Incompetence on parade I: At the bar

Last night, monshu and I met for drinks and dinner at Big Chicks and there was a new face behind the bar. I've only seen this young woman once or twice serving food and didn't realise she could bartend.

Turns out there's a good reason for that: She can't.

monshu ordered his regular: "scotch and water". The ensuing dialogue was something like this:

"You want that in a small glass." [gestures to indicate a shotglass]

*blink* "No, tall."

"Rocks?"

*blink* "Yeah, rocks."

(For those of you who don't drink or, at least, not in bars: Every other single time I've seen him order this drink in the nearly ten years we've been together, the only question from the bartender has been what kind of scotch he wants. Scotch and water is always served tall with rocks unless you explicitly specify otherwise.)

She turned to me and I said, "Hardcore". She smiled and asked, "Now what goes into a 'hardcore'?"

My turn to blink. "It's the brand of hard cider y'all serve here."

But the absolute pinnacle came while we were finishing our meals. We heard her call to the usual bartender, "Greg, can you come over and make a margarita?"

(For non-drinkers: This is the equivalent of a short-order chef saying, "Tony, can you come back here and make a reuben?" In other words, WTFF?)

Incompetence on parade II: On the train

My train pulls into Howard this morning and I dash across the platform to see if the waiting train that I spotted on the approach is a Linden. It is, so I begin charging up the platform in order to board.

On the way, I hear the announcer repeating, "Skokie Swift waiting for you on the inside track." I'm not fooled. The Skokie train:

1. Is two cars long.
2. Is ribbed for her pleasure.
3. Has yellow signs saying "Skokie" on it.

This train is eight cars long, smooth as a sojutini, and has purple signs saying "Linden".

In any case, I reach the train and push past a confused Russian woman asking, "Is zis ze Skokie?" after telling her "No", and grab a seat. The announcer is still telling everyone there's a Skokie on the inside track.

Suddenly, the tune changes. He says, "I apologise, it's a Linden train." Fellow riders who, unlike me, trusted their ears and didn't even glance at the other train come jogging up and piling in, one breathless old man getting on just before the doors close.

(To his credit: The announcer came out of the booth, stuck his head in the car, apologised to us, and confirmed what train it was. Then he did the same to several people on the platform. Also, he's the only one there who ever announces the trains at all; the other employees are quite happy to bring in a Linden train, let those who are watching for it board, and send it on its way without any attempt to draw attention to this. Dicks.)