The secrets behind the stock market

“I want to be rich,” said one of our regulars at the restaurant while sipping his margarita. No arguments there…can’t think of too many people who would object to that.

“I’ve been thinking of a method to become rich.”

“And…?”

“First I thought about playing the market. But the problem is that you need too much money to get something out of it.”

“The stock market only works if you have enough capital to begin with,” I said echoing his comments.

“Then I thought about setting up an import-export trading company…bring something unique to Japan.”

“That sounds like a lot of work, and no promise of becoming rich.” “How about moving drugs?” I added half-jokingly.

“That wouldn’t be so bad…but the risk.”

I finish making the mojitos for table nine and run out to deliver them. When I come back, I hear a new idea for amassing vast amounts of money.

“I’ve been thinking of opening a bar that caters to stock traders. Something swanky where they come unwind at the end of the day. Then, I’d wire the place with hidden microphones, record their conversations and pick up some insider knowledge. Even if I have little capital, armed with their tips, I could still make the market work my way.”

Setting aside the questionable ethics behind the scheme, I can’t help but smile inside my head.

At the restaurant we get a fair amount of customers who work in finance and who come unwind at the end of their day. And, having spent months catching bits and pieces of their conversations in between making drinks, I think he’d be thoroughly disappointed at the recordings he would make.

Take for instance this exchange that recently happened between P, one of the other waiters, and a group of traders when I was behind the bar listening to the conversation.

“Do you have any dishes you recommend?”

“Absolutely, the cochinita pibil is amazing. Slowly baked pork inside a banana leaf, served with pickled red onions, tortillas, beans and a spicy habanero sauce.”

The group orders the dish, gets hammered on margaritas and mostly talk about TV shows, movies and the nightclub where they’ll head after the meal.

Towards the end P starts clearing up the table.

“That pork dish you recommended was amazi…”

One of the girls in the group interrupts.

“Pork? I thought we were eating pig!”

Both Paul and I consume all the energy left in our bodies at the end of a double shift not to burst into laughter.

I look at our regular finishing his margarita and entertaining the thoughts of eavesdropping on traders. If he only knew that they are like most people — they talk office gossip, relationships, family, sports and sometimes they bring their dates and look as nervous as any of us.

I have yet to hear discussions of a secret deal in the making over margaritas.

But, just in case, I’ll keep my ears open.