Jazz Night
“Jazz, Grease, and the Goddamn Grind”.
You don’t forget a night like that—not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t. Because it was teetering on the edge of collapse the whole time, and still, somehow, it soared.
You try something new in this business and you’re not chasing profit—you’re chasing a feeling. A flicker of magic between the chaos. Something that makes all the prep, all the late orders and sweaty prep lists and passive-aggressive group chats worth it. That night? It had it.
The music hit just right—horns spilling into the room like bourbon on cracked ice. The food hit the tables. People smiled, leaned in close, asked questions, ordered another round. You could feel it in the room: a good night. Not just busy. Not just full. Good.
But behind the bar, backstage, in the kitchen—it was a knife fight.
Every booking slammed in at once. Like a dam breaking. Plates flying, staff stretched so thin they disappeared entirely for long stretches. The kitchen caught fire metaphorically, and nearly literally. The front of house did that thing they always do—grit teeth, slap on a smile, and pretend everything’s under control. We served, we charmed, we pushed through.
Still, we rushed it. Served food before the music. Didn’t let it breathe. That was the fuck-up. We had people sitting there ready to sink into something real, something with a little romance, and instead we bulldozed through the evening like we were trying to make last call at a motorway Wetherspoons. We had them. We just didn’t let it land.
The rest? Classic growing pains. No one knew when the band was starting. Who was bringing what. When the drinks were dropping. Everyone operating on vibes and crossed fingers. We need structure. A sheet. A system. Something that keeps the madness from tipping over into disaster.
The worst part is, we wasted food. Bought big, sold small. Overestimated appetites, underestimated margins. Happens to everyone. Still hurts. And the cocktail specials—good drinks, smart ideas—barely moved. No signage, no menu, just word of mouth in a room too loud to talk. Might as well have poured them straight down the drain.
And yet, with all that?
It worked.
People loved it. They felt something. They’ll come back. That’s the thing—they didn’t see the panic, the missteps, the behind-the-scenes chaos. They saw a room lit up with music and energy. They felt like they were in on something special. That’s the con. That’s the art.
And we’ll do it again. Not every week—Christ, no. These nights need space to mean something. Let them stay rare. Let them breathe. Change the theme. Keep them guessing. One night a month to throw the whole goddamn rulebook out and build something weird, something real.
Because that’s the game now. People want a story. They want a night that feels like a secret, like a surprise they stumbled into and can’t quite explain the next morning. And if we can give them that—through the stress, the stretch, the near-disasters—we win.
Next time?
We’ll do it better.
We’ll still fuck it up.
But we’ll do it with style.
