A few minutes before the kitchen closed at ten, a twelve-top walked in for snacks and drinks. I raced around running interference. Drinks needed to be made. The two closing waiters had smoked a fatty in the basement the hour before and now needed some convincing to put a hitch in their giddyup. And the Mexican cooks, already well into breaking the kitchen down for the night, peeved at having to crank everything back up again, suddenly lost their ability to understand English.
Right behind the big group, a half-dozen other guys walked in, the sort of princes I always dreaded dealing with. They milled around the bar area, impatiently waiting for cocktails in the entitled way the slick, young, and trust fundish tend to do. Oddly, a poised and polished, metaphysically-hip looking guy stood in the center of them, not participating in their back and forth, but watching me as if mesmerized. By the time I got behind the bar to make drinks for them, I was edgy and not thinking clearly. I quickly made a dirty Grey Goose martini with extra olives, handing it to the hip, poised guy before I realized he hadn't ordered yet.