I shoulda been at the Deli.

(From my Yelp! page.)


Champion's Sports Bar & Restaurant

Categories: Sports Bars, Restaurants
Neighborhood: Back Bay

110 Huntington Ave
Boston, MA 02116
(617) 578-0658


So let's say you're trying to pick a sports bar to watch The Biggest Game Of Your Life in. Your team is playing in the NCAA championship game for the first time since 1973. They've never won before. It's huge for you, your family, your friends, your hometown. You have waited your whole life for this.

You randomly decide on this place.

So then let's say that upon getting there you find a bunch of other fans to buddy up with, which is a nice surprise considering that you're homesick as hell right now. Let's say that you ask if you can switch tables so you can sit with these people. Your current waiter, a very cool and understandable guy, is ok with it; the psychotic waiter in the section you want to sit in says no.

So finally after bribing him- first with guilt trips about how this is the moment you've waited for your whole life, which doesn't work and gets an eyeroll, and then with actual money- you sit down with your new friends. You're excited, because The Game Of Your Life is about to begin. You sit down at the one empty table in the area. Psycho Waiter says that nobody is allowed to sit in that table, ever. You say that, as a former waitress, you understand how seating assignments and table numbering goes, but you would really like to sit down and is that okay? Psycho Waiter says nobody is allowed to sit in at that table. It remains empty.

So you stand, and the place starts getting packed for the game; meanwhile, that fucking table remains empty and every time someone dares to sit in it, Psycho Waiter comes back and starts hollering again about how Nobody Is Allowed To At That Table Or In Those Chairs, Ever.

But you're not gonna let it dampen your spirits, because your team is gonna WIN! Everybody is so excited! This is our year, finally!

And let's say this group of fans happen to be from a city where we're born and raised with particularly strong accents, and people with the aforementioned accents are unfairly stereotyped as being moronic, lazy, slack-jawed, and inbred. Let's say this city is, oh, Memphis, Tennessee. Let's say that the large majority of people there are apparently in town for a conference for the children's cancer hospital and research center where they work and are staying in the hotel where the bar is located, but Psycho Waiter still treats them like they're idiots. No, better yet- Psycho Waiter treats them with contempt.

Let's say the game is finally starting, and the starters are running out onto the floor. Let's say that as they're galloping out with expressions of joy and glee on their faces that you want to impress upon your memory for the rest of your life, as soon as the most important player this year (Chris Douglas-Roberts! Memphis Tigers! #14! GO TIGERS GO!) runs out onto the court and you all start cheering, Psycho Waiter comes and stands in front of your tv set, blocks your view, starts waving his arms in the air, and says the following:

"I NEED YOU ALL TO SHUT IT FOR A MINUTE. WHO IS ON WHICH TAB? I NEED YOU PEOPLE TO GET YOUR DRINK ORDERS STRAIGHT."

You miss it.

Let's say the game begins and you're watching every move like a hawk; Psycho Waiter keeps haranguing you every time you don't have a drink in your hand. Let's say he harasses you enough times that you finally switch from beers and order a Jack and Diet just to shut him up so you can watch this extremely close and intense game, and he asks you- "Will that be a double?" Hey, guess what Psycho Waiter? If I wanted a double, I'd ask for one.

Then he brings your drink, and it's the weakest Jack and Diet you've ever had in your life. But whatever, Psycho Waiter is off of your ass. Then your friend arrives and wants to order a drink, but Psycho Waiter is nowhere to be found. Lovely.

Then let's say your Tigers totally have the game locked up, but somehow let it slip between their fingers. Let's say that you're so devastated that you can barely hold yourself up and in a moment you'll basically have to be shuttled out the door by your friend and forced not to gape at the red and blue confetti raining down on the screen. Let's say that before this happens, despite the obvious horror and disbelief and pain that is emanating from your face and your lips, Psycho Waiter comes up, gives you that now familiar haughty look of contempt, and asks you one last time- "Jack and Diet?" Just to make you feel that much worse.

I could understand this behavior at a restaurant or even a regular bar, but this is THE BIGGEST COLLEGE BASKETBALL GAME OF THE YEAR, IN A SPORTS BAR, IN A HOTEL FULL OF TOURISTS WHO WANT TO WATCH NON-LOCAL GAMES. Thanks, Psycho Waiter, for making my miserable evening that much more miserable. If my Jack and Diets had actually had any alcohol in them, I probably would have just proven your redneck stereotyping of me to be abso-fucking-lutely correct and straight up smashed my weak-ass Jack and Diet over your head, then puked on your shoes.