What are you reading?

Since this post is being written on the Fourth of July your friendly bartender wishes you all lots of sunshine, lots of moonshine (if you’re imbibing deep in the Ozarks) and lots of good-natured monkeyshines all through your day. Cheers!

And now the post…

If there’s one thing I enjoy seeing on the bar it’s a book that is lying face down next to a customer. It’s not only a great conversation starter as that book represents a topic the customer is familiar with, but that book (if you’ll excuse the pun) can speak volumes. If it’s a trade book it speaks of his career path, if it’s a bio it speaks of his heroes, if it’s on politics it speaks of his leanings, if it’s on humor it could speak to his level of sophistication and if it happens to be a classic… a stalwart from the world of literature… well, it clearly speaks of a guy who doesn’t light farts.

But either way and any way I’ve never had a customer turn over his book where a stimulating conversation did not ensue. And sometimes (but very rarely) I not only get to learn from that book but to teach it… like I did in this conversation of three weeks ago.

“Do you mind if I ask what you’re reading?” I asked, of the man in his early twenties sipping on a single malt. It was Balvenie, as I recall, with a water back.

“Not at all,” he replied with pride, then he turned over his book which was  “Slaughterhouse-Five”. Now I’m already impressed on two levels with this guy, first because of his drink selection (when I was his age I drank Iron City beer in my hometown of Pittsburgh and the only malt that I knew was served by a soda jerk) and second because of his wonderful choice of authors. I love Kurt Vonnegut, been a fan of the man for years, and was actually saddened by his passing in 2007. There was no voice like his.

“Have you read him before?” I continued.

“No, this is my first,” he said, and by the looks of where the book marker was (I’m guessing around page thirty) this kid truly was a virgin in all things Vonnegut. Which of course then got me to launch into all things Vonnegut.  And by the time I had finished… having touted all of his works, especially “Breakfast of Champions”, one of the funniest, most bizarre satires ever written… I’d not only assured Balvenie that he had made a wise book selection but had qualified (I think) for a stake in all future Vonnegut sales.

But what made this exchange even more poignant and why I cite it here as my prime book conversation, is because on the subject of Kurt Vonnegut I hit the jackpot. I had a personal story to add about the author.

In a bar where I used to work where I did the day shift, Kurt Vonnegut was a regular lunch customer and always came in alone with a book and a scowl. The man never said hello, he just passed with his eyes dead ahead to his booth and his soup. And what I perceived after almost a year of this to be aloofness and just plain coldness, one day proved to be shyness and profound humility. On the day that I came to this fortunate conclusion he had come in with Allen Ginsberg, the late and famous beat poet, and as they passed the bar Mr. Vonnegut stopped and gave me a first-time smile, then he pointed to Mr. Ginsberg and said, “Today we have a celebrity in our midst.”

Damn, I thought… and then damn I couldn’t resist…

“Mr. Vonnegut,” I replied, “every day that you’re here we have a celebrity.” The man blushed and dropped his head, he grabbed Mr. Ginsberg’s arm and guided him to his table. And from that day forward, whenever the great Kurt Vonnegut would walk by the bar with his book and his scowl, he’d always break that scowl and give me a smile. Shyness… humility… and just as in his writing… plain old decency!

Yes, a book in a bar can lead many places which your friendly bartender has illustrated, and which also gets gets your friendly bartender to thinking. He’s thinking, what are you reading, dear reader, as we speak?  What is taking up your valuable time of  perusal? Is it “summer reading” or what they call a “beach read”? Is it a thriller, a bio, or maybe a comedy? If you decide to leave a comment this week (and of course I hope that you do) how about throwing your book onto my bar. Tell us what you happen to be reading at present and if it doesn’t start a conversation it can at least give us a title to add to our lists. Whaddaya’ think?

