As Herman looked over his menu descriptions — hoping desperately to finally hold onto a bartending gig that will ultimately get him laid — he noticed the 8 oz steak didn’t come with rice and beans. The burrito did. The tacos and chimichangas did. What was it about the steak?
As Herman’s final interview with boss manager Kassel came to a close — he posed the questions.
“Up-sell ’em, Herman. Bear down low, and you up-sell the shit out of ’em.”
“The chimichangas come with—”
“Don’t concern yourself with the chimichanga’s. It’s a side. If they want rice and beans so badly they can pay the three dollars for rice, and another three dollars for the beans.”
Herman paused. He looked up. The rain had begin to fall in what looked like a loose drain. He knew six bucks was too much for rice and beans. He imagined a party of five at his bar, taking up the whole corner. Two men, and three women. The men would be wearing polo shirts with the collars pulled up, white golf shorts, rolex watches, Ray Ban sunglasses with volleyball straps that ran across their thick cross-fit necks. Maybe even seer suckers.
“Hey, bartender! The steak doesn’t come with rice and beans?”
“You can get it as a side—”
“Wow. It’s like Nazi Germany in here.”
“Not exactly, cause we’re talking about a couple dollars and they were exterminating humans.”
And the group would fall silent and the three women wearing pearl earrings, tight grey skirts that fell just short of the knee, solid-covered white, blue, or green tops, thin diamond bracelets cuddling their wrists — would look up slow from their margaritas and silently praise his sharp rebuttal.
Herman giggled out loud, took a sip of his coffee, and looked went back to his menu descriptions.