“Was there something wrong with your service? Cause you kind of stiffed us on the tip.”
Game 3 of the NHL Stanley Cup Playoffs. The Chicago Blackhawks at Philadelphia with a two game lead in a best of seven series. A semi-filled bar on the northside of Chicago that markets itself as a “Sports Lounge” has both rooms covered in large flat screen televisions showing the game. As I walk in late due to rush hour traffic, but excited none-the-less, to meet a few people, they’ve already ordered the bucket special of beers. It’s 1-0 in favor of the Flyers and the first period is about to end. The Hawks are losing, the beers are running low and the appetites are growing.
“Hey buddy!” … nothing as I try to get the bar keep’s attention.
“Yoohoo hello!” … still nothing.
I let out a whistle … he walks right by us again.
I’m beginning to think we’re not going to get service, which means no more beer and no food. Why the hell am I here? A few minutes later he walks by again, “Hey can we get a couple more beers over here!?” And now I’ve got his attention. He’s hesitant to come over but he finally does.
“One Heineken, a 312, and a bucket of Millers, and we’d like to put in a food order.”
Ah success! The first intermission is half way through and we’ve put our food and drink orders in.
The start of the second period and the Hawks are still down 1-0. GOAL! Tie game! Boy that was quick. I’d really like another beer right now, maybe even those chicken fingers I ordered. Oh here’s the beer man, this is awesome, what better timing. Wait he’s only got the 312 and Heineken, well that’s understandable, he probably couldn’t hold the bucket as well. I’m sure they’ll be right out.
10 minutes into the second period Scott Hartnell puts Philly into the lead 2-1, the food isn’t here and of course we’re still waiting on the bucket of beers.
As a different waiter walks by I call him over…
“Hey we’re still waiting on a bucket of beers, we put the order in during intermission with a different guy and still haven’t seen them…”
“Man or beast?” he asks.
What the fuck is he talking about, I thought to myself.
“Beast.” I respond with a bit of uncertain confidence.
He walks away and brings back a bucket of beers for us. The food is still nowhere in sight and the Hawks aren’t looking like the same team from games 1 & 2. I’m beginning to have my doubts here in the second as we can’t get passes off, we’re dumping it in to their zone but our wingers aren’t chasing the puck down and Philly is just manhandling us. But before I can get upset at the way we’re playing and that the food still isn’t out, Brent Sopel, a 33 year old veteran hockey player scores and it’s 2-2 as the second period is coming to an end!
It’s the second intermission of a tied game three. The food is finally coming our way and the five of us begin to make room on the table to fit the feast. Tatter tots, chicken wings, chicken fingers, spinach artichoke dip, nachos and a BLT with wheat bread. I swear the BLT is what took this bar food so long to make. They probably slaughtered the pig out back, cut it down to thinly sliced pieces of bacon, grew fresh tomatoes and pulled the lettuce off the edge of an already eaten cheeseburger plate.
Time to eat now, the 3rd period hasn’t started yet, the conversation runs quiet as we reach around the table picking and pecking. With the exception of the BLT of course.
The players are back on the ice, and everyone with the exception of 1 Flyers fan is pumped to see the young but highly talented Blackhawks put this game away. Early in the third we get a turnover and breakaway. Jonathan Toews, the 22 year old Blackhawks captain feeds the puck up past the redline to 21 year old Patrick Kane who crosses the blue line with a defender well behind him, he’s all alone with the goalie, takes the shot… Hawks score!
We erupt in cheers, fists fly high, people are high fiving and a few of us begin to sing the chorus of Chelsea Dagger, a song by the Fratellis that blares throughout the United Center whenever the Blackhawks score a goal. It has a Don’t Stop Believing by Journey feel to it. That of course being the celebratory song for the Chicago White Sox, Chicago’s Major League Baseball team, who won the 2005 World Series. We can taste it. There’s going to be another championship brought back to this city and it’s going to come from these here Blackhawks. Nothing can stop us, we have the lead, we’re going to win and… 3-3 Philadelphia ties it on their next possession. Fuck.
The third period is relatively quiet on both ends for the remaining 15 or so minutes. We head into overtime and all we need is a goal to win the game. Unfortunately the Philadelphia Flyers beat us to it and now the series is 2 games to 1 in favor of the Blackhawks. We’re still in a promising position. We have home ice advantage and if we can get the win on Friday in Philly, we can bring it back and win it in Chicago on Sunday. And what could be sweeter than that?
The bills comes our way with little time wasted after the game. We divide it up and I decide to put it on my credit card. We decide to leave cash on the table as tip rather than putting it on the card as well. Hesitantly of course we decide how much to leave considering the service that we received. Or lack thereof. I sign off, get told to have a good night and we slowly walk out of the bar lacking the excitement we walked in with.
As we say our goodbyes just outside the bar, the bar keep comes outside to join us.
“Was there something wrong with your service? Cause you kind of stiffed us on the tip.” As he shows me the credit card receipt I had filled out.
Wow. Is this really happening? Did someone actually take the tip money that we had hesitantly left on the table? Who would do such a thing. Those monsters!
“No, no, we left cash on the table.” I say as I point over his shoulder towards the table we sat at.
He turns and looks with me and notices his co-worker, a female bar keep at the table waving the tip money we had left on the table with a shit eating grin from ear to ear on her. The bar keep walks away from us, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t say thank you and just lets the door slam behind him and heads over to his female coworker.
These sons of bitches. The nerve of this guy who took his sweet ass time to bring out our food and forgot our beer and who didn’t even come by once, not even once to see if we needed anything else, had the nerve to chase us out of the bar and ask us for tip money.
Fuck you Avenue Tavern located at 2916 N. Broadway, Chicago Illinois. Get your act together, teach your bartenders some respect and etiquette before you chase me out of a bar to ask if there was anything wrong with the service. Yes motherfuckers! there was something wrong with the service while we were there and even after we left! You should be grateful we left you the tip we did and didn’t complain to you guys for the lack of service that was being provided!
I can assure you this, that’s the last time I watch a sporting event at Avenue Tavern… “Sports Lounge” and it’s not because I’m a superstitious fuck! Assholes.
