T’was a quiet Tuesday evening and all through Grove house, not a creature was stirring, not even a Scouse!
Recognising accents is not my forte. So, when two young Scousers came in, I must confess that my cognitive process consisted of working out when to ask where abouts in Wales they were from. Thankfully, the heavy Liverpudlian twang hit me before I could humiliate myself.
Two brothers: the older one lived in Kirkham with his partner and two young kids, the younger was in the army barracks in Dundee. They were a good laugh for half an hour, asking shyly where is a good craic for a Tuesday night. Without faltering, me and R said: Marvin’s.
Seemingly intoxicated after a couple of Peronis, they requested R to concoct a mystery cocktail surprise (the older brother seemed sceptical at first). They chatted how expensive Lytham is and complimented us on our accents, saying “yous must have been raised right’. The younger one (obviously wearing cargo shorts) asked if we’d still be here in 6 weeks. I paused to do the mental maths of the date in my head: middle of September. “Yeah, probably”. That’s a depressing thought. 6 weeks from now and where will I be? Making shit small talk with strangers, trying to distract myself from the gaping hole labelled ‘career’ and ‘life plan’. The younger guy said he’d come back to us after his military mission training.
R had a bit of a traumatic day, so we needed a good laugh. The brotherly banter, the endearing accents, and the masculine insistence on interrupting us girls made the situation hilarious. Each time I tried to pipe up something about SOE (Special Operations Executive), the thick Liverpool accent coated itself in the airwaves, so I was plastered out.
Suddenly, a wave of boldness washed over the lad, and he asked when my next day off was. Truthfully, I replied tomorrow. He asked for my number and to go for a drink. Struggling to deal with the awkwardness (shock), I typed it in on his phone.
Note to self: get a better coping mechanism or come-back for these situation. “Boundaries? Haven’t heard that name in years.” I joked with R later. I need to sort myself out otherwise my WhatsApp is going to be a wasteland ruin dedicated to unread DMs.
Dead quiet for a Friday night. First week of the school summer holidays so our guess was that people had got on the first plane to Benidorm. Lucky for some.
A group of M’s mates came in for a drink; it felt more like a private group event with these lads milling around than a Friday night in Lytham. They were coaxing him to go out to Preston with them when he finished. You could see the pull of persuasion, but M was resolute that there was no point going out and spending all the money he’d just earned on shift. He was adamant that he couldn’t be out late as he had to go on a run the next morning as part of his navy training. AND be on time for work. I was weirdly proud of him that he'd turned down a night out (come on, we’ve all been there).
I feel like the narrator should say here: Alas, M did not go for his run. Ahh how the mighty have fallen
One of the restaurant tables we had in was a young couple, maybe in their late teens? They weren’t on their first date, but it was early in the courting stage. They still seemed a bit awkward around each other. I noticed the guy reached the bottom of his shirt and used it to wipe something off his face, revealing (I presume) his curated abdomen. Clearly a move he had learned to from Love Island, it was nauseating. It’s a something that comes across my head from time to time and I have to repress it with embarrassment immediately.
Using the quiet period productively, we worked on making new Instagram content. Holding up the little tap-on lights above model cocktails as a DIY ring-lights for an influencer's aesthetic.
The next day, GM showed all staff the Reel she’d made for the Instagram socials. The finale of the Reel was cheeky image of Frenchman with his tongue out. There was a guffaw of laughter. Frenchman often parades around like there’s a bad smell so it’s a rare treat to see his soft side. He looks at me, stone-faced says “I will make today hell for you”. Laughing again nervously, I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a flash of mild panic across my mind.
Thankfully, hell include Frenchman wiggling my nose as he walked past, then turning round in mild disgust as he wipes my foundation off on his apron. He had taken off half my makeup from my nose.
Lightly closed eyes and staying very still, I admired the confidence of a girl allowing her mate to attach freshly bought fake eyelashes on her. A bold move, half-way into an afternoon of drinking and surrounded by cocktails. All rise for the bold act of sisterhood.
If I had a pound for every time I was asked if I was still in college- I’d be one of those Gen-Zers with a strong side hustle. I’ve even been asked if I wanted an under-19s day-rider on the bus. I turn 24 in October.
