Through a series of scheduling mishaps that came my way, I got evening cocktailing shifts Saturday and Sunday night. I worked my lil' patootie off. Speaking of posteriority, I have a general rule that all customers, particularly male customers should adhere to which is, namely, don't touch the merchandise.
When cocktailing, I keep the drink menus in my back-pocket. The menus are tall and narrow so they fit nicely and I hate wearing those little cocktail aprons. While talking with a table of middle-aged women that had been drinking for a couple hours Saturday afternoon and thus deserved my attention when they wanted to chat, I felt a menu disappear from my back-pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I see an athletic late 20-something hulk of a man walk away with a menu. The women looked at me scandalized, and I just stood there slack-jawed. "I wouldn't mind if he touched my back-pocket," one of the drunk ladies said to me. Before I could stop myself I blurted, "I'm uncomfortable."
Maybe I should have said something to him when I went to take his order. I mean, he didn't cop a feel, but he definitely didn't respect my bubble (butt? Lame joke). Something like, Now that you violated my personal space, what else can I do for you. But I didn't say anything. I just took his order and avoided him as much as possible.
What's funny is that much later at night as things were really busy, a male supervisor snuck a menu too, since he had cranky guests he needed to appease. Kind of bugged me, but if I were in a pinch and he had menus in his back-pocket I might consider...
Need to get some ass? Put menus in your pants.
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