From the Desk of BTG,
Morning Folks, and welcome to our Saturday edition of the BTG Newsletter. Moving forward, the Saturday editions will be for subscribers who have successfully referred 1 reader to BTG.
The Saturday reads will be essays written by an acquaintance who is known to me only by the name Country Club Caddy. He’s a hilarious individual, and has worked as both a Caddy and Bartender at elite private clubs across the country. His insights and stories are worth a read, and if you tend to get offended at offensive language or humor, this post is not for you.
Enjoy,
BTG
THE TWO INCH PUNISHER:
I really hope that the members at my club were watching Max Greyserman choke on a thick hog at the Rocket Mortgage last week. This man-tittied sun sleever studied all three putts to win like it was Sydney Sweeney’s cleavage and he still bricked them all. I hope that it is a lesson to them all, just hit the fucking putt. I swear some of my members studied for a five foot slider harder than their bar exam.
Hello friends, This week I will be continuing with sharing some thoughts on my time bartending. I appreciated the great feedback I received from last week's piece, so let’s keep the ball rolling.
I am going to be talking about the incredibly unique and interesting situation I found myself in at the country club I discussed last week. As many of you probably realized, the club in which I worked was rather dysfunctional. I only became a bartender because the two guys I was bar-backing for both quit on my fourth day, and the club went through five or six managers in four months. My situation was unique: I was the only male bartender and all the other “male” waiters they tried to train were either hated by the members, a plastic toy short of a happy meal, or both. This meant that I became essentially un-fireable.
It would be a lie to say that the power did not go to my head. I think I may have been the cockiest person ever to have a job that commanded sixteen dollars an hour.
Let me first say that I am a very good bartender, I scored a 98 percent on my three hour bartending exam (the only thing I fucked up was mixing up a godfather and a godmother cocktail). But as you probably imagine if you have read any of my work, I am kind of a schmuck. This is, however, a great combination for some great stories.
My number one objective when I clocked in everyday was to make the hot hostess laugh. The one thing that club did well was have an all-star roster of hostesses. I am pretty sure I overheard some members asking a manager if the club would make a hostess calendar. One hot August day, I was completely slammed in the mens only bar, and the managers brought in an ice cream truck for the staff to enjoy a sweet treat. I was so busy I didn’t get to have anything, so I wasn’t in a great mood. I had to run to the hostess stand to get an expensive liquor menu for a gaggle of trust fund goons. I arrived at the hostess stand and the hostess, two female managers, and a waitress were gossiping. The waitress began to laugh and I noticed that she had gone to the ice cream truck and gotten something that made her mouth and teeth totally blue. So, in front of two managers I said “woah, Sarah, how was your date with Papa Smurf?”. The hostess and waitress were crying laughing (thankfully), but I could feel the two managers burning a hole in the back of my cashmere sweater as I walked away.
I also had a full blown screaming match with the one manager who stayed throughout the summer. He was a Persian man who legitimately looked like Azamat from Borat. We got into it because he left me to completely fend for myself on a brutal Saturday dinner rush. Azamat withheld all food runners from running glasses for me to the kitchen, so I had to do it myself. I called him grossly incompetent, he called me a douche (we were both right). He was so mad he called the executive chef at one in the morning demanding my head on a stake.
What Azamat’s round ass did not realize is that during slow periods, the executive chef would come into my bar and I would give him golf swing lessons (he would grip a napkin rollup and we would grind for hours on shallowing the club or some shit). As a result, the executive chef told him to fuck off and hung up. The executive chef called me into his office (I did not know about the phone call). I was thinking of two things. The first was that I was probably going to be fired. The second was which of the waitresses I was going to shoot my shot with on my way out the door.
Instead, the chef laughed his ass off and showed me a video of him hitting chips. I told him to throw more weight on his front side, we shook hands and I bumped Azamat on the shoulder on the way back to my post,
Thanks for reading, see you next week.