And as for me and what I’m reading? In addition to “The Most of P.G. Wodehouse” which I dip into once a month just to smile and experience pure genius in turning a phrase, I’ve just started “The Young Wan” by the wonderful Irish comedian and writer, Brendan O’ Carroll. He also wrote “The Mammy”… the story of Agnes Browne which was made into a movie starring Angelica Huston. The guy can put a tear in my eye faster than peeled onions.

I’m also reading The Steeler’s Digest which I only mention so you don’t think I’ve gone too soft.

Until next week-end… over and out from Bar-land and Happy Fourth!

Out of the mouths of babes…

Caution: This post is Rated “R” for Adult Language. (And for stuff in genera!)

This week your friendly bartender (after wisely chucking the concept of doing a blog about nine grain bread vs. seven grain bread, and the moral implications therein) has decided instead to fashion a blog about “babes”. And not those babes in the woods, mind you, or the famous Babes in Toyland, but rather those babes in Bar-land who serve you your drinks. You know, those Xena’s of the cocktail battlefield who charge each night through crowds of patrons balancing their trays on high, with a smile, a load of finesse and the patience of Job. These women are acrobats, they are actors, and in stating their case they can swear like a bunch of truck drivers.

And so I advise you as well as caution you… if you ever want to get a good read, dear reader, while sitting in a crowded bar, as to who’s doing what and what the hell’s going on, I suggest you grab a seat at the bar as close as you can to the waitress station… that tiny, two-foot chunk of mahogany usually down at the end where they order and vent… and hang on! The experience can be enlightening, perhaps hilarious, and often an “R” rated event which you shall see. Their jobs are loaded with pressure, and pressure as well know makes the tea kettle whistle.

But what makes it (for me) even more enjoyable when I’m not your friendly bartender but rather your friendly customer sitting at one of those stations, is to check out those often sweet faces emitting those blue streaks. To better get what I mean on this score, use your imagination right now and place a cherubic face to a few of these quotes…

“If that son-of-a-bitch on Six (table Six) puts his arm around my waist one more time, I swear to God he’s wearing his next fucking drink!”

“Do you believe this asshole on on Four? He actually said, ‘And my father will have…’.

“Honey, do me a massive. Take over table Two for me, pah-leeeeese? I can’t deal with this jerk anymore. He smells like that hippie musk shit and he mumbles through his beard where I can’t hear a goddam word. Just tell him I’m on my break or I fucking died!”

“These women on Twelve are driving me up a wall. If they ask for one more olive I’m charging for a fucking salad.”

“That bastard on Three sucking face is fucking married. Do you believe that shit? I’d love to tell him his wife’s on the phone but he tips like an ATM.”

“That asshole on Nine just farted.”

“Shit… check out table Five. The man has got to be gay, he’s way too good looking!”

“Who the fuck orders McCallum 12 with coke?”

“Jesus, how about that women’s laugh over on Eight? Her poor goddam husband, she sounds like she swallowed a Myna bird. (sotto voce) F-u-c-k.”

“See that guy near Ten leaning against the wall? That three hundred pound sausage packed in Armani? The stupid bastard just stepped on my fucking toe. “

“That guy on Seven just asked if I fucking Feng Shui. What does that even mean?”

“Aw, man, just shoot me. That olive garden on Twelve wants to pay with six separate credit cards. The bitches!!!”

And all of these from the mouths of babes who look more apt to be caroling or reading from a hymnal. God bless every one of them.

Ah, but when the tray is filled and the drinks are ready and their frowns are once again smiles, these Xena’s make ready for one more charge into the fray. What was said at the bar is now in the past and all that you see are these pros who are doing their jobs. They are smiling, they are teasing, they are playing the roles their customers have come to expect. Which is where the acting comes in I referred to earlier. Yes some of these women can play their roles better than members of S.A.G., which got your friendly bartender to thinking.

Since there’s already the Oscar for actors in film, the Emmy for television thesps, and the Tony and Obie for those who tread the boards, why not come up with an award for these actors in Bar-land? Something like the Sammi Award… the Serving Assholes Makes Me Ill Award.

