The time I was served at least half a dozen drinks at a bar on Bourbon Street after declining to provide proof of age and explaining to the bartender that I was in fact underage:
I sat there whining. I'd been on a crowded bus for ten hours and I simply wanted a drink. I wasn't there to make trouble. But the bitch began losing her temper. She yelled over at the enormously fat, semi-conscious owner, "Hey, this 19 year-old kid's tryin' to get served and he won't fuckin' leave!" To which the owner, after mumbling to himself for several seconds, suddenly shot back, "If he's old enough to die for his country, he's damn well old enough to sit at my bar and drink! Serve the young man!"
I sat there whining. I'd been on a crowded bus for ten hours and I simply wanted a drink. I wasn't there to make trouble. But the bitch began losing her temper. She yelled over at the enormously fat, semi-conscious owner, "Hey, this 19 year-old kid's tryin' to get served and he won't fuckin' leave!" To which the owner, after mumbling to himself for several seconds, suddenly shot back, "If he's old enough to die for his country, he's damn well old enough to sit at my bar and drink! Serve the young man!"
1 comment:
Such great insight from the bartender.
Btw, I linked to this post but it looks like you've deleted it:
http://shortlifeagain.blogspot.com/2007/01/lament-for-day.html
Thanks. :)
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