Tuesday afternoon was my first time at your fine establishment. What a phenomenal space! What a great courtyard! What stunningly inept, slow, and amateur bar service!

At almost any given point, there were no less than five people behind your bar during the course of our afternoon there. Yet somehow, every attempt to get a drink took no less than 20 minutes at minimum to obtain, during an ostensible “Happy Hour.”

At first it was funny—various members of our party would stroll off toward the porch to get a drink…and take a long while to come back. And then a longer while… And still longer. And they each came out looking more haggard. But it was still funny: “I’m going in! Wish me luck! Ha ha!”

However, as the sunlight of a beautiful spring day (half the reason we were there, to enjoy the company of friends in a stunning courtyard) began to be wasted, as conversations become halting and members of our group began to drift away in frustration, the humor disappeared.

(At first we though it was class-related—we’re 20-somethings, and there was a row of late middle-aged bejowled men in stunningly conservative blue suits lining the bar inside—but a conversation with one revealed that they weren’t having much luck either, and suffered even more from the Pac-Man-like maze hunt that was finding your bathroom.)

But every bar has an off night. Every restaurant runs into a jam at the credit card reader occasionally. I understand, and would never hold that against the restaurant or my server. If you’re rushed and hustling, I’m not going to assume it’s your fault. I can and do wait patiently.

But the final straw was when I placed my last order—a Stella Artois, a specialty Martini, and the request to close out my tab—and got to watch the disaster that was the Post Moderne Brasserie bartending staff in action. It took almost 10 minutes for the Stella to arrive—10 minutes to open a bottle in a fridge I could see from where I stood!—and worse yet, the Martini did not arrive with it. Nor did my server then go to mix the Martini. No, she went on to serve other people (who, to be fair, were all equally as desperate to get out of this horrifying restaurant Purgatory) before finally, a good 20 minutes later, returning with my drink.

Who does this? Who splits up a drink order? It makes no sense. Serve each person roughly in the order they arrive if possible, fill their whole order, and get them away from the bar happy, so you can devote your attention to the next customer. Don’t trap him there while you badly multitask and teach him to resent you!

Not to mention I still had to wait over 10 minutes more for my credit card. (In retrospect, my first mistake was not loading up on small bills before I went out. My second mistake was actually offering up my credit card too early (or at all), thus making myself a hostage. Otherwise I could have—the first time in my life I’ve ever even considered it—dined and dashed, or at least bartered for a discount from the criminal $18.57—for a single beer and a single adequate drink—on account of pain and suffering.)

Here’s a tip any manager could suggest. Next time, have one server handle restaurant orders, one handle the inside bar, and one the porch and courtyard. If necessary, have a fourth to pick up any slack (maybe a fifth if the restaurant volume is high). And make sure the drinks in any one order arrive somewhat simultaneously. Give your staff that tip, and I’ll actually leave one behind…in cash, rather than the note I scrawled on my credit card receipt (another first in my life): “I WANT THE LAST 1/2 HOUR OF MY LIFE BACK.”

(Or, to put it in another perspective, it just occurred to me that my drive from Baltimore to D.C. during rush hour to get to your bar took less time than it did for your bar to then serve me and settle up.)

By the way, we ended up at Zaytinya—equally as stylish, with equally nice drinks, better food (olive oil ice cream!), and prompt, efficient service.

But don’t worry, we’ll be back. Your courtyard was too stunning and the May afternoon too memory-making to resist. So please say “Hi” to us next time you see us, Poste Moderne Brasserie. We’ll be the well-dressed 20-somethings in your courtyard chatting happily away as we sip from 40s in paper sacks and thermoses full of gin & tonics and homemade mojitos. No need to take our order; we’ll come for the atmosphere and the wicker, but we’ll be serving ourselves from now on.