I hate her. I didn’t start out hating her, but that's where we ended up.

It all began about a year ago. At the time, I was working with a new guy who had a perpetual chip on his shoulder. You know the type: “I’m really not a bartender, I’m actually a [insert artistic pursuit here]. I’m just doing this for the time being.” Unfortunately, this type of bartender is neither much fun to work with, nor, I suspect, much fun to be served by.

That's why I wasn’t all that surprised when I saw that his customer's receipt for a night’s enjoyment listed a $1 tip on a $40 tab. I chalked it up to his attitude. (Sometime later, that bartender was let go—or, to put it more delicately, he “moved on to other pursuits.”)

When that same customer sat down in front of me another night, I decided that I would rectify my coworker's wrongs. My plan was simple: I was going to kill her with kindness.

“I’ll start with bread and water,” she said, while saving two seats at the bar during peak hours for some late-arriving friends. Easy enough, I thought.

“I want the water room-temperature with some muddled cucumber and a lemon in it,” she added.

Alrighty then.

“With the bread, I’m going to need olive oil and balsamic vinegar,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “And put some garlic in it.” Killing her with kindness wasn’t going to be easy. I overlooked the three non-income-generating seats and the fact that she hadn’t even spent a single cent yet, put my head down, and fulfilled her requests.

Over the next few hours, she and her much-later-arriving friends managed to put away about $40 in house wine and inexpensive cocktails. Consuming nearly two loaves of bread and numerous bowls of free nuts, the threesome dominated the center of the bar. Then came the moment of truth. I dropped the check and waited, secure in the fact that no request had been ignored, no water glass had gone unfilled, and no whim—no matter how outlandish—had been refused.

I picked up the check and opened it. One dollar on a $38 tab. I couldn’t believe it.

There are some people who view restaurant workers as unworthy, or the job as demeaning. A friend once told me that she only tipped 10% because she felt a restaurant job was an "entry-level position.” Never mind that many single mothers, grad students, aspiring writers, and the like are supporting themselves this

way. In fact, she stuck to her story even after I reminded her what I do for a living. We didn’t remain friends for very long. I finally realized that when people look down on others—or their choice of employment—it usually says more about them than the people they are demeaning.

The experience with Ms. One-Dollar was repeated several more times over the next few months. Once, another bartender tried to engage her in chitchat, possibly under the same initial impression that I had.

“I’m far too important to converse with you,” she told him.

Eventually, we learned her name, remembering it because of its quirkiness, but always referred to her as “skunk lady” because of an odd white stripe in her jet-black hair, and frankly because the name was perfect for how we felt about her.

The other day, my manager approached me with an application in his hand.

“Is this who I think it is?” he asked, holding it up for me to see.

I read the name and couldn’t believe it. She was applying for a job—as a bartender, of all things. I asked if I could sit in on the interview, and he agreed. As the day of judgment approaches, I have three distinct feelings:

1. Perhaps there is some truth to karma.
2. Maybe that bartender with artistic leanings wasn’t so bad after all.
3. After next Tuesday, I doubt I’ll be seeing much of the skunk lady.

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Jeff Burkhart is an award-winning bartender, as well as an author and columnist. He works in a Bay Area restaurant.