The Transient Bartender, 1

"Yeah, but it’s the endearing kind” commented another bartender in reference to my awkwardness with slinging $12/glass wine to some dudebro who couldn’t tell the difference between a Puligny-Montrachet and the big bottle of Woodbridge (BUT IT’s FROM Robert Mondavi) or the finest that Franzia has to offer. There are so many types of customers out there, and yes, we do judge you on sight for a number of subtle and not so subtle cues. I think one of the most distinguishing characteristics and the one that drives the service provided the most is whether you can look at me and see a person or simply see the divide between you and some –OH groups (or your favorite pharmacist, whatever…I don’t know). The thing is though that I love customers, I need them. It’s this weird and at times dissonant, perfect, lousy, incredible, or normal interaction. Were we born for each other? You need a drink and I need to pour them. I’ve noticed in life that when I’m not bartending, I’m drinking more. I suppose my muscle memory is good for drumming, studying bacteria, and pouring drinks. I’m not sure what the proper priority is, but perhaps it is always evolving. All I know is that I’ve tried to hang up the blacks (the ubiquitous FOH uniform) on a few occasions now so I can get a real job and be a productive member of society. That’s what my family has stressed and to many points, I’ve drank the kool-aid, but I always find a way or make excuses to work in the restaurant. It’s in my blood now and I can’t stop. Fridays and Saturdays have become my game day. That big meeting you have on Monday? Yeah, that’s my bloody Sabbath. The people, my friends behind the bar, have stories, man do we have stories. And they’re good. They’re visceral. They speak to the working person's human nature. We work hard, very hard at times. We party hard, very hard at times. Some of us are students, in it for the money (and it’s pretty good). Some of us are in it because it’s a job (diapers need to be bought and babysitters paid). Some of us are in it because we can’t quit it. Those are the interesting ones. We are the interesting ones.

Right now, I’m working at a wine bar in a rich suburb of Rochester, NY. It’s good money, but I’m leaving all that soon. My current job is slinging drinks to yuppies and trolling 50-somethings. I guess this whole post is my apology (in the Socratic definition) for living the transient life. I always want to improve. I always want to be better then I am. I love my job and I love the people I work with. We’ve been in the trenches together for almost a year now, fighting the good fight or whatever. This came after I quit/was fired from the most dynamic, shitty, and wonderful restaurant I’ve ever stepped foot in. God I miss the highs from that place. I sort of understand drug addicts. At least I get paid for my high. Upward and onward though. I used to manage a bar and now I’m desperately hoping to get a bar-back position. It’s not because I suck or am middling in the mediocrity. You have got to see this place. I want to work with proven and the highest of caliber “mixologist” (I hate that word, but it seems appropriate). I just want to learn so I can quit all this working-for-other-people business and open my own place with some partners in Brooklyn. BK is like mecca for culinary creativity and next-level bartending.

I’m related to the Kennedys (god I can’t believe it took so long for that to come out- my hubris may be my undoing, but you’re probably not related to them….so there) and I, therefore, play golf. I’ve heard that golf is a metaphor for life, but I think that it’s more a metaphor for the service industry. It’s the good shots that always make you come back. It’s the customer that left, more then satisfied. It’s that feeling at the end of the night when you are counting out your drawer and see your sales for the night. It’s the deuce at table 4 or at the corner of the bar that are on their 2nd date and they leave knowing that there will be a 3rd. It’s when your parents forsake their regular place of 30 years for their anniversary dinner and come to your place. It’s when the head chef of a place that you’ve worked at for only a month does everything in his power to ensure that the parents didn’t make a mistake. (They loved it, Mom cried). It’s the camaraderie between the staff. When shit clicks, a restaurant can do anything. That’s my drug of choice.

I’m thinking about the proper way to conclude this, but I’m coming up with nothing except that it’s ten am on a Monday and I’m drinking a martini while listening to Astrud Gilberto records. Sounds better than your Monday.

B.