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Ironically, the day started out so well

Saturday, March 14, 2026

The sun was shining, I was well-rested and looking forward to working with Mary, who always makes me (and everyone within earshot) laugh. Bartenders have different strengths, hers is humor and it’s a superpower.

It was a day prime for seizing and whatnot, and we were in high spirits. We had both been away for a few weeks—I brought her some teacakes from London, and Mary had some belated birthday gifts for me in her bag. But before any gift opening, we needed to get the bar and dining room ready for the restaurant opening.

During setup on Saturdays, I always check the credit card settlement receipt from the night before—it’s usually a good indicator of how busy the weekend is going to be. And that was the first sign that we were in for it.

The credit card reader seemed to be malfunctioning. The transactions from the night before were still in the system; they hadn’t been batched out and I couldn’t get the machine to work. (Settling the batch sends the previous day’s records to the bank, so you can begin the day shift with an empty batch; your first transaction should be #1.)

I frantically texted the night bartenders. Apparently it had been working fine all night, but now something was clearly wrong. Mary consulted ChatGPT and I tried the old unplugging/plugging routine. No dice.

I unlocked the door at 12 noon, and quickly stepped aside to let the flood of waiting customers pour in. Green top hats, bowties, and sparkly sequined vests filled the bar. Crap—I’d completely forgotten that when St. Patrick’s Day falls on a Tuesday, the weekend before is always packed with people celebrating early—crap, crap crap. It was probably going to be one of busiest days of the year, and we were off to a rollicking start.

While Mary waited on the festive revelers, I did deep breathing exercises to keep panic at bay and tried to get the credit card terminal working again.

Just for context, I struggle to operate the (multiple!) TV remotes, so my confidence was not high. Bartenders have different strengths, mine is not technology

The remote possibilities are endless. (Welcome to my nightmare.)

After several more attempts, I had to admit defeat. With profound apologies to all, we scrambled to post “CASH ONLY” signs all over the bar and dining room, guiding customers to the ATM cash machine at the front. Within a couple of hours, though, the ATM stopped working as well.

Because of course it did.

We were then forced to direct people to a cash machine across the street. In a city with as many bars as New York, you really don’t want to be sending people out the door because they need cash…

But help was on the way:

Ben arrived. And he brought Girl Scout Cookies. Bartenders have different strengths.

It was getting busier by the minute, so we immediately set him to work on the credit card situation. After several attempts, Ben confirmed what we suspected—the terminal was terminal—and jumped back into the serving fray.

People kept streaming in. We were all moving fast—too fast. The new porter raced down to the basement to change another keg of Guinness, hit his head and came back upstairs bleeding. That caused a bit of panic in the kitchen, but Chef Mariano (always good in a crisis), staunched the blood and determined he didn’t need stitches. And indeed, he was fine, and went back to work. (But Mary consulted Chat GPT once more, just to be on the safe side.)

I myself made a rookie mistake. I came barreling around a corner too fast and crashed into Mary, who was carrying a tray loaded with seven pints of Guinness. Thankfully, no one was hurt, there was no blood, and no sense crying over spilled Guinness. (Although I can’t speak for the porter, who may well have considered it insult to injury.)

At one point, as we were dashing back and forth behind the bar, Mary paused and looked up, noting there appeared to be a leak in the ceiling over the register. I worried which room upstairs was leaking, hoping it was the kitchen; Mary wondered if perhaps it was the tears of the McManus ghost, rumored to haunt the basement.

I just took the opportunity to take a selfie. I mean—what else was I supposed to do—we had crossed into crazy town now.

People always laugh and are fascinated to discover that the old cash registers aren’t there just for show. I love the old timey sound they make, and I’m sure glad we had them last Saturday. The only maintenance they required last week was changing the register roll. And that I can do, it’s just one of my bartending strengths.

And finally, towards the end of our shift, Sam came rolling in with his walker. One of our favorites, he comes in from New Jersey once a week, always sits by himself at table seven (with his back to the dining room), and orders the steak and a Sprite. He’s funny, easygoing and pays cash. He was a steadying and welcome sight after a long, hard day.

After our shift we did our paperwork (feeling like the mob or a drug cartel surrounded by stacks of cash) and flew out the door as fast as our sneaks could carry us.

I got home about 9:00, took my dog Ruby out, and then started to open my gifts from Mary. When I caught sight of the caramel cheese popcorn and chocolate, though, I stopped and collapsed on the couch.

With dinner now organized, I grabbed my (one) remote and settled in for an episode of Call the Midwife on TV. The day may have been rough, but at least I wasn’t screaming in agony while giving birth.

Mary texted that she was home in Brooklyn, enjoying a teacake and unwinding, watching Grey’s Anatomy. “Brain surgery seems super relaxed, compared to what we did today.”

Carbs and schadenfreude, my friends.

Don’t judge. We all do what we can to destress, decompress, and relax after a hard day. And let’s face it—it’s been a hard few years and a shocking last couple of months. Some people go to the gym, some go for a run, others drink heavily, do drugs or sleep too much, many numbly watch the news and quietly despair.

I think most of us just try to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. We’re doing the best we can.

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