Hot Girls Working In Sport Bars (27 pics)

Confessions Of A Bartender: 10 Things Every Bartender Absolutely Hates About You

10. I am a bartender, not an escort.

Funny how a lot of guys in suits seem to mistake the two, but just because I get you a beer and have a vagina while doing so, it does not give you the right to grab my ass or say inappropriate shit to me. That’s assault, brotha. If you think grabbing a girl you don’t know’s ass is a good icebreaker, maybe you should reevaluate your life. I am not being paid to flirt with you or your friends. I do not get paid nearly enough to pretend I am remotely interested in 98 percent of the bankers, traders, stock brokers and other finance guys who roll through my little bar during the week. And for the guys in my bar who already crossed that line, if you think I haven’t thought about messaging your wife on LinkedIn about how I had to have her husband thrown out because he put his hand up my skirt, you’re greatly mistaken. It’s always on the backburner as an option. Treat me with respect, and you will not be forcibly evicted from my bar. Or ratted out to your wife for being a groper.

9. Anything less than 20 percent is blasphemy.

Sorry, kids. This isn’t an ego thing; this is a New York thing. Most service industry workers make about $2.13 an hour, far below minimum wage. My livelihood is my tip. And I know without a doubt, I never give service that is worth less than 20 percent. I always find it funny to hear these guys who work for Morgan Stanley or Barclays or UBS or Bank of America talk about throwing money around, but when a $153 bill is dropped, everyone gets real quiet. I was an English major who was terrible at math, and somehow even I know that $20 on anything more than $120 is an insult. It’s ironic that those who deal with money on a daily basis are the ones who seem the most confused when it comes to adding a tip. You aren’t curing cancer or solving the debt crisis here, bro. You’re leaving a 20 percent tip on a check, and I’m pretty sure your phone even has a calculator. Maybe that explains the financial crisis of the last four years. If you can’t figure out 20 percent of 173, you probably shouldn’t be handling millions of dollars a day for other people. Or if you’re just too cheap to leave an adequate tip, maybe you should just stay home. Do you work for free? No? Okay cool because neither do I.

8. Don’t ever tell me to buy you a drink. I am all about buybacks.

I love rewarding loyal patrons who are courteous, respectful and patient with a round. What I don’t love is having someone demand I buy them a round, or worse, demand I buy MORE rounds for them. Even if you have a regular presence at a bar, it doesn’t always justify a buyback, let alone multiple buybacks. When people say, “Well, I’ve spent $300 here, you aren’t going to buy me anything?” I usually respond by saying, “When you go to CVS and buy a hundred bucks worth of stuff in toiletries, do you demand free bottles of shampoo or Tylenol?” If you are asking for free drinks, more than likely you’re a jerk in the general scheme of life and I don’t do buybacks for them. Seriously, who ASKS for free drinks? How poor are you?

7. Don’t ask me for something “fun.”

Dude, I’m going to be 27. I’ve been drinking for 10 years. I know what I like; I know what I don’t. When I go to a bar, I have four staples – Hoegaarden, Chardonnay, Jack and coke, Bud Light. If the bar offers crazy concoctions, I’ll browse the list. But to the women who think they’re in an episode of “Sex and the City,” no, I don’t want to make you something “fun.” All alcohol is fun. You get drunk. Whether it’s pink or brown or blue or clear, it’s fun. Pick a drink, and stop expecting the bartender to have a secret bottle of hot pink glittery awesome fun that’s just going to take your drinking experience to the next level behind the bar. It’s cranberry juice for Christ’s sake. My grandma used to drink it when she was constipated.

6. I am not stupid.

Yes, I work in a bar, and I have for a while. But many years ago I had a nine-to-five desk job with benefits and a computer and a boss who made my life hell. And you know what? I hated it. I am not dumber than you because you wear a suit to work, and I wear leggings and a tank top. I am not dumber than you because I serve beer, and you tell people you trade bonds when you actually get your boss’s lunch and laundry. I too, went to a decent college (holla, Terps). I have a degree. I travel. I’m cultured. I love sports, and I’ve been published. I work my ass off both at my bar and trying to get where I want to be with my writing. Do not assume that because I am the one pouring your beer, that somehow I am less ambitious than you or a disappointment who wasn’t so capable as you were to get a job in IB or marketing. Just because I don’t sit at a desk all day and crunch numbers does not mean I am not changing the world in my own way.

5. I am more important than an intern.

My favorite story to tell the younger people. Long ago, I befriended a patron named J. I used to hate him because he’d come in right as I was closing. He knew this. Eventually, he wised up and began coming in earlier and tipping graciously. I would buy him rounds, chat with his coworkers, and make him look like the coolest mother to ever grace a New York bank when he brought clients in for drinks or dinner. J loved me. So when three little snobby intern brats who made it clear they worked with him decided to tip me three dollars on a $310 check, then call me a bitch as they walked out because, hey, they work at a bank, and they are just too cool to be nice to lowly bartenders, they had no idea that I would go to my dear friend J. And here’s the thing: J is in his late 40’s. He’s with it. He likes having the in at my bar. Want to know what J doesn’t like? People associating him with 21-year-old twits who tip badly and call me a bitch on his company’s reputation. J later called the three little interns and told them to come back. He told each to tip me $30. As they left, I told them the most important lesson they might ever learn. I am more important to J than they are. They are one in a million on Monster.com. There are a million other Georgetown, Duke, Brown, Yale, Cornell and UNC kids who could replace them in a second. Their daily routine of getting yelled at and going to pick up lunch for their boss can be performed by any idiot willing to sell his soul for a bullet point on his resume. Me? It took J a year for me to warm up to him. To get the buybacks, to get the reserved tables, to get the “J’s the greatest” in front of the big buyers. I am the reason J comes to this bar. You? You’re about to get fired. Might want to work on that “better than thou” attitude before you graduate.

 

4. Don’t tell me to smile.

Don’t write it on a check. Don’t write it on a napkin, and certainly don’t say it to my face. Look kids, I know it’s hard to believe, but I too have problems. I have bad days, and sometimes I am not all smiles. I will always do my best to be polite and attentive — qualities any good server should employ regardless of how their day is going. But do people walk around your office telling you to smile while you’re sitting at your desk? My favorite response to people who seem to think I should constantly be smiling is usually that I just found out my dad’s cancer came back, or that it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. Neither are ever true. However, don’t assume you know what’s going on in the life of the person who is serving you. Don’t wanna feel like a total jackass for telling a girl who’s dad just died to “smile?” Well, then don’t tell her to smile. I work in a bar, not Chucky Cheese. Stuff happens in my life too, and sometimes my job sucks. Don’t expect me to greet every person like I just won the mega millions.

3. We are not “in your town.”

One of my biggest pet peeves is when tourists from backwoods, stereotypical, Southerntown come in to my bar, usually around the holidays, get a glass of wine or a mojito or a margarita and are seemingly SHOCKED at the prices, conveniently after they drink the whole thing. When the argument becomes, “Where I live a glass of wine is five dollars,” it takes a lot of me to not say something like “because it looks like you enjoy a good box of Franzia.” Much like everything else in New York -– food, clothing, toiletries, hotel rooms, shows and hookers –- drinks at a restaurant/bar are going to be on par with the rest of the city and more expensive than they’d be in Sheboygan. Just like while you pay $500 bucks a month to live in a four bedroom townhouse in Arkansas, I pay $1250. The cost of living in New York is higher because the cost of EVERYTHING in New York is higher. Even I passed ECON101. If you come to New York and expect a beer to be the same price as it is at your local dive bar down the street in the town that isn’t locatable on a map, I suggest you get out more. And honestly, do I look like I make the call on the prices at this place, dude? I am the bartender, not the owner. If you complain about it, I will not be able to do anything for you, but I will certainly judge you and assume you are cheap. Nobody wins.

2. I judge you based on what you order.

I know to I.D. if you’re ordering a Malibu bay breeze in January or a bloody Mary at 9:30 p.m. I know you’re an idiot if you order a very dry martini with no vermouth. Very dry MEANS NO VERMOUTH. If you don’t know what I mean when I ask if you want something up or on the rocks, neat or on the rocks, then you shouldn’t be ordering your drink to begin with. Educate yourself on your booze. If it’s not 1987 (since I’m not Tom Cruise) please don’t order a drink like you’re in the movie Cocktail. No daiquiris or pina coladas. You are not Samantha from Sex and the City, and no I can’t make that Cosmo any pinker without curing you of a UTI.

Behind the bar: A Hot Girls experience as a female bartender

Igrew up in Oakland and Berkeley on the barstools of Triple Rock and Picante next to my dad, who drank a six-pack of Sierra Nevada IPA every day. I swore I wouldn’t drink until one day I, like many of you, had my first slug of Mickey’s in the park next to school. My parents worked with their hands and their heads, and in their own ways, they taught me to push the boundaries of both femininity and the socially accepted places for women in the workplace. My childhood experiences rooted in me values I’ve tried to take with me wherever I go. So, as I got older, I taught myself how to work on cars, and last year, I befriended some technicians who let me work on my rusty multicolored 1962 C10 pickup truck in their shop. One day while working on my truck, one of the administrators overheard me talking about needing a third job, one more to make ends meet beyond my current jobs working at a library and at my godfather’s farm. He offered to interview me for a serving job at the bar he managed, the New Easy in Oakland. I thought it was a good idea; I could work after school at the bar, the farmer’s market weekend mornings and my work study job in between those and school. But it soon became clear that I wasn’t able to balance everything. When it came down to it, I chose working at the bar because I knew I would be taught a skill I could take with me wherever I went, and therefore I would always be able to find work.

My first shift was rather memorable. It was one of my two shifts a week with a male bartender, Archie, who quickly became a friend of mine. Throughout the shift I made many mistakes, but it was exciting to be in a new place and to learn so much about the world behind the bar. It triggered my intellectual curiosity, and I began learning how to claim my space and use my skills to teach patrons the different tastes and textures that exist in what they are drinking. The excitement came to a crashing halt, though, when I went to grab a few bottles from the stock room above the bar. Before I passed the ice machine toward the rickety staircase upward, a patron grabbed my arm and cornered me into the wall: “You are so beautiful. I’ve never seen you here before. Let me take you home tonight.” I pushed passed him and said “No thanks,” rushed into the stock room and caught my breath. Toward the end of the night I was cleaning out the popcorn machine and the same man came up to me and asked me “What time do you get off? I’d love to walk you home.” Quickly, Archie said, “No you don’t, leave her alone.” The man replied “Let her answer! ” Archie could tell I was uncomfortable and told him to leave, and later I explained to him what had happened earlier by the stockroom. He told me, “Look, unfortunately that type of stuff is going to happen. But if someone touches you, they leave, OK? You just tell me if something happens and we ‘eightysix’ them.” To “eightysix” someone means to kick them out of the bar and ban them from coming back. The next shift we had together, he told me, “You know, I’m glad you’re here. We should get you behind the bar more. A pretty server/bartender will help with tips.” He kept on, saying “male-female duos always make more money. People don’t want male bartenders. It’s hard for us to find jobs, but women can find them much easier.”

“You are so beautiful. I’ve never seen you here before. Let me take you home tonight.” I pushed passed him and said “No thanks,” rushed into the stock room and caught my breath.
I’ve heard several of my friends in the bartending network talk about this exact predicament. Perhaps this is because talking to your bartender can be a form of therapy, and women are considered “more easily trusted.” I have found that it is most likely the case that men are regarded as bartenders first and sometimes conversation partners second, whereas women are treated as tools for flirtation first, then as bartenders second.

“You’re a hottie, you can get a job anywhere,” a male bartender friend said to me during a recent discussion about me finding a new job, like it was my looks that would determine my eligibility. Perhaps he was noticing the privilege of being “good looking,” stating that it would open up opportunities for me that others wouldn’t receive, but it felt like I was being told that my skill level wasn’t as important as my level of attractiveness. A part of my job is to pay attention to those that I’m serving — but I receive a different type of attention from customers than the one I give. Surprisingly, I’ve only become angry at a group of customers once. For months, I served a table of men every other Saturday that tracked me with their eyes, and although they asked me personal questions, I could tell that they were only paying attention to my body and not what I had to say. Each time I passed by, they begged me to “smile.” The same man always ordered drinks for everyone and was the only one to talk to me directly. They called him “Alpha,” overtly signaling the dominance he had over the group. If I was working, he tipped. If I wasn’t working, he wouldn’t tip at all, even if it was on a tab totaling more than $100. At one point, when I was looking for work again, the men approached me and asked how much money I made at the bar. I was uncomfortable with their question and they rephrased it, explaining that they were opening their own bar and that they wanted me to be their lead bartender. The patrons couldn’t give me its name, address or any other important information, but they asked me to “name my price” for how much I would leave my job to come work for them. We kicked them out; it felt like they were trying to buy me, like trying to buy a bottle of vodka. These situations occur more often than not, and they usually come from a patron’s feeling of entitlement over the person that is serving them alcohol. Bartending, like in this situation, can be scary sometimes, especially when you have hostile customers or feel threatened. You can’t leave your bar; you’re stuck there if someone is rude to you or if someone disrespects you. There is a mentality and an expectation that if you are a female bartender, you have to be strong and have thick skin, because people treat you without respect more often than with respect. But, at the same time, in order to make money, you also have to be sweet and flirtatious, attractive and smart, attentive and be a good conversationalist, but not too much of any of those things, otherwise your patrons assume you are just trying to be tipped well.

Women, especially, are caught between a rock and a hard place in this respect. For example, I’m not going to flirt with someone and pretend like I’m interested in them, get them drunk and make sure they tip me well. It isn’t about straining people of their last dollars and cheating them out of a good time. Rather, we want people to have a good time, enjoy their drinks and the atmosphere of the place they’ve escaped into momentarily.

“You’re a hottie, you can get a job anywhere.”
Most of the time, I’ve found that I become a part of the escape for patrons. People respond excitedly when a young woman is behind the bar. Serving someone drinks can quickly turn into tending to a person’s desires. This type of relationship rides the line of a master-servant dynamic, especially when requests go outside of our job description. Sometimes, the way patrons ask me for drinks makes me feel uncomfortable; for example, when someone comments on my body and then asks me for a “favor,” like making them an extra strong drink, and then winks at me, it makes me feel like my body is being used as a vessel to hold their attention, separate from my ability to perform my job. I have been called beautiful or gorgeous more times than I’ve heard “thank you.” Interactions with patrons of all genders tend to go beyond compliments and into a space that requires the careful ability to say “no” when asked on a date, or whether I’d go home with them. We can’t say no without consequence, whether it be through tips or through anger. I’ve only touched on a few parts of being behind the bar, but they have been the most memorable. I wrote this piece because I wanted to galvanize conversation about the bar industry that so many UC Berkeley students are entering, and I hoped to bring to the forefront the perspective of a female bartender. Ultimately, my experience bartending has shown me that the industry can be a fantasy space — a place where fear and aggression dance together, and I’m often caught in the middle.