Or if that doesn’t do it (which it probably doesn’t) why not come up with your own and leave it in Comments? It might be fun.  And it might be something you can bestow on your waitress the next time she serves you a drink. You know, you can shake you head and say with a smile, “For what you do you oughta’ get a “- – -” Award. Give it a shot.

And then order a shot and see if it’s on the house.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!

Here’s to you, Big Gene…

I’m sure you’ve heard this saying before, “He learned most of what he knows at the knee of his father.” Well, when it comes to what your friendly bartender knows about working behind the stick, not about how to make drinks but how to be professional, he learned at the shoulder of his friend and colleague Big Gene. And he uses the word “shoulder” in this case because that’s where his eyes met the man… at his shoulder. Big Gene was a mountain of a man and in more ways than one.

Now to set the physical picture into frame so you can see this man as you read this, if Gene had gone into acting (and believe me he would’ve been great at it) he’d have invariably been cast as the mayor of a town or its bishop. Or Santa in “Miracle on 34th Street” sporting his mop of silver-grey hair, his set of plump rosy cheeks, his beatific grin that beamed from here to Ireland, and his big round belly that shook when he laughed indeed “like a bowlful of jelly”… Gene was the quintessential everybody’s favorite uncle.

And I say “was” because sadly Big Gene is gone now.

But this being Father’s Day and all… Gene was a father of nine and a friend to hundreds… I thought it appropriate to honor this (to me) father figure. For that’s how close we were at one time and that’s how much of an impact he had on my bartending life. Oh, it took a while to sink in to be sure… this Gene stuff and all of its value… but now that I finally got it I’ll never lose it. And sadly I got it long after he’d passed away.

See what I learned from Big Gene is the simple fact that bartending isn’t that simple… it’s more than just pouring some drinks and banging a register… he taught me that what we do really is a profession. And as in all professions both large and small there’s always a right way to do things, and Gene did all the right things and a whole lot more. It’s a job about dealing with people, he taught me, and making them all feel better… the gig is a party and you’re the genial host. For any bartender can pour out the spirits but a Big Gene can lift the spirit that lives within.

Back when I followed Big Gene on my shift, as he worked the days and I nights, I was strictly what you’d call an arms-folded, clock-watching, here’s-yer’-drink’, semi-grumpy, New York bartender. Or what some might even call a pain in the ass. And if someone were to ask what I did for a living when I wasn’t behind the stick, I would always say something like, “Right now I’m just tending bar.” You know, like I was above tending bar and on my way to bigger things. And if that someone were to probe even further… as to who and what I was beyond the stick… I would smartly respond, “Oh, see… I’m really a writer!” Then I’d quick change the subject before I was asked what I write.

How sad, looking back, and how silly, how “who the hell did I ever think that I was?” For boxes of unfinished stories do not a writer make, and tending a bar does not a loser make. And there truly are no small jobs to be done as the saying so rightly goes, just small people out there doing those jobs and I for the longest time was one of those people. Yet here was Big Gene the bartender’s bartender, and proud as a peacock to be so, his colorful feathers not something to hide but an attraction. And his following was legend. When people walked into the bar when he was on duty, and I swear this is true because I’d been his customer many times, those people were smiling before they even ordered their drinks.

“What a nice surprise,” was one of his favorite greetings… a simple, welcome mat of words that always worked.  In fact, you could see it in the customer’s eyes that it worked... Big Gene’s on duty, everything’s gonna be fine… The world’s a better place, I’m here with Big Gene. And believe me I’m not exaggerating that fact, the man was more of a draw than what he was pouring. And as I said, it took his passing for this so-called “writer” to get that.

