I’m going to give you guys some advice, despite the fact that I am not, in any way shape or form, qualified to do so. But I whip up a mean Manhattan, so you can trust my judgement.
I choose the people I date based upon how they treat their server. Do this. Do this and an eternity of happiness awaits you.
When you’re on that first date and the chick you’re with starts getting crazy, ticked about the olives in her drink because she asked for three and only got two you need to bounce. Pull an Irish Goodbye get the hell out of there. There’s a door off to the side of the bar there’s a window in the bathroom do what you’ve got to do I’ll give you a leg up if you need it. But pay the tab before you go; you still gotta be a decent human.
When the fireworks erupt from the confines of your mind and you’re sitting at the table, drooling, positively glowing despite the awkward, first date vibes, and the guy across from you looks down at his fries and erupts like Mount Vesuvius—”Do these look well done to you?” He says to the skinny little waitress staring down at her shoes…go. Run away. Flee the scene baby. Move out. The eagle has flown. Pretend you have to pee even though you just did say you have to fix your makeup despite the fact that it looks fine act like you left your scarf hanging from the hook in the left stall even though you didn’t wear one because it’s 80 degrees.
People may seem nice, but the way they treat their wait staff is everything. Because, one day, that’s how they’ll treat you.
And I’ve got your back. I’ll cover for you. I’ll lie for you in a second “Oh no, she just went to the restroom; she’ll be right back.” I’m your backup. I’ll dance a jig I’ll break some plates I’ll do whatever it takes to distract him long enough for you to jump ship. Because he’s sailing right towards disaster, and you don’t want to be first mate on that ride, trust me.
But do me one favor: finish your drink before you go. Down it, and tell him to order you another. I could use the sales; ups my tip percentage. And while you’re sprinting through the parking lot, I’ll be shaking up that Maker’s Mark with the sweetest of Vermouths, topping off the amber liquid with the perfect, rounded cherry he’ll never get to taste.
Like I said, I whip up a mean Manhattan, but I hate to see alcohol go to waste. It’s too good for the sink, and it breaks my little heart. Your date, on the other hand? Well, let’s just say I’ve always been a fan of throwing out the baby with the bathwater…or dishwater.