supple upper arms and upwardly lifted breasts that pointed to the top shelf-to the cognacs and specialty bourbons-were truly Extraordinarily Gorgeous Gueneveres handpicked by the poultry gods themselves.
Here's the thing about EGGs: It's no secret these creatures live a different existence than the rest of us. I'm hesitant to use the word “blessed,” since there are probably plenty of lonely ones out there, too, but, generally speaking, I would say that extraordinarily gorgeous women think the world owes them something. Perhaps it's because the world has been behaving like there was something special about them ever since they were babies. Whatever the reason, you just get the feeling that when they walk in the door, they're expecting somebody to buy them a drink, and that right there is reason enough not to.
The last time I bought a beautiful girl a drink solely on the basis of her beauty was about 15 years ago. I had just started bartending and hadn't yet learned the disappointing truth about EGGs. She came in, took a stool, batted her lashes and rubbed my nose in her sex until, like the idiot child I was, I started buying her drinks. I bought the second round, gave her a discount on the third and fourth and charged her full price on the fifth. At that point, she picked up her drink, left the bar (without tipping) and sat down next to a solo guy at a cocktail table who bought her drinks the rest of the night.
I realized then I had been duped and swore I would never again comp another female a drink solely on the basis of her hotness.
Tonight, however, I am contemplating breaking that vow.
See, the bar where I work is doing blues music on Tuesday nights. There was a time when the blues used to pack this bar, but today the blues is an ailing genre, and my Tuesday-night shift is sickly, to say the least. Sadly, the blues is just not a young, hip music scene anymore. It attracts more of a middle-aged, primarily male crowd and doesn't really appeal to uppy-pointy-breasty-babies like it used to. Sure, we do get some women in the bar, but they're generally older, marrieder and not quite blowing ova out of their uteruses like these two golden omelettes that just waltzed in are, and everyone knows if you want to pack your bar with young men who drink a lot, you need to have plenty of young hotties for them to hit on.
So I'm standing there thinking about all this as the girls approach the bar, thinking that we could get this blues scene up and running again if we could just get a few more EGGs to come back, and that one way to get them to come back is to make them feel special-so, for the first time in more than a decade, I decide to buy these ladies a drink on the basis of their hotness alone.
Desperate times, desperate measures, as they say.
I greet them with a smile and a little zip in my voice: “Hello, ladies, whatcha having?” They order a couple of Stoli cosmopolitans. I go to the wet well, prepare the cocktails and, in addition, prepare two Washington apple shots and set the four drinks in front of them. “The shots are on the house,” I say. “Just give me $10 for the cosmos.” Then I add, “It's good to have some fresh faces in here.”
They give me $10 and, without saying thanks or acknowledging the gift in any way, start talking among themselves. Henpecked, I walked to the other end of the bar knowing I had made a terrible mistake.
Twenty minutes later, they flagged me down for another round.
“Two more cosmos?” I ask, and the gorgeouser, uppier-pointing breastier of the two says, “Yeah, and two more of those shots you made.”
I mix the drinks, throw down the napkins, set all four drinks in front of them, and say, “That'll be 20 bucks.”
“Twenty dollars!” she snaps.
“Yeah,” I say somewhat startled by her response. “That's five bucks a drink-is there a problem?”
“You're charging us for the shots?” she snorts with amazement.
“Of course. Why, were expecting me to buy you another round?”
“Well, you bought us the first round.”
“That's right, and you're welcome, by the way-what's your point.”
“Whatever,” she snips and hands me a 20. I walk back to the register thinking, I am so stupid stupid stupid! as I ring up the drinks. What was I thinking? Speaking generally, you can comp their drinks until the sun comes up, but when it's all said and done, she's still gonna stiff you anyway and go find another guy who buys all her drinks-and not sleep with him, either.
Never again, EGGs! Do you hear me? Never again! I don't care if you are Grade-AAA farm-fresh perfect blonde oval orbs that came fromunda the golden goose herself-I'm done with you! No bacon and EGGs (two extremely gorgeous girls accompanied by a large woman). No fried EGGs (gorgeous girls on ecstasy). No scrambled EGGs (ditzy and gorgeous). Not hard-boiled (punk hotties), not soft-boiled (folk-music hotties), not raw nor steamed. Not poached, pickled, Eastered or deviled. Do you hear me, EGGs? Never again! I mean it. For real this time.