When I waited tables, people seemed to offer me drinks on an almost nightly basis. If a couple brought in a particularly nice wine, they'd want to pour me a glass. If someone purchased an esoteric bottle from our reserve list, I'd be offered a taste. Sometimes, guests would try to buy me a shift drink or a shot of ouzo because they just liked me so damned much. These things happen all the time to charming, middle-aged servers in Greek restaurants in San Francisco. It's part of the culture. Sadly and, I suppose, wisely, they were gifts I was compelled to refuse.
"Thanks, but I can't," I'd say with a detectable half-tone of disappointment. If there's anything a waiter needs after surviving two crazed seatings in the dining room, it's a shot of something alcoholic. "We used to be able to do that years ago, but not anymore," I'd add as a slight, wistful foam began to bubble at the corners of my mouth.
It's true. When I started at the restaurant, we'd taste wine multiple times a night. Slide management-sanctioned shots of Plomari down our gullets with the last guests. Sit down at the bar for a decompression cocktail when all the customers had at long last left. That is, until one rather unfortunate evening.
If my guests were persistent enough in their offer, saying things like, "Oh, what harm could it do?" I'd nearly always respond with, "Well, if you really want to know, I'll tell you why we can't drink at work. But only after you've finished your dinner because the story's a bit...bloody." I'd drop that on them like a sizzling plate of saganaki and let them make the choice whether to pursue this post-prandial line of conversation or not. But that last word usually got them hooked.
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