He takes a whiskey drink....

Call it an occupational hazard or a unfortunate side-effect of working an otherwise wonderful job, but being hit on by patrons is one part of waiting tables that I absolutely detest. I'm not sure why this happens so much to restaurant emps; perhaps it's the notion that we are there to serve you, and that somehow gives a small bit of ownership over to you for the small amount of time that we wait on your table; probably a power thing..... or maybe it's just the fact that most of our female waitstaff is on the nicer side of attractive. The culprits come in all forms, from the older Southern Gentleman, the Preppy Frat Boy (often times out with his girlfriend), the Obnoxious Loudmouth Who Thinks Himself Far Too Funny, and my personal favorite, the Drunken Sleeze. The modes of come-on vary for each type, but have mostly the same effect of instilling a distinct sense of loathing in their server and a desire for us to make you wait for your lasagna 5 minutes longer than necessary. On occasion, an actual bit of sincere flattery comes out of the mix, which makes the other obnoxious comments more bearable.

This was not one of those.

We have a few regulars who hang out at the bar every few weeknights, which has very little to do with our bar, and very much to do with our bartenders. Our place is Italian, we have great food and an amazing staff, but if you're looking to get drunk, most would go to the local dive around the corner. However there are a few exceptions who stick around because they know us, and like the atmosphere of our little restaurant, so they stick around and by the time we close are absolutely plastered. One such man is Dead Dog (so named because he wears the tag of his deceased pooch on a chain around his wrist), who frequents the bar on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the occasional Saturday, and orders his drinks as follows:
Long Island Iced Tea
2 Dirty Martinis
[break here for a cobb salad with no corn and dressing on the side]
2 Jack and Cokes (doubles)
Margarita on the rocks (occasionally substituted for a shot of Petron)

Normally DD is a very convivial and considerate patron; he knows he's here to get drunk, and he knows we know that, too, and we exist in peaceful waiter/patron harmony without the fear of poor tips or bad service. But a few nights ago DD entered into bad territory: Sleezy Drunk territory. I was walking up to the bar, helping the bartender run his order of stuffed mushrooms (and out of the ordinary dish, which proceeded all the previous items mentioned), he smiled, I smiled, set his plate down, and started to walk away when he grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip. Uh oh. Rule #1, don't man-handle your waitress. He then proceeded to lean in and say in a slight slur, "I'm thinkin' about gettin' some dessert. You're realy pretty. Are you on the menu?" This baffled (and slightly disappointed) me and I stood, mouth agape, staring at the bartender who was trying - unsuccessfully - to muffle his laughter. Did he really just say that? Could he not have come up with something a tad more original? And why won't he let go of my arm? Oh, god, he's starting to smell my hair........

At this point, I wrenched my arm from his grasp, maneuvered him back into his chair (a bit roughly, if I'm being honest) and used that well-worn comeback used by waitresses the world over: "I am, but you couldn't afford me." At this, DD let out a hearty guffaw and turned to eat his mushrooms, and left the bartender a nice tip. After calling a friend to come take him home, he ran into me again in front of the hostess stand and offered me a slightly less-slurred, "You're awful fiesty; it's fun to watch you." This left me reeling yet again, but thankfully his friend showed up at that precise moment and spared me the need to attempt another witty retort. Mental note: must steer clear of DD in the future. His exploits are often amusing, but I'd rather not end up being molested while leaning down to re-paper a table.