BS”D
Israel’s weekend begins on Friday, in preparation for Shabbat (The Saturday Sabbath), which means that Thursday night is the Saturday night of Israel. Slow Moshe was packed when I arrived at 11. Ron, Moshe’s son, was manning the taps, and I quickly jumped in to help him ease the pressure on the bar. Glasses filled the sink, and others were scattered throughout the dimly-lit room, turning dish-washing into a Sisyphean act of cleaning and collecting. On one of my rounds of collection, the three cute American girls sitting at the mini-bar extended their pretzel bowl. With a smile I knew all too well, they asked for a refill. Every man knows and that look and tone of voice. It is one that says “I’m not actually interested in you, but I know that if I act like I am I’ll get what I want.” Cursing them in my head, my legs turned to jelly, and the optimist in me began his useless wrestle with his realist counterpart.
About a minute after I refilled their bowl (what would prove to be yet another Sisyphean bar task), the girls turned their eyes to a pair of guys who had just entered the bar. They pointed, laughed, and whispered, and I once again muttered a string of choice words to myself. Unphased, the two newcomers shot them a glance, spoke to them for a minute, and began looking for a table.
“Hey man, any room on the bar?”
I responded in the negative, and directed them to the upstairs gallery. Upon bringing them their beer and pretzels, I discovered that they were quick to surround themselves with another group of girls. This barman always seems to go barefoot.
Glasses came in to be washed, and went back out filled with beer. Two bags of pretzels were finished by hungry customers. The American girls in the corner sat by their table with their empty glasses and sweetly asked for more pretzel refills before paying for a beer a piece. Two hours passed with barely a moment of calm. As the girls filed out leaving neither tip nor numbers, the gallery began to empty out as well. Patrons began a bar-table version of musical chairs, shuffling through the newly available spots. With seats open at the bar, the two guys from earlier on moved in and sat in front of me.
We chatted and exchanged information on life. Their names werer NZ and DZ, and though they were not blood brothers they went through the grind of both Elementary and High-School together in Jerusalem, and werepractically related. NZ had a tough week and came to the Slow to let off some steam. He began to tell both DZ and myself what he has been up to, taking advantage of the psychology major awarded to any fool who steps behind the bar. For the most part I tossed my comments and answered their questions with my back to them, busy cleaning the steady stream of glasses that piled in as our conversation flowed. One of them passed me the bowl for a pretzel refill. Naturally, I complied, but with the pretzels running low I had to skimp a bit. He shot me a glance and said something about me not needing to be a miser. Shaking my head, I top off the bowl.
Thank G-d, business was good and there was not a dull moment. Aside from fetching glasses and lighting candles, I had plenty of order to fill as well. A loud cough sounded from behind my back. Turning around, I discovered an outstretched hand with an upgraded pretzel bowl- DZ had swapped the two person version for the three plus version. His grinning chuckle let me know that he expected it to be refilled to the brim.
This went on for a while. To their credit, DZ and NZ ordered a lot, and began racking up the biggest bill (at least per person) that I had yet to see at the Slow. They also managed to devour full bowls of pretzels within seconds. Every time I turned around they handed me the bowl. When I didn’t turn around, they cleared their throat to get my attention. A few more drinks, and probably a full bag of pretzels later, they got up and began to do something that nobody should ever attempt- drunken dancing. DZ is a burly guy but had managed to get a few moves down, and NZ wanted to learn from him. Crammed between the bar stools and the stairwell wall, with just enough room for someone to push his/her way through to the bathroom, they began to hop, skip, and jump. After bumping into the dark red wall, each other, and the bar stools, they fell over into their own seats, reached for the empty pretzel bowl, and asked me for more.
DZ and NZ ended up staying until closing time, sipping high-content cocktails, and of course, munching on pretzels. At some point they remarked that I probably never wanted to see them again in the bar.
“Ha ha,” they laughed. “He’ll probably hang up a sign with our picture over a ‘Don’t Serve’ caption.”
As if. When our two most obnoxious customers happen to be two of your best friends, well, late shifts don’t get any better than that.
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