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He walked into the bar one night, a very tall, maybe six-foot-four, prematurely greying man dressed in jeans and a jean shirt. I noticed pockmarks on his stubbly cheeks, a full mustache, and a hooded look in his eyes. He may have been drunk, but he strode into the Greenwich Village restaurant in 1975, fully aware of his impact. He nodded to Tony, the bartender.
“Ouzo, beer back.” Zipping that down his throat in a single swallow, he pushed the empty shot glass towards Tony.
“Another, please.”
“Sure, Steve. We haven’t seen you in a while. Been away?”
“No. Just busy.”
Throughout that evening, as I wandered back and forth from the service bar to the dining room, serving my customers, I was aware of this man who drank ouzo after ouzo. The potent shots didn’t appear to faze him. Tony kept shoving the shot glasses toward him, and topping off his beer back as needed. I kept my eye on this man, intrigued.
Just before closing time, as I was cashing in my singles and change in tips for bigger bills, I heard a commotion at the end of the bar where this man, Steve, was seated. He had his back to me and had gathered a few bar patrons as an audience. Everyone cheered and clapped at what Steve had just demonstrated. Curious, I walked over.
“What happened?”
“He just ate a wine glass!”
If Tony was impressed, I wanted to see this. I saw the stem of a broken wine glass lying on the bar.