9 May 23-29, 2024 miaminewtimes.com | browardpalmbeach.com New Times | Contents | Letters | news | night+Day | CuLture | Cafe | MusiC | Boot Camp tank tops and leggings. It’s clear from the six unopened Champagne bottles — all wrapped in pink, all bearing the Bottle Service Boot Camp logo — that this will be the “hands-on” portion of the course. “When the customer asks for a recom- mendation, I am always, always, always going to steer him away from the tequila and to- ward the Champagne,” Kent explains. “Why? Because a bottle of tequila holds 25 [one- ounce] shots, and a bottle of Champagne is only five or six drinks even though they cost around the same. So I want to fill the glasses to the brim, hand them out to all the ladies in the section, and be mindful that this stuff is expensive, so I need to make sure I don’t spill any of it and use up all of my bottles so I can help the client reach their minimum and also to sell more.” “Look at it this way,” she continues. “If a customer orders a bottle of tequila and they’re just taking shots, it can take them the whole night, and they still might not even fin- ish it. And when they’re not buying bottles, they’re just hogging the table, and that means you and the club are not making any money.” This tip seems important, and I can’t help but join my classmates in scribbling it down, too. “I can listen to you speak all day,” Fatale says as she gazes up at Kent in awe. Over the next few hours, each student re- enacts a bottle service interaction with them playing the bottle service girl and Kent play- ing the client. We must stand beside Kent, re- peat the agreed-upon terms about the minimum spend, go through the menu with her, add up each item (either in our heads or using the calculator app on our phones) to reach the minimum spend, and then steer her as far away from ordering tequila as possible without raising suspicions about our finan- cial motive. “What about Champagne for the ladies?” Caitlyn Rooney, 26, suggests after Kent insists on ordering tequila. “Maybe a brut and a rosé to switch it up? And I’ll bring a pack of water and Red Bulls for the table, too.” The scene is over, and Kent applauds. “See how she recommended two bottles [of Cham- pagne],” she points out to the class. “That was great.” Anyone who’s ever witnessed a bottle pa- rade at a nightclub might think it is pretty straightforward: Light the sparkler, hoist the bottle in the air, and strut to the table while clubgoers stop, stare, and snap photos. It is not as simple as it looks. After one re-enactment in which Kent plays the part of a woman celebrating her en- gagement, I’m enlisted to join Alyssa Cor- rethers’ parade and follow the class to a stockroom filled with parade props, including a sombrero, a life preserver, cowgirl hats, um- brellas, light sabers, and light-up signs. I feel bad for my two classmates who are handed heavy stormtrooper helmets (“This is my least favorite prop,” one of them sighs as she dons it). Two others are given massive golden Champagne bottle holders shaped like ma- chine guns. Another receives an unwieldy poster board that reads “ENGAGED AS FUCK.” I can’t help but feel that I’m getting off easy when I’m handed two sparklers, one for each hand. We are essentially Correthers’ backup dancers, and she goes over the kind of chore- ography she’d like us to perform at the table (a swaying shimmy) and our positions (the back corner for me). On our way out, she lights her sparkler, and we all bring ours to her flame in the bottle-service-girl equivalent of a football huddle. Kent has stressed over and over never to hold a lit sparkler below your head, but as we try to get in formation, I accidentally bring one of my sparklers in close to my chest, brushing its flickering sparks inches from Rooney’s face. “Whoa!” she exclaims. “You al- most burnt my eyebrows off!” I furtively look around to make sure Kent didn’t see. Someone has put on a funky disco beat to make our parade into this bright and empty club less awkward. When we strut to the ta- ble, we’re all wearing big, toothy smiles and swaying our hips. I make sure to keep both my arms locked and the sparklers high above my head as Correthers confirms with the cli- ent that her order is complete. By the ten-sec- ond mark, I glance over at the ENGAGED AS FUCK bottle girl, grateful that I’m not the one who has to hoist a heavy prop. By the 20-sec- ond mark, still undulating and smiling, I’m channeling those dancing Santa toys. Kent is the first to break character, pointing out that the two stormtroopers, who can’t seem to hear the music or see the rest of us, are danc- ing out of sync, á la Katy Perry left shark. “It is too funny!” Kent squeals. Before boot camp is over, each student is required to stand in front of the class, open their bottle of pink-wrapped Champagne, and pour a glass without any fizz or spilling. Per Kent’s instruction, we know never to hold the bottle by the neck and to place our thumb into the punt (the indentation at the bottom of the bottle). The label must be facing out for photos and to appease the liquor reps. Each glass must be filled to the brim. Open each bottle as soon as it arrives at the table so no one can try to return it at the end of the night. When it’s my turn, I fumble, twisting off the cage, alternating between turning clock- wise and counterclockwise. After a dozen or more times in the wrong direction, I manage to loosen the cage but don’t remove it com- pletely, recalling Kent’s anecdote about the time she removed that twisty contraption, placed the bottle down, and had the cork shoot off directly into her eye. I try not to dwell on this thought as I commence to yank on the cork, but I close both eyes just in case and visibly flinch when it pops off. “I defi- nitely jumped, too,” another student shouts out to reassure me. I continue, correctly positioning my thumb and rotating the bottle so the label faces the table. I keep the bottle close to my body, bend down gently to pick up a flute, and lift my right elbow like a lever. An inch of fizz quickly rises in the flute, and I try not to panic. “Stick the rim inside the Champagne,” Kent calls out. Like magic, I put the mouth of the bottle into the drink, and the fizz disap- pears from the flute. I victoriously pour the bubbly mere millimeters south of the brim to a round of applause. I take a bow, but the biggest compliment comes later when we say our goodbyes. Kent gathers us around her and takes a front-facing selfie video. “We’re at the end of day two of Bottle Service Boot Camp,” she says, smiling into the camera, “and let me tell you, all of these girls are ready to work!” [email protected]