The day after Gene’s sudden passing (the result of a massive heart attack) because much of his clientele was derived from the financial world, the news of his death was run across the screens of countless computers in midtown and down on Wall Street, that’s how big he was. And to later see scores of those people come in, tough-as-nails men and women, to pay their respects and to shed a big tear for Big Gene, more than announced how a job “well done” does affect people. It was both tragic and heartwarming.

Now I know I’ll never be a Gene in this racket… no one, of course, ever will… but thanks to this man I’m a little more proud that I try. Tending bar’s now a good thing and not something menial. And if that sounds a little too “taking-myself-seriously”, that was indeed the intent… I’m serious now about doing this thing called bartending… it matters. The whole frigging deal from pour to good-bye, it matters. Just ask all those people who lined up and mourned my friend’s passing.

So in closing, I have this little joke that Gene used to tell. And you should know that when Gene told this silly little joke, or any joke for that matter, because he laughed while telling the joke his belly really did shake “like a bowlful of jelly”.

Here’s the joke…

When this Irish woman comes home after her annual physical, her husband asks, “And how’d it go at the doctor’s, dear?”  “Aw, it went fine,” says she. “But what exactly did he say?”  “Well, if you must know… he says me heart’s fine, me liver’s fine, me lungs are fine, me cholesterol’s fine, and all in all yer’ girl’s as fit as a fiddle.” “But what’d he say about yer’ big fat Irish ass?” says he. “Why, yer’ name never came up, Darlin’,” says she!

Well, I’m bringin’ your name up today, Big Gene, with reverence and a whole lot of gratitude, and with hopes you’re behind the stick up in St. Peter’s Pub.

Over and out from Bar-land… Happy Father’s Day!

In Defense of Bloggers!

At what point does a person strike back, your friendly bartender got to thinking, at what he perceives to be an attack on his reputation? And when is enough “enough!”, he wonders, as he continually watches himself wrongly represented and cruelly painted by the brush of the mainstream media?

Well, according to this blog, now is fucking when, for how many times can a blogger turn the other cheek?

See, since your friendly bartender has taken up blogging he’s noticed how often his ears perk up when he hears the word “blogger” mentioned on TV. Hey, they’re talking about me, he thinks, I’m now one of those guys, I wonder what they have to say about us bloggers? Well here’s what they’ve had to say and too damn often…

“He’s a blogger… you know, some guy in a pair of pajamas sitting in his mother’s basement with a desk, a keyboard and a pot of coffee!” Like we’re a bunch of fucking Bolsheviks waiting for our Lenin. And what the fuck is up with these goddam pajamas? It’s always the pajamas! And the way they say “pajamas”, with that curled up lip and pinched in nose, it always puts a picture in your mind of those nasty, old fashioned, striped monstrosities with stains in the front from too much exuberance and stains in the back from too much coffee not to mention a leather slippers image with the backs of those slippers broken down out of sheer slip-in sloth.

Well YFB takes massive umbrage at this image and here’s why…

On February 21st, when I penned “What are the odds?”, I wore a stunningly chic pair of Bill Blass loungers with gold satin piping on the sleeves and lapels and “YFB” boldly emblazoned on the left breast pocket… a far cry indeed from those old grandpa stripers. And though my slippers did not have backs, that was by design as they were those black, velvet,  Peter Lawford slip-ons which also boasted a nifty “YFB” inlay. And if Cotes Du Rhone ‘99 can be called a cup of black coffee, I beg to differ with you!

And also looking back to a day, December 27th to be exact, when I wrote “This one’s on me”, bathed in seasonal cheer and the holiday spirit, I was clad in my crimson-red Santa Claus jammies with the snow-white angora trim, the legs of which slid into like-trimmed black leather booties. And if Bailey’s Irish Cream mocha garnished with cinnamon sticks and marshmallows is anything close to a cup of black fucking Maxwell House, I’ll eat my Santa hat!

