Fight Night at Spiro’s

You’re supposed to eat the potato salad, not throw it at frat boys

Photo by Maxime Gilbert on Unsplash

Spiro’s Tavern was right across from Georgia Tech. It wasn’t a dive, and we tried to keep things respectable. The manager was a huge Greek named Nick. He stood about 6'3" and about half again as wide as a normal person — he could very much keep the frat boys in line. His very Greek temper and personal space meant he could be four inches away from you, waving his hands as he yelled. Partially because of Nick and partially because the rugby team had adopted us, we tended not to have a problem with the riff-raff. The really bad frats just went elsewhere. Oddly, no one ever got fired. They just went running out the door in tears after Nick loudly detailed their faults, asking, “Why do I pay you?”

I was one of two assistant managers, I primarily did all the cooking, but if Nick wasn’t there, I was responsible for dealing with anything else, keeping the servers on track. I was only 17, but no one but Nick knew that.

The waitress that night was Kathy. She was a very strange person who ran around muttering curses in Italian and German. We’d go out drinking after work, no one cards you when you hit the bar at 2 AM, at least not in 1978. She’d often invite eight or so men, flirt with all of them, slept with none of them. Ever. We’d go flying through downtown Atlanta, gleefully blowing off red lights in her VW Beetle. But she was my friend and had somewhat adopted me in a big sister sort of way.

It was about midnight, and things were winding down. The only customers left in the place were two football players sitting on the other side of the U-shaped bar, and six frat boys, along with some of their girlfriends, at a table. There had been some smack talking between them, but I wasn’t thinking much of it.

I’m cleaning up the hot side of the kitchen, scraping the grill, when Kathy screams. Just past the short side of the bar are a few tables, and there’s a brawl going on between the frat boys and the two football players. I’m scrawny, 5"11", maybe 155 pounds. They’re tearing up MY restaurant!

I ran into the back, yelling as I went. Just as I get into the pile, a rational thought crosses my mind. All of these people are bigger than I am. And there are eight of them. This doesn’t seem smart.

But shit has to get sorted out, so I discard the rational thought and dive in, yelling “Break it up!”, pulling them out of the melee, avoiding punches. The only thing that really saved me was that I was the only one who wasn’t drunk.

Finally, they’re all separated. There’s a narrow stretch between the side of the bar and the bathrooms where only one person can pass. I’ve got the football players in front of me, the frat boys behind. I’m still yelling at them to get out, and then the frat boy behind me starts mouthing off.

The football player in front of me whirls. I see a fist headed directly for my face, so I just go straight down. He then breaks the nose of the mouthy frat boy, who is now clutching his face, blood everywhere. I manage to duck out, yelling for Kathy to call the cops.

At the mention of cops, the football players vacate. We threw the frat boys and their girlfriends out, locked the door, shaking from adrenaline.

We finished cleaning up, took Nick the money, and hit the bar — we ordered a pitcher, drank that, and ordered another. I hit the sack about 5, got up at ten, then went and opened the restaurant.

Note: I was inspired to write this story down by reading LostFractal’s much more epic story — I Chased Him Away With A Bat. Alaska Taught Me Action First, Clothing… | by LostFractal | Shaped Souls | Jun, 2026 | Medium