Tuesday 200 — one hundred twenty-six
In the name of tolerance, we should claim the right not to tolerate the intolerant. — Karl Popper
What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?
“You wanted the manager?”
His tatted chest bows up like a territorial pigeon. “Yeah, you him?”
“Just the owner. What’s up?”
“Your snotty barmaid refused my drink after asking a shit-ton of stupid questions.”
Nancy’s tended here for over a decade, scarier than twenty of these guys.
“Such as?”
“Have I suffered a recent head injury? Lost a bet? Was it a cry for help?”
Throttling a chuckle, I ask his order.
“A vegan jägermilch.” He hammers the bar. “How fucking hard is that?”
Two of my security guys, the stoutest of Little People Hell’s Angels, shuffle over.
“Language, sir.” I wipe under his fist. “Also, what the fuck’s jägermilch?”
“Jägermeister and milk, but I’m intolerant, so I need oat.”
“You truly are. A Jäger and oat milk?”
I clock three punters under the Stroh’s neon, giggling. “Your friends?”
“So?”
“Mate, that’s no drink. It’s an abomination.”
“The customer is always right!”
“Paulie,” I call to a regular, nursing his Manhattan. “What’s that thing we say?”
“He who insists he’s right should’ve left.”
“Your intolerance is yours, mate. However, this bar’s mine.”
I nod once.
Gloved biker hands grasp his elbows, gentle as tow trucks.
“We serve drinks, not dares.”
I've always hated the saying, "The customer's always right." I was a server when I was in college, and no, they're not always right. lol