And on March 28th, feeling quite bold and tres outdoorsy as I tried to convey the perilous “Pheasant under ass!”, Ralph Lauren’s line was dragged into service where a knee-length, Khaki-colored safari affair more than fit the bill and the prevailing mood. Even the go-with slippers… what one might rightly call an indoor desert boot… possessed a certain, “Where the fuck is my spear?” And if squirting hearty burgundy down my throat from the belly of a goatskin bota bag is anything remotely akin to sipping stale Yuban, I’ll fall on that spear!

And though I’m loathe to share this last one (yet ever mindful that “transparency” is the watchword in blogging), on January 11th, when I  tip-toed into what I humbly call an online attempt at poesy with “Rhyme and Punishment”, realizing that working with Erato would involve a submergence ever so deep into my feminine side, a pink, satin, backless penoir was slid into rather reluctantly along with some backless high-heeled slippers, each of which sported a white fur ball at the toe. And the tart Moet mimosa I sipped made the concept of a cup of Taster’s Choice (how you say?) yucky!!!

And there you have it, dear reader, those are just four examples I’ll use to state my rebellious case, as there exists an example for all of my blogs to which none is attached black coffee or striped fucking PJ’s. And as far as “sitting in his mother’s basement”, as those pundits are wont to say, I’ll have you know that these very words are being typed by your friendly bartender in his lush penthouse aerie on the upper eastside. All right, all right… so it’s a one-bedroom on the top floor of a five-story walk-up… but it’s still on the highest floor and I assure you there isn’t a parent or grandparent nigh.

And one more thing that gets me… every time I… (woops, I just realized Lord and Taylor’s is running a one-day sale on silk smoking jackets… gotta run!!!)

Over and out from “Blog-land”, see ya’ next week-end!

PS: We must never speak of this “penoir” business again.

Bev Naps

No, this isn’t a story about Beverly napping as the title of this blog implies (ya’ big silly!), it’s a riff on beverage napkins or as we call them “bev naps”. Isn’t that clever??? We also use terms like “86″ which means, “Throw that bastard out!” and “up” which means, “no ice in that martini”. But those are the subjects for blogs down the road and this, as I said, is a riff about cute little bev naps. So here goes.

Sorting out dozens of notes the other day which were written on these things called bev naps, your friendly bartender was particularly taken by one that pointedly stated, “Blog about bev naps”. Huh? That’s like tying a string around your finger to remind you to go buy string…then standing there saying, “What the hell is this string for?”

Hmmm, why indeed did I write this? YFB continued to ponder, staring at that little white square with the shaky inscription (things often occur when I’m heavily cocktailed) and mulling over the reason for this “bev nap” on bev nap.

Then suddenly the reason occurred and here is that reason…

When not kicking around the meaning of life and the role that corduroy pants might seem to play in it, your friendly bartender has long been fascinated by all the correspondence that has occurred on bev naps. You know, those millions and millions of thoughts and notes… reminders, requests and game plans… recorded in darkened bars during moments of enlightenment.

Why there’s the TV programming  executive, after two martinis and a thirteen share in the overnights, woefully changing her Tuesday night line-up on a bev nap. There’s the wide-eyed junior copywriter, filled with Jack Daniels and hope, scribbling what he hopes is the next big Bud Light ad slogan. There’s the Cosmo-sipping party girl who just flew in from Chicago, submitting 0n her bev nap a request for a song to the guy who’s playing the piano, and adding below “Piano Man” slyly her phone number.

And there’s the Bushmill’s-downing, unpublished poet requesting a whole stack of bev naps, as his muse and the booze tell him this is the one that’ll do it. And there’s the office manager with the furrowed brow who’s faced with the task of downsizing, sliding his bev nap from under his Dewar’s to jot down the tentative names of those facing dismissal. And last but not least there’s the motivational speaker, nursing her white wine spritzer, writing down a joke she’s just remembered to kick off tomorrow’s speech on starting your own business. And there are millions more of these thoughts and ought-to’s written on those little white squares, then folded into pockets and purses to be pressed into memory.

