Money men
8/20/08—Special to San Francisco online, bartender Jeff Burkhart notes the irony of under-tipping, cash-having businessmen.I was a little bit early for my night shift. I glanced around the dining room, a few blue-haired old ladies finishing their lunch and a couple of in-between-jobs construction workers swilling draft beer at the bar. All in all, a typical weekday in the late-afternoon restaurant business.
Dropping my night cash drawer into the register, I noticed three business types enter the front door. A glance at the slow-moving hands of the clock on the wall confirmed my suspicions. Three thirty in the afternoon could only mean one thing: These guys were just getting off work. The work of what Martin Sheen’s character in the movie Wall Street called “The buying and selling of others.”
They were money men. Stock brokers, traders, or bond salesmen. The signs were obvious: short neat hair, checkerboard button-down collared shirts, not-quite-conservative ties, and shiny expensive shoes—like some type of uniform. But it wasn’t just their clothes that set them apart, it was their attitude. Frat boys on steroids is what a co-worker once called them, and she was right. Early 30s, married with children, and they still have silly handshakes, sexually explicit nicknames, and often tack “ie” or “y” onto the end of their first names.
They sat loudly at the bar, ordering the most expensive vodkas that we carry, and jumped right into shop talk. Soon, every other word was about money and income.
“Dougie’s gonna make a $100,000 on that [insert company name] thing, said the one in the light-blue checkerboard shirt.
“Frankie just closed the “[insert company name] deal, he’s gonna pull in about $250,000,” said the one in the yellow checkered shirt.
“Tommy is working on the [insert company name] partnership, he's gonna clear about $350,000,” said white checkered shirt.
Each time, the anty went up. Another round of vodkas and it was millions. Another round after that and it was tens of millions.
Soon enough, it was nearing 5:00 p.m., the time when a wife’s patience might begin to wane. They asked for the check and I delivered. It sat on the bar…and sat…and sat. A few glances at a now-urgently vibrating Blackberry finally spurred Yellow Checker into action. All of a sudden, the three big money men were acting like middle-aged spinsters on a late afternoon nursing home outing. All that was missing were beaded change purses.
“You had this,” said Yellow Checkers to White Checkers. “So your part is $15.50.”
He did the same for the others and soon a small pile of cash was shoved forward. On the way out the door, in between backslapping and handshakes, a slight fight ensued over who got to keep the receipt. When I finally organized the money and counted it, there was less than a 10 percent tip, which left me with four distinct impressions:
1) People who talk about money all the time are really, really boring.
2) I remembered exactly why I had never pledged a fraternity.
3) People who are exceptionally militant about their own commissions are often quite cheap when dealing with the commissions of others.
4) I’ve got to stop showing up early for work.
Jeff Burkhart is an award-wining bartender and an author and columnist. Currently he works in a Bay Area restaurant.
Dropping my night cash drawer into the register, I noticed three business types enter the front door. A glance at the slow-moving hands of the clock on the wall confirmed my suspicions. Three thirty in the afternoon could only mean one thing: These guys were just getting off work. The work of what Martin Sheen’s character in the movie Wall Street called “The buying and selling of others.”
They were money men. Stock brokers, traders, or bond salesmen. The signs were obvious: short neat hair, checkerboard button-down collared shirts, not-quite-conservative ties, and shiny expensive shoes—like some type of uniform. But it wasn’t just their clothes that set them apart, it was their attitude. Frat boys on steroids is what a co-worker once called them, and she was right. Early 30s, married with children, and they still have silly handshakes, sexually explicit nicknames, and often tack “ie” or “y” onto the end of their first names.
They sat loudly at the bar, ordering the most expensive vodkas that we carry, and jumped right into shop talk. Soon, every other word was about money and income.
“Dougie’s gonna make a $100,000 on that [insert company name] thing, said the one in the light-blue checkerboard shirt.
“Frankie just closed the “[insert company name] deal, he’s gonna pull in about $250,000,” said the one in the yellow checkered shirt.
“Tommy is working on the [insert company name] partnership, he's gonna clear about $350,000,” said white checkered shirt.
Each time, the anty went up. Another round of vodkas and it was millions. Another round after that and it was tens of millions.
Soon enough, it was nearing 5:00 p.m., the time when a wife’s patience might begin to wane. They asked for the check and I delivered. It sat on the bar…and sat…and sat. A few glances at a now-urgently vibrating Blackberry finally spurred Yellow Checker into action. All of a sudden, the three big money men were acting like middle-aged spinsters on a late afternoon nursing home outing. All that was missing were beaded change purses.
“You had this,” said Yellow Checkers to White Checkers. “So your part is $15.50.”
He did the same for the others and soon a small pile of cash was shoved forward. On the way out the door, in between backslapping and handshakes, a slight fight ensued over who got to keep the receipt. When I finally organized the money and counted it, there was less than a 10 percent tip, which left me with four distinct impressions:
1) People who talk about money all the time are really, really boring.
2) I remembered exactly why I had never pledged a fraternity.
3) People who are exceptionally militant about their own commissions are often quite cheap when dealing with the commissions of others.
4) I’ve got to stop showing up early for work.
Jeff Burkhart is an award-wining bartender and an author and columnist. Currently he works in a Bay Area restaurant.
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