Lou's Official Complaint That the Bar Just Charged You for the Bartender's Knife
I have the receipt in my hand right now. I am looking at it. I am going to keep looking at it until somebody explains line seven to me, because line seven says "ceremony surcharge" and I do not know what ceremony I attended. I ordered a drink. I sat down. A man picked up a knife, sharpened it in front of my face for forty-five seconds while making eye contact like he was about to settle something, and then used it to cut a piece of orange peel. That is not a ceremony. That is a threat with citrus at the end. And I paid six dollars for it.
Six dollars. For the knife. His knife. A regular knife. A knife that does not go home with me, does not improve my drink, does not cure anything, does not do anything except make me sit there wondering what I did wrong. The man sharpened it at me. That is the correct preposition. He did not sharpen it nearby. He sharpened it directly at my face, slowly, and then handed me a bill for the experience.
A Complete Audit of What the Knife Actually Did
I have been over this. I sat with a pad. I wrote down every contribution the knife made to my evening. Here is the full list.
- • It got sharper.
- • It cut an orange peel.
- • It made me feel like I had done something wrong.
That is the list. That is the complete list. The orange peel was then twisted over my glass and dropped in. I did not ask for the peel. Nobody asked for the peel. The peel came with the knife the way consequences come with bad decisions: uninvited and at your expense.
Now, I drink old fashioneds. I have always drunk old fashioneds. I know what an old fashioned is. An old fashioned is whiskey, bitters, sugar, and an orange peel that was not sharpened into existence in front of a paying customer. The drink is not complicated. It is not a ceremony. You do not need a knife for it. You certainly do not need a ceremony surcharge for the knife you did not need for the drink that was not that complicated.
I want to be clear about something. I am not against knives. Knives are fine. Knives have a place. That place is the kitchen, used quietly, on food, by someone who is not staring at me. The place is not six inches from my nose while I am trying to have a quiet drink on a Tuesday.
The Part Where It Got Worse
After the knife, and after the peel, the bartender did what they all do now. He stood back. He folded his hands. He waited. He was waiting for me to say something about the drink. He wanted a reaction. He had constructed a small theater around a glass of whiskey and he wanted applause. I did not applaud. I picked up the glass and drank it. It tasted like an old fashioned, because it was an old fashioned, because that is what an old fashioned tastes like regardless of how many knives were involved in its production.
He looked disappointed. I did not care. I was already doing the math on line seven.
This is the problem with bars now. Everything is a production. The ice is a production. (Ice is weather. It falls from the sky. I should not be funding it.) The garnish is a production. The glass is a production. The bartender is a production. The bartender used to be a person who made drinks. Now he is a performer who makes drinks as a secondary activity while primarily performing. The drinks are the intermission. The performance is the show. I am the audience. I did not buy a ticket. I bought an old fashioned. Six dollars for the knife.
What Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned Has Never Once Done
I went home. I opened the fridge. I took out a Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned. Eight milligrams of THC, real bitters, real orange, real oak, no alcohol, no ceremony, no man sharpening anything in my direction. I opened the can. I drank it. It tasted like an old fashioned because it is an old fashioned and nobody performed at me while making it.
The can has never charged me a ceremony surcharge. The can has never sharpened a knife at my face. The can has never stood back with folded hands waiting for me to acknowledge the artistry of the situation. The can is straight up, classic, and a little stubborn, which is exactly what I want out of something I am paying for. The can minds its business. I mind mine. We get along.
If you want to try a variety of canned drinks that have never once threatened you with a blade, the Variety Pack has all four. Sixteen cans. One price. Zero knives. Zero ceremony surcharges. No one will stare at you.
My Official Ruling
The knife is not an amenity. Sharpening the knife in front of me is not a service. The orange peel is not worth six dollars. The ceremony surcharge is not a real thing and the bar made it up because they can and because people will pay it, which is the most depressing sentence I have written today.
I am not paying for the knife. I paid for it this time because I did not want a scene. I paid for it, and I looked at the receipt, and I thought about it the entire drive home, and I thought about it while I opened the fridge, and I thought about it right up until the can opened and the old fashioned was just there, ready, no production, no ceremony, no man with a knife making sustained eye contact with me like I owe him something.
It is in the fridge right now, if you want to skip the ceremony yourself.
The watch on my wrist stopped in 2009. It is right twice a day. That is better than most bars, and the watch has never once charged me for the hands.
Herb & Lou's contains 8mg hemp-derived THC per can. For adults 21 and older only. Not for use by pregnant or breastfeeding individuals. Do not operate a vehicle or heavy machinery after use. Please check your state and local laws before ordering. These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.
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