I stop into the Cellar about once or twice a year (at most) while visiting family. Never been a regular, but I've never once given someone disrespect or caused trouble here. I always tip at least a dollar per drink. And a couple of times I've had friends with me from out of town and brought them here, since I've had decent experiences here. But, in the past year or so whenever this one particular bartender is working, he's given me this, "Oh, what do you want?" vibe. I just shrugged it off previously thinking maybe this guy is getting low on his Geritol, as you many of you with parents approaching elderhood are aware.
So tonight, I walk in- the first time since last fall- and this guy, Bert, this dusty, aging wanna-be- hippy behind the bar demands to see my I.D., which I have no problem with. Except he gives me this crazy amount of, "You're not welcome here, ****face," kind of vibe. Which confirmed that this is indeed a pattern with him. I show it to him and he scans it intently, as if I'm trying to rip this asshole off. I, in an attempt to make small talk, joke about how bad my picture is. With all the personality and arrogance of Melania Trump, Burt slides it back to me like I was trying to give him a fake or something, and asks reluctantly, "What would you like?"
I'm thinking, "I'd like to see you pull a couple shifts at iHop so you can see how people in the service industry are supposed to interact with paying, tipping customers." He loathsomely reaches into the fridge after, I dunno, deciding to honor this lowly patron. Caesar would suffer me, it appeared.
At this point, I'm just trying to figure out why this dude is exuding tude like Ravishing Rick Rude, ya heard? I mean, you'd have thought I traipsed into the place and said, "I'll take a glass of water with a freshly cut lemon; I hate when the lemons just sit there on the bar, so I just wanna see you slice it in front of me, please. Also, I've got this coupon from 2010- I don't see an expiration date on it. And also, you better get your cleaning supplies ready cuz I got crazy diarrhea that sprays outta me like a bottle of Windex all over the wall behind me. Oh, and don't worry, I know you guys close in 5 minutes so I'll be gone by then."
I can come up with no reason other than the fact that I ordered a PBR, which Berty felt was somehow contemptible. I mean look, Bert, I don't judge your decision to obviously skip flossing those corn kernels you call "teeth" on a regular basis, friend, so I'm not sure why ordering a cheap beer is worthy of treating me like some kind of dog euthanizer. Didn't realize ordering a PBR would incur such attitude from the president of the local AARP chapter moonlighting as a bartender. You'd think asking for a PBR would be an alley-oop for one who tends bar in return for monetary compensation, aka "a professional".
Can't wait for the day that Victoria's Secret buys this plot of land, slams a three-story on top of this place, pushing waves of dust out in every direction, and our boy has to try and pull this crap where they won't just let it slide, like the Cellar Restaurant & 6-Pack Store does. When Crate And Barrel becomes your new employer they're not going to allow you to bend the bill of your baseball cap in half like that and roll in like you're putting in your community service hours with the Blacksburg Little League.
At this point it doesn't matter, since I'm never stepping into this place again, as I have no reason. I overlooked his piss-poor attitude more than once over a long stretch of time and this just seals it for me. Not that it matters, as Bert will likely continue smoking bowls and then coasting in here for his shift with his eyebrows raised, inferring insightfulness like he's somehow above the din, envisioning himself as some chill, mellow guy with excellent taste in music without even realizing that he's just another jam-band douchebag, walking around cracking wise.
TLDR Many decades ago a man lost his squirt and called it "Bert" read more