The service bar in my bistro is a cramped cluttered affair – jammed into a corner next to the coffee machine. Ten varieties of vodka compete with gin and wine bottles for space. Whenever you grab the tequila you risk knocking several bottles to the floor.

I’m making a Cosmopolitan so I’m scrounging for the triple sec. Goddamn it. No one ever puts it back in the same place twice. Spying it in the last row I make a grab for it. My sleeve catches on the pourer of a bottle of Grey Goose, hurtling it to the ground. The $50 bottle bounces off the rubber floor mats and spins into the dining room.

“Fuck!” I yelp chasing after it.

“I hate when that happens,” Louis observes, his arms laden with trays of food.

Frustrated, I ignore him and study the service bar. If it was only a little bigger, a half foot wider, it would solve all our problems.

“What I wouldn’t give for five more inches,” I think aloud.

Louis cracks up.

“Try Extenze brother. It might help you.”

I realize how my statement might have been misconstrued.

“Five more inches would make me a circus freak,” I reply dryly.

“I’ve always liked that young man on the flying trapeze” Louis chuckles.

“I think you mean the flaming trapeze,” I retort.

“Aren’t we bitchy today?” Louis laughs exiting the kitchen.

“Don’t get me started.”

I finish making the Cosmo. Suddenly one of the waitresses sidles up to me.

“Louis says you’re feeling a little inadequate today,” she whispers slyly.

I groan inwardly. Touché Louis.

I’m never gonna live this one down.