Service without a smile

Years ago an old buddy of mine from high school called me late one Saturday afternoon and said that he knew a bar in Wyandotte (a suburb south of Detroit) which had great steak dinners at a low price and asked if I wanted to go. Sure, I told him. He picked me up and off we went.

It wasn't exactly a dive bar to be fair. Yet it rivaled dive bars for, uh, ambiance. We arrived at around 7 PM and, to my surprise anyway, no one was there except the bartender and a couple of her girlfriends. They sat chatting at the bar as Tony and I took seats at a table. The bartender took her time about coming to take our drink orders. "The service isn't great but the steaks are," Tony advised me. At some point afterwards our drink orders were taken.

We waited for our beers. And waited. And then, really waited. It reached the point where I asked my friend, "Where is she with our drinks?" Exactly as I finished uttering the question, a beer bottle came down over my shoulder, the bartender actually slamming it on the table top right in front of me. I could almost here her bark, "Here's your stupid beer!' She didn't, but her actions implied the angry quip very strongly.

We waited. And waited some more. Finally she came round with an order pad. I told her I wanted the steak and salad. "Salad dressing?" she asked impatiently.

"French."

She turned to Tony, who likewise said steak and salad. I have no idea what distracted him, but he didn't hear or misunderstood her question when the 'keeper asked him what kind of dressing. "What?" he asked.

This young woman got right down in his face. From inches away from Tony (I tell you they were virtually nose to nose) she demanded loudly, emphasizing every syllable, "Sal-ad dress-ing!"

His hands on the table balled into fists. I honestly thought he was going to belt her in the mouth and briefly prayed he would not, gasping as I did so. Tony quickly shook it off and replied testily, "Italian."

Our steaks came - after a long interval - and they were very good. As I finished I decided I wanted another beer. I held my empty bottle up for the bartender to see, shaking it gently. Then I did it again. And. Again. "She's not gonna bring you one. She's not gonna bring you one," Tony said over and over. Yet she did, even if on her own schedule. I said thank you in a kind voice, because I won that little contest.

Tony got a second beer himself. When we were done with those drinks we paid, even leaving tips. Not great tips but decent, the 15% which was typical at the time. I stood up to leave.

I was out the door and onto the street ahead of my friend. Yet I heard him absolutely explode in laughter as he left the bar. "Do you know what she just said to me? Do you know what she just said to me?" Tony demanded.

Confused, I shook my head no. "She looked at me and with a big, wide smile said, 'Have a nice day fellas!' Like nothing was wrong!"

Well, they were good steaks. And service notwithstanding, or perhaps with standing, I do remember the place. Couldn't beat the entertainment.

Cloyce's classy dame

A friend of Grandpa Joe's, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, wanted Joe to meet his new girlfriend. Joe had little interest in that; Cloyce was notoriously poor when picking out the ladies. "Nah. I ain't interested in none of your cattle," Grandpa said.

"Ah, come on, Joe. This one's a real classy dame," Cloyce insisted. So Grandpa went along with him. I suppose his curiosity had been piqued.

Joe became concerned as Cloyce drove into the wharf section of the town they were working in, parking in front of a seedy bar along the loading docks. "Why are we here?" Joe asked.

"She works here."

"Aw Hell", remarked my grandfather in one of his best Aw Hell tones. An incredulous Aw Hell I would imagine.

They went in and seated themselves at the bar, with Cloyce's classy dame as their server. After a bit of chitchat the woman nonchalantly reached under the bar and pulled out a pair of pliers. She latched onto one of her molars and began working the tooth back and forth, back and forth, until she triumphantly yanked it from her jaw. Tossing the tooth into a nearby wastebasket and spitting blood into an ashtray she said, "That one won't give no more trouble."

"She sure is a classy dame, Cloyce", Joe said, as he made for the door.

Clint's classy dame

The first clue was that Clint was notoriously poor when picking out the ladies. Grandpa Joe knew that of his friend; when Clint asked him to come along to meet his latest girlfriend Joe responded, "Nah. I ain't interested in none of your cattle".

"Ah, come on, Joe. This one's a real classy dame," Clint insisted. So Grandpa went along with him. I suppose his curiosity had been piqued.

The second clue was when Clint entered the wharf section of the town they were working in, parking in front of a seedy bar along the loading docks. "Why are we here?" Joe asked.

"She works here."

"Aw Hell", remarked my grandfather in one of his best Aw Hell tones. An incredulous Aw Hell I would imagine.

The third clue came when they were seated at the bar, with Clint's classy dame as their server. After a bit of chitchat the woman nonchalantly reached under the bar and pulled out a pair of pliers. She latched onto one of her molars and began working the tooth back and forth, back and forth, until she triumphantly yanked it from her jaw. Tossing the tooth into a nearby wastebasket she said, "That one won't give no more trouble."

"You sure do got a winner there, Clint", Joe said, as he made for the door.