A well-meaning couple asked me this whilst I was holding some heavy plates. Praying that neither plates nor my sanity would drop, it was with a strained politeness that I gave my spiel of having graduated last year and was now just ‘figuring out’ postgraduate life. The guy’s husband used to be the Head of Fashion as Leeds Uni. Always nice to meet people from God’s own county.
GM was teasing the bouncer (A) about chatting to the waiting staff too much: “Do some actual work! Check people’s IDs!”. A, pulled his waistcoat down and puffed out his chest, saying that he knew everyone’s ages here. GM said, “Go on, how old am I? He said, with too much confidence, “24”. GM scoffed. “23? 20? 21?”. She finally accepts 21. He looks her up and down and says “yeah, that’s what I said”. Cheekily, I ask how old he thinks I am. He pauses for a split second and says “19”. My ego boosted, I grin and say I’m 23. Looking baffled and somewhat embarrassed, A shuffles away, clearly having more thinking to do.
Walking past a table of two women drinking cocktails, a somewhat intoxicated lady heckled me over and said: “these olives are rank”. Cue nervous laughter and awkward pause from me. Luckily, the uncomfortable silence was interrupted by the lady again: “Where are these olives from?” I tried to explain, in the least pretentious way possible, that these were Frenchman’s ‘fancy olives’. Not the normal pitted one’s from Tesco, but proper Greek ones with olive oil in. They cackled (in a thick Lancashire accent) that they just weren’t "posh enough". Maybe? I hate that I knew they were different olives. This is what my life has come to: Fucking olive snobbery.
She held up her half-drunk cocktail with a piece of orange peel inside it, swizzled it, saying “this was shit too”. My powers of deduction (or just watching the same drinks being made a thousand times) figured it was a Negroni. I politely asked what was wrong with it. I think she was hoping to get a free drink (can’t blame a gal for trying). A Negroni is just pure alcohol, of course it’s going to taste a bit rank. Don’t ask for something you can’t swallow. It was a bit of a painful interaction, and I hate dealing with problems that customers have made for themselves. But I couldn’t help feeling like a posh twat.
A busy Saturday evening meant table-service was impossible, so young M and I went around collecting glasses. Bar-service is always the duller side of the evening, lightened up only when I accidentally grab the remnants of someone’s drink that they’re not finished with. The humiliation kills me every time.
At one point, young M put a tray down of empty cocktail glasses at the bar. Completely oblivious to his surroundings, a guy was so drunk he reached for an empty glass and, simply saying “thank you”, took a swig.
I don’t usually go to the gym on a Sunday morning, but I had to squeeze in another session of my programme. Funnily enough, I saw a lot of customers from the night before. I despise recognising customers when I’m out and about. Because I still see myself as fairly new/outsider to Lytham, I can’t help but over-analyse people and build up a picture in my head. I wish I could zone out, but I end up thinking about something embarrassing I said or how I forgot to take sauce to their table.
Sunday. There was a group of women celebrating a birthday. You know those women. A clique for young mums, passively competing who could look the youngest, thinnest and most stylish. I went over to collect some of their many champagne glasses and confetti. They were consoling one of their friends who was asserting that she was ugly. “Well, out of all the mums at [X] school I thought you were the only one I had time for”. Adoring cheers all round.
Later, the birthday girl came in to pay the bill. There was an air of urgency about her as she wanted to pay before her friend tried to take it away from her. She quicky tapped her phone to pay the +£200 bill. She laughed about beating her mate to it. A comical, well-meaning interaction of who is treating who. Then, reality hit.
“Erm excuse me, can I just check that bill? I just wasn’t expecting to pay that much”. Karen-mode was activated. She went down the bill and some items were wrong. Her trusty partner-in-crime was backing up how we’d got it wrong.
In a flight of birthday giddiness (or expensive champagne) she’d paid an extortionate bill without even checking what was on it. I’m struggling for sympathy. Arguing with a slightly bevved mother does have its challenges. R came and saved the day with a clear-cut AGM manner. Bitter-sweet apologies and rational thinking moved things along, but the intensity of two highly made-up women (with the ammunition of WhatsApp group chats at the ready) did put the stakes a bit high.
