One night when I was working as a server I had two single tables, both men. It was a slow night, which is probably why this memory of returning both of their wine orders to the bar for something else stuck.
The first guy, a suit in his late 40s, turned his table into a temporary desk and ordered a nut brown draft, barely looking up from his paperwork. The second guy, late 20s, friendly and talkative, looked like he would be more at home on a four-wheeler than sitting in a pricey waterfront restaurant. He needed a moment with the wine list.
I brought the first guy a second nut brown.
Second guy needed more time with the menus and to talk briefly about the main industries of Halifax. And the delicious bread.
On the way back with more delicious bread, I brought first guy his third nut brown. I also helpfully dug out his menu from beneath a stack of papers in case he wanted to eat something.
After discussing the population of HRM, Nova Scotia's main exports, my current status as part-time server full-time student, and unasked, my fiance, second guy decided to on appetizer and a Coke to start and a half litre of white zinfandel with his main.
First guy ordered a fourth nut brown. I was beginning to think he was pouring them on the floor when I wasn't looking, but the carpet was dry. He promised to know what he wanted to eat when I returned.
Returning with a Coke and the nut brown that gave me the perfect excuse to drop the Coke off and carry on, first guy opens his menu, picks the first thing he sees and orders a litre of white.
By the time I reached the station to ring in first guy's order, I'm convinced I misheard him and he wanted a half litre. He's nearly finished his fourth draft. The draft glasses are large. The fourth one is typically where I abandoned reason and the next day's double-shift became no deterrence to a night on the town.
Second guy's main is nearly ready so I present him with his wine. He leans forward and waves me in closer too. "I ordered the white zinfandel," he says in hushed tones, as we both observe the pink wine housed in the carafe. I squirm a little as I explain that white zinfandel is, in fact, pink. I offer to bring him the wine list so he can pick another wine, and in light of his now rosy cheeks, throw him a bone asking if he'd like a half litre of my favourite white (a pleasantly mild soave that goes well with people who don't drink wine). That would be great.
Second guy is fine with the soave. I bring first guy his wine. Sparing me a quick glance, first guy says "I ordered a litre." I apologize for my error and bring him a litre of wine. He tastes it. It's fine. He goes back to his paperwork.
I give both men their meals. Second guy is a little less chatty after the pink wine incident. First guy alternates between his fork, his pen, and his wineglass. As first guy is obviously not in need of companionship, and I already separated a small mountain of paper doilies into easy access singles, I return to second guy to see if he is over his shyness. I am bored. I live off tips.
Unlike the rock that is first guy, second guy is loosening up as the wine goes down. I give him a rundown on the bar scene, by music and by drink specials.
Second guy is the first to go. I thank him for his 20 per cent tip and tell him I hope he enjoys power hour at the Crow. He kind of looks like he wants a hug. It's a good time to disappear to pull doilies apart.
First guy also leaves me 20 percent, and in a lasting state of awe. He deftly signed his bill and walked out of the restaurant straight as an arrow, having consumed enough alcohol to put me, no slouch in the booze department, out cold under the table after some singing and I love yous. And he did work the whole time! I wanted to high five him on the way out, but despite the alcohol tolerance worthy of a rock star or an aging bartender, a suit is still a suit.
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