Phil Collins, Phailure

Being in the neighborhood I impulsively attempted to drop into the Lounge, which was roped off. A wardrobe rack was stationed outside and a large dolly crane was parked in the esplanade, which meant that the Lounge would be closed to the public for the entire day or at least until the heel-dragging production crew got around to shooting whatever Family Channel spot was slated for the editing bay's delete bin (I will not use the term "cutting room floor," which was suited for a more civilized era of mass media).

I still had some writing to do, so I elected to try the Uva Bar.

I selected "'The Phil' Collins": Gin, St. Germain, raspberries, cucumber, lime juice. Our host seemed enthused to plug the value of the cocktail menu so I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

It doesn't taste particularly like either Genesis or innocuous pop tunes. It tastes both medicinal and tart but is a refreshing cocktail aptly suited for common tastes on a warm summer evening.

Anyway, back to my writing project. Hopefully next time the bartenders in the Lounge will have something to do besides wait for shooting to commence while pretending to wipe down the counter again.

[three pages of unrelated notes later...]

Okay, I hadn't planned on writing more about Uva this evening, but tonight has been too entertaining, in the way that only a working shit show can be if you're not involved with it.

First H. (the name I'm giving to the host who has been trying to make me cocktails) starts losing it after her first hour here and makes her first reference to being a "manager, I'm not even supposed to be over here tonight," meaning my side of the bar, I can only assume. Later, M. (who wears the purple polo of management but doesn't posses the proper gravitas) is asked by H: "can you do a sweep for pint glasses, I need them." 

"... Huh?"

"Pint glasses, I'm almost out."

He holds up two dirty glasses before him, glasses that only one who has never met the concept of volume measurement or beer could conceive as what she was requesting.

"Those are pilsners," H. says.

"Well... tell me what you want!" responds M.

Seriously? H. seems to be thinking. "Go around and collect pint glasses for the wash."

"Alright, I don't know if you're asking me to get a box from the office or something..."

We didn't even act this way in front of civilians when I worked at Starbucks. And we earned a pittance compared to M. 

I would say that, except for the food, Uva is a total shit show, were it not for bartenders Justin and Temple - who I think may be brothers. These incidents don't phase them, nor do they bat an eye when I laughingly describe the conduct in their establishment as making me want to say "Mom, Dad, stop it! You're ruining my birthday party!" They don't let the bastards grind them down; they're among the reasons I keep coming back (on occasion).