Daquiri Bars

Last night I had a chance to experience working in a Bourbon Street daquiri bar during Mardi Gras for the first time. I lived and worked in New Orleans for nearly ten years and almost managed to scrape by without sampling that particular brand of hell, but now that I have graduated from school my job options seem to have shrunk.

A daquiri bar gets the true cream of the crop of Bourbon Street customers: self-impressed fratboys too young to drink, rednecks old and young, "performance artists" (in New Orleans this is code for hustlers) and the ghettoiest of the ghetto. And, as you can well imagine, these fine people not only behave in a dignified and friendly manner, they always remember to tip.

Truly, good daquiri-drinking people, I understand that charging eight dollars for a slushie mixed with rubbing alcohol counts as highway robbery. (Believe it or not, you are not the first person to point this fact out to me today. Or this hour. Possibly this minute). This is not my fault; you can be damn sure that very little of that money trickles down to my little puddle. Look around you: it's Mardi Gras on Bourbon. You should expect to be shaken down as surely as if you were at the airport. And if you think our prices are robbery, you should see what the landlord gets for rent in this part of town.