Welcome to Eater's latest feature, Shit People Steal, in which we ask restaurateurs what items in their restaurant have been (or are frequently) stolen.
First up on Shit People Steal, Brian Butler, GM over at A-Frame in Culver City, discusses a recent loss:
"The crowd was thick on this Saturday night right after we had our grand opening and there was a little celebratory air due the fact that we had done so well right out of the gates. Sean Knibb, a fan of the drink as well as our interior architect, was hanging out by the fire pit on this balmy evening when said asshole and 4 friends arrived looking for the new hip place to show off their affliction shirts and well slicked hair. Shouts of 'Hey bro, lemme get a vokka soda- NFL' at the bar made their entrance even more amusing than their visage alone. (By the way I guess that means 'No Fucking Lime' in date raper lingo). After migrating to the outside fire pit and giving whatever inflated self introduction they had to spare, our poor friend Sean figured that a nice gesture and welcome for such a group of twats would be to share a drink with them. Fitting of our communal environment, Sean came in and asked me for a punch bowl of whatever concoction I had created for that evening, and I enthusiastically accepted. So enthusiastically that I decided to make one in our newly purchased $200 antique punch bowl.
It made sense at the time being that Sean had done so much to make this place what it is and I wanted to give him the best that I could. So the glorious century old porcelain and gold leaf bowl filled with Cognac, Whiskey, Rum, citrus, tea and Prosecco was sent to its first and last A-Frame gathering. Upon its arrival Sean ladled out equal portions around the blaze and attempted to enjoy a new meeting with these interesting visitors. That lasted all of five minutes until he became increasingly annoyed and came inside to escape their ridiculousness. A retreat not misguided by any means. After a short while, the kitchen closed and as the number of people dwindled I decided to make a round to see how everyone was holding up. I shook a few hands, smiled and thanked and then I got to the fire pit. There was nobody there. I sighed a bit of relief not to see the glistening of groomed chest hair surrounding my fire. That was until I noticed the scattered remnants of a shared good time provided by a large, frosty beverage. I saw the small tea cup looking glasses. I saw the shimmering remnants of drunken ladle splashes. I saw a mound of clear block ice resting amongst the shrubbery that has since been titled by Sean 'the urban garden.' I did not, however see our prized flea-market-find of a punch bowl. I didn't need to run to the kitchen to see if it was being rinsed. I didn't need to asked the bar if it had been returned. I knew this outcome. My heart sank as the thought of our bar centerpiece crossed my mind. Tomorrow night, I thought, it will be wielding a giant Jager shot or perhaps some Keystone light at its new liberator's pad somewhere in the valley. Goodbye sweet punch bowl."
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