Patron and Pineapple
Personal Essay
He was bald, shaved head, and wore sunglasses. His date was mousy and faceless to me. Maybe because I only ever saw the back of her head, her ponytail. She would rub the back of her neck and let out an awkward laugh when he spoke. “So what are we gonna go about this” he motioned to the half-full tumbler on the table in front of him. “I-oh-did you want me to take it off?” his order had confused both me and Keith, the bartender.
He’d asked me for a Patron and Pineapple. I told him I didn’t know what he meant, he explained again that he wanted Patron with a little bit of pineapple juice. This wasn’t a fancy place where I worked, mind you. Our pineapple juice came out of the bottom of a Costco-sized jar of Dole slices. I explained the order to Keith and watched him leak the contents of the jar into a cup, using a bar spoon to keep the slices out. Next, he pulled a bottle of tequila from the well and titled the speed-pour to the cup for a second or two. “Patron and Pineapple” he said.
When I brought the drink out, the bald guy looked as confused as I had when he’d ordered it. Hence, the request to take it off his final bill. In retrospect maybe he just wanted a pineapple margarita or something and didn’t know how to explain it. Maybe “Patron and Pineapple” rolled off the tongue a little bit better. Maybe the word Patron was just popular at the time. Like, because of Lil’ Wayne.
I found myself thinking about him today. His bald head and sheathed eyes burned in my brain like a stain on a bathroom wall. I woke up and Googled “Patron and Pineapple” just to see if it’s some kind of thing the average person should know about. There’s a cocktail recipe for it on the Patron Tequila website. It says:
2 oz Patron Silver
3 oz Fresh Pineapple Juice
Squeeze of lime if desired.
I guess we forgot the lime?
When I brought him the check he said, “wow! The check! The check! Man. That’s the fastest thing you’ve brought all night.”
I don’t think I was a bad waiter or anything. I’d wait tables for about five or six more years after that. I’d have a lot of customers like that, guys that really get under your skin. I wonder how he’d feel if he knew I still think about him seven years later. I wonder if he hopes I wake up in cold sweats, muttering “Patron… Patron and Pineapple.” I bet it makes him feel big in the pants. All in all, it probably made me a better waiter, maybe a better person. Maybe those are the kinds of people you need to deal with to get to the point where you don’t have to do that kind of stuff anymore.
Once, in New York, I had these two pit bulls on my dog walking route. When I got to the apartment, a seven story walk-up in Murray Hill, these two pits had had seizures and crapped all over the walls. It was everywhere. So hot in that apartment. Box fans blew the smell all over. I texted the owners and they replied asking me to “please clean it up, thanks.” I don’t know. Now the worst I have to do for work is correct someone’s grammar. There are people who would say, maybe, I’m still mopping up messes. Hard to say, I guess. Whatever! I just hope to never be the kind of person who orders Patron and Pineapple. I’d rather have a Shirley Temple, or maybe fries and a coke.