Even Flow
Sandy tugged on her collar. The manager had told the staff to keep their uniforms starched and clean at all time. Which, for Sandy, meant serving watered down cocktails to businessmen who were meant to linger around the bar because of the pretty faces in the staff. Which also meant wedding rings were slipped off before one went into work at Even Flow, J. W. Marriott’s premiere bar and the watering hole for Bombay’s high rollers.
And also made a young BMM student change her name from Sunita to Sandy. At least from the hours of 9 pm to 3 am, when she was working.
“Vodka. Grey Goose” She turned around to see a tiny suit stretched to its limit by an extremely rotund man. She could smell the garlic on his breathe from 7 feet away. She rushed to comply and with practiced dexterity slid a glass towards him.
The man’s jaw opened wide and his neck, which was approximately a third of his torso jiggled violently as he downed the drink in one massive swallow. “Mhmmm…” he grunted and tapped the bar counter, indicating he wanted more. Another glass slid to him, but Sandy kept her distance. She counted on the tips of her patrons, but drunk middle aged men who drank on Tuesday night were generally not out waiting on their yoga group.
“There is an amazing Indian restaurant on the 3rd floor sir. I am sure you will enjoy it!”
He ignored her, as he adjusted his glasses and began to solve a crossword puzzle. His pen scribbled away rapidly, while he slurped on his vodka.
She’d poured drinks for yuppies trying to live up to a lifestyle they saw in movies and Instagram, for rich brats astounded the world wasn’t falling over to serve them, uncles who could go from commenting on how much she was like their daughter to offering her money for “good time”. She would have felt sorry for them, only if resistance on her part wasn’t reciprocated by threats, insults and once, a teary eyed phone call to their Dad.
A pudgy hand waved at her and beckoned her over, with all the grace of a horse trying to swat away flies. “Yes sir?”
“This and….. this”
The man pointed at the cheesy nachos and a club sandwich. “No meat, onion or potatoes!” He added, wiggling his finger at her, his bleary red eyes locking with hers, over his gold rimmed spectacles. Sandy was tempted to tell him what the vodka he was sipping on was made from. Typical, she thought to herself, bet he’s going to tip me like shit and argue about the check.
The bar started filling in with more patrons, and the manager switched from his ripped CD of elevator music to his ripped CD of the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits. It was one of the nights when the number of locals were outnumbered by jetsetting businessmen from foreign lands, seeking respite from the blistering Indian summer heat. Which made her carefully accented English skills an asset.
But it wasn’t going to be the case today. Two Asian men in crisp black suits approach the bar and began studying the menu like it was their father’s will, edited by him in his final moments. The taller one of them tried to pull out his phone but Google Translate was more suited for constructing sentences by awkward college graduates, trying to converse with European girls who invariable spoke perfect English. Not for ordering at a bar in a foreign country.
It took every ounce of patience in Sandy to not resort to miming the enter food menu and repeating the names of the items loudly, like talking to a slow child. That level of patronizing would not go unnoticed by her manager. But seeing her patrons fumble around like this let her enjoy a few moments of schadenfreude. Those has almost as much potency as photoshopping your ass on an Instagram picture of 4 shots of tequila in boosting one’s self confidence.
“They need to know if that pasta is gluten free and can be served without the shellfish” Old Mr. Vodka had just chimed in. He smiled at the two men and invited them over, chattering in Japanese, or at least that’s what it seemed to Sandy. The Asian gents looked relieved, and sat down next to him.
The man with gold rimmed glasses chuckled, wolfing down his own sandwich and wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
Sandy scurried to his end of the bar, pouring them water “I learnt Japanese 14 years ago, it’s unfortunate this bar doesn’t keep any sake. The Indian restaraunt on the 3rd floor does though. Have a good night…” The gold rimmed glasses flashed in the dim light of the bar, before he whipped them off and tucked them in an old fashioned plastic case.
He picked up his newspaper, crossword filled in. He had tipped in cash.
