When I was about nineteen I had a very brief stint working as a barman at a real ale pub. The place prided itself on selling a wide variety of specialist beers both bottled and on draft and had a constantly changing list on a blackboard of guest beers with bizarre names such as “Bishop’s Fancy” and “Dragon’s Breath” etc.
I was a terrible barman, not least due to my piss poor mental arithmetic. It was also my first job dealing with the general public. I spent most of my time behind the bar in a sweaty panic.
On one particular night the bar was heaving and I was working with another barman doing my best to serve the punters as fast as possible.
I approached one man, who requested a “B. and Dunn”. I had never heard of this brewery before but this was not unusual, given the variety of odd beers we served. I duly searched the fridge that stocked bottled imports, checked the guest beers blackboard and all the taps. I even asked the other barman if he had heard of it. No joy. Finally, defeated, I returned to the customer to get him to repeat his order.
“I’m being done.” he repeated with a frown.