R had gone out for a vape so I was left alone at the bar. A well-to-do gentleman came in after his wife had joined a larger part outside. He asked for a Hendricks and Fevertree tonic (Mediterranean) with ice and lemon, not lime. This man knew what he liked, and how he liked it. He then asked if we had champagne, I nodded positively to affirm we did. He held up his forefinger and tilted his head slightly, “not prosecco, champagne”. He was one of those. Smiling through gritted teeth, I assured that our house champagne was Laurent Perrier. What a knob. Normally customers don’t irritate me so much so quickly (of course, I exaggerate on here for dramatic effect) but I weas positively seething. The patronising note was so unnecessary. Yes, I know the difference between the Champagne region in France where a blend of three grapes is fermented twice, and the Veneto region in Italy where the single type of grapes (Glera) are fermented only once bye the Charmat method.
When I went out to serve him the drinks, he leant back with his arm around the sofa, as if everyone was dining on his yacht. He waved one arm airily around, asking if anyone else wanted a drink. The lad at the end asked for a Japanese Whisky Sour. Knobhead turned to me and asked if we did Japanese whisky, I helpfully corrected him that this was a type of cocktail. Knobhead then proceeded to repeat this several times before asking- no, that would assume I was a cognitive being and he was a half-decent person- barking at me “have you got that? Have you got that?”. Ffs.
Frenchman (plodding downstairs for his usual half a glass of Coke before leaving it on the side) turned to me and out of the blue asked “why don’t you a boyfriend yet?”. Bearing in mind he had said to M earlier, deadpan, “life’s a bitch and then you marry one”, he wasn’t filling me with fresh optimism in the advantages of men.
Drinks service dies a slow death on a Sunday evening. The chef from The Deacon came over for a pint to escape the noise of the live performers. O had also come from Barrique so we had a nice, chilled steady clean and close of the bar.
I was putting the sofa covers on outside when a group of middle-aged folk came marching through and asked if we were still open. I gave an awkward glance at R, who waved them in. The leader of the pack rubbed his hands together and said “I bloody hope you guys are still open because there’s about twenty of us”. Me and R exchanged nervous glances and laughter. O assured us they were probably exaggerating. Sure enough, 15 more people wandered round the corner and all demanded cocktails.
Leader of the pack kept joking that we thought we were in for a quiet night before they came along. A bit too on the nose. Leading back and stretching, he kept emphasising that “it’s still early yet”. Oh no. It’s the phrase that for everyone in hospitality makes them die a bit inside. We were joking that The Deacon is still open, why don’t you go there? They kept teasing about not being wanted; we joined in a bit too enthusiastically.
Noticing one accent stuck out from the rest, I ask a guy whereabouts in America he was from. He was wearing a hat (as all Americans seem to do) and drinking Bacardi and Coke. Explaining that his adopted parents brought him up in Ontario, and then he now lives in Florida. Asking what brings him to Lytham, he explains that his birthmother was from Blackpool; she had given him up for adoption, rather than having an abortion. Then, “through the wonders of the internet”, he was able to find his ‘blood’ brothers and sisters here. He said he had visited them few times and they all got on like a house on fire. He nodded and raised his glass as an awkward “cheers”, then transitioned outside.
For those who are aware of Blackpool’s notorious reputation (voted as the 14th worst place to live, with rates of violent crime, sexual assault and domestic violence exceeding the national averages due to the alcohol and substance-abuse in the city) it is a strange story. A Blackpool baby flown to Canada. Rescued from abortion then adopted into the 12th safest country in the world (the UK is ranked the 34th). Clearly, his brothers and sisters must have done well for themselves to have made it this far. But you can’t help but consider the completely different life circumstances and opportunities that Blackpool and Ontario have to offer, and how that can transform a person.
Surely the guy was living some degree of his life in his peripheral vision, thinking about what could have been? Maybe not. He was a white, (at least) middle-class man so maybe self-awareness of his privilege has never occurred to him. Who's to say!
Everything happens for a reason. One of the reasons I love working in hospitality is hearing people's stories and how everyone is connected in the most unlikely circumstances. You find family, whether by blood or by social love, in unexpected places.
Comments