“That happened and we all let it happen.” -Peter Griffin, Family Guy
I’ve never seen someone so fucking drunk. I have seen customers fall from stools and booths, people puke alcohol back into their glasses, and a guy who pissed on the wall next to a urinal. But the customer that day was easily the most ‘indisposed’ man I’ve ever witnessed… and we had done it to him!
***
According to law restaurants aren’t suppose to over-serve alcohol to customers. In practice it happens all the time at 99% of restaurants (the other 1% don’t serve booze). A standard drink, how much liquor your liver can process per hour, is 12 oz of beer, or 5 oz of wine, or 1.5 oz of hard alcohol. Now, imagine how much alcohol even a social drinker can have in 60 minutes… let alone during a night of drinking. There’s a reason you can easily get a DUI in the morning after eight hours of sleep.
Now technically, some people hold their booze better than others and it can be hard to detect signs of intoxication. But everyone in the industry knows a huge percentage of customers, especially on weekends, are over-served and to pretend otherwise is absurd. There’s a reason one of the key mantras of my career was “I see nothing, I hear nothing, I speak nothing.”
If restaurants really didn’t want to over-serve they wouldn’t have drink specials, shooters, or raffles! Waitresses wouldn’t over-flirt and under-dress. We certainly wouldn’t have things like the Guinness Club, where you get a pint glass, membership card, and spot on the wall for downing 8 pints of Guinness in a sitting!
***
It must have been Super Bowl. I was brought in early to the pizza chain to prepare for it and I was groggy and annoyed as I usually didn’t work Sundays. We had stockpiled kegs, hard liquor, and bottles in expectation of a busy night. To draw in a big crowd there was raffle tickets for football jerseys and other paraphernalia. Being a history nerd rather than a sports fan I gave zero fucks.
To get a raffle ticket you had to buy a pint of beer, but if you bought a schooner you’d get two. There was also NO LIMIT to how many tickets you could get. So customers could buy as many pints and schooners they wanted for a chance to win a jersey… how could anything go wrong? How could this possibly lead to over-serving?
I’m not sure if anyone questioned the promotion but I knew the risks. Because given I was bartending if anything regrettable happened I could be held responsible. But by then I hated the job, was only there for the tips, and was at least grateful most of the drinks would be draft. That’s the best part about serving men, especially sports fans. They tend to like beer, which is easy to pour and quick to serve. Nine out of 10 times it’s faster to get drinks for 20 guys than a table of four middle class, professional women. Believe it or not 20 schooners of beer is easier to get out than a caesar, martini, margarita, and sangria!
At least most of the staff on that day were cool. Besides the owner’s son Matt, who was a wad, everyone else was reliable. Shyla was the shift manager and while she was opinionated she usually let me do my job in peace. She was a hippy, dressed provocatively, and got very flirty whenever she drank at my bartop. Shyla was cute but I was cynical about women at the time and never made advances on superiors (unless they made the first move).
Rachel also worked that night. She was just 22, nice, and I saw her as a younger sister. We’d spar often, usually over pointless things with hindsight, but we both took the job seriously. I forget who else served the lounge that day, which means it probably wasn’t someone lazy or annoying.
***
I can’t recall much of the evening because I was usually busy pouring drinks and didn’t care about the Super Bowl. I don’t remember the teams, who won, if there were notable plays, etc. I also don’t recall any bad customers or confrontations, which makes such nights blend into countless others.
But I remember a table of six guys and one of them in particular. They got there early, drank in earnest, and continued to do so until the raffle after the game. Given all the pints and schooners sent to the table we might as well have left tickets and told them they were on the honour system. I’m sure they had more tickets per capita than the other tables but life’s unfair as they didn’t win one jersey or any piece of shit back up prize.
They were cool with that though, having had a great time, loving the game, and being not inconsiderably drunk. Remember when I said I’ve never seen a drunker person in my life? Because Rachel motioned me over to the table to show me one of the guys’ bill. It included 14 schooners! I know that for a fact because I checked it four times.
I don’t remember if I was asked to confirm it or if the guy was bragging but I thought “DEAR GOD.” Because aside from André the Giant and the occasional person who died from consuming dozens of shot in an evening, I’d never heard of anyone drinking so much. Remember how a standard unit of booze is 12 oz of beer? Well our lame schooners were 26 oz (not the legitimate 32oz ones btw) so in a 4 hour sitting this man had 30 standard units of drink… or nearly 8 times overboard!
Now to be fair the guy was a… large individual of considerable girth. I’m glad this occurred just before social media and cancel culture, because that receipt could’ve ended all of our careers… such as they were. Instead, the good old boys at the table laughed about it and mocked their friend for drinking more booze than Winston Churchill.
***
I quietly asked Rachel if the man had paid and once she said yes I pocketed the receipt (I’d make sure it never saw the light of day. Then I cautioned the staff not to mention how much we’d served the guy, especially in front of customers (in case one was a liquor inspector). Because those bastards show up at the worst possible moments. Finally, I suggested we avoid the table and focus on other ones, to distract them from a man so drunk his head was redder than a tomato.
But of course this was for naught as the man’s friends kept ribbing him, given his disgraceful state. I obviously couldn’t tell them to knock it off, given how drunk they were and it would only have brought more attention to them. So I resigned myself to watching the spectacle and hoped it would end soon.
His friends continued asking if he could see how many fingers they were holding up, while the guy’s head kept bobbing more than Wilson after he was blown off the raft in Castaway. They also asked him simple questions about his family and job, to see how much cognitive ability he could muster. He failed abysmally…
The table was having a riot of a time and even Shyla was cracking up. Did I mention she was the manager on duty, the officer in charge, the supposed adult in the room? Eventually I thought “fuck it,” poured two oz of Jack for myself, and gulped it down unceremoniously. I was confident no one noticed, given they were enjoying the circus.
***
Besides pouring drinks I spent the rest of the time until the table left cleaning and stocking. After work I skipped my usual staff beers and went directly home. I slowly drank through a six-pack until Bryon got home. Then I gave him a beer and showed him the man’s receipt. I wanted to gauge the reaction of a man who had seen pretty much everything in the industry.
“What the fuck,” he said immediately, “how did he leave the restaurant on his feet?” That wasn’t a good sign. “You mean this is an abnormal occurrence,” I inquired cautiously, “you’ve never seen something like this?” “No Andrew,” he responded in the tone he reserved when implying I hadn’t exercised common sense. “Okay, can I have your lighter Bryon?,” I said… knowing what had to be done.
He gave it to me and I lit the bill on fire without a second thought. Then we never spoke of the event again.