But the point of this blog is to announce its demise… this recording on Bar-land stationery… for it’s all done now by a thumb on a new-fangled gadget. You know… the iPhone and BlackBerry,  maybe the Gooseberry, or whatever the hell those toys are everyone employs. And though your friendly bartender totally understands the beauty of these toys and their worth… their place in the modern world of instant everything… and he hails them as one more step towards “we’re all connected”, he still finds them far less romantic and surely less personal.

For there’s something about letters formed with the hand in the crawl of the human scrawl, and the revelatory hints therein as to slant and firmness, that possibly say even more than the words that are written. It’s like the difference between getting an autographed copy of a novel signed by the author sitting in front of you, or getting a printed inscription already in the book. No comparison. No contact!

And these gadgets have not only taken their toll on the transfer of words that are written, they’ve taken a major bite out of words that are spoken. Let me explain. See your friendly bartender is not “Chatty Cathy” when it comes to engaging a customer, he picks his shots and talks where he feels it is needed. But he’d at least like to get a verbal response when he asks a fucking customer, “What’ll ya’ have, pal?” Because too many times there are too many people buried in those little machines, where you almost have to shake them to bring them out of it. Yes sometimes I feel like Test Monitor Guy presiding over a room full of students, where I want to yell, “All right, students, thumbs down!” For it’s thrown off the whole dynamic of Bar-land.. people don’t talk, they text, or play fucking poker or watch a goddam porno movie.

Oh well, I guess what I’m really saying is… I love those little bev nap thoughts, especially the ones you’ve written yourself ’cause you never know what the hell you’re going to find there. For example, check out this (pearl) I unearthed the other day amidst that pile which contained the “Write about bev naps” thing. It said, “Do a thing about commas… like don’t forget how important they are in a sentence. Cause if you leave out the comma in, “God am I a boob, man,” you’re now saying “God am I a boob man!” Or… “Boy am I an ass, man,” becomes “Boy am I an ass man!” Write it, man!. Or how about this little gem in the rubble (or rubble amidst the gems)… “He was heavily decorated during the Viet Nam war, you know… costume jewelry, rouge, this type of thing.” Text that!

Over and out from Bar-lad, see ya’ next week-end!

God bless you… God damn you!

Tropical drinks aren’t a staple in the place where your friendly bartender tends, and in point of fact they’re not even on the radar. For one sweeping look at the classic decor with its rich dark wood and wall-to-wall sports and boxing memorabilia, a customer simply isn’t moved to go all “luau”. (Even on nights when I don that sleek sarong!) But if we did happen to feature those Mai Tai drinks, those Coco Loco’s, et al, and we had in stock an ample supply of those little paper umbrellas that go in those drinks, this past Tuesday night your friendly bartender would’ve passed out those paper umbrellas to everyone at the bar. And not to decorate their drinks, dear reader, as rightly you might surmise, but to protect them from the non-stop sneezer who was absolutely “mist”-ifying!

Are any of you familiar with this what some out there in Bar-land have called “the whiskey sneezes”? Yes? No? This thing where a guy who’s sitting at the bar (it’s almost always a guy) suddenly erupts into a series of explosions spraying the proceedings which he can’t stop for love or money. And I mean that phrase literally. For if you offered this guy a thousand bucks or a date with the woman to his left if she were willing… this goddess who’s a mere eleven on a scale of ten… much as he’d give his right arm to stop he couldn’t. And, alas, your friendly bartender couldn’t stop him either. And YFB stops stuff.

He stops the hiccups with a mix of bitters, sugar and lemon. He stops an upset stomach with a healthy shot of Fernet-Branca. And if he’s lucky and the over-served customer happens to be willing, he can even stop a staggering mumbler from staggering and mumbling with a pot of hot black coffee.  But with a whiskey sneezer there is no stopping and he just has to step away and hope that it ends. Like when the naked guy on the street approaches spouting his non-stop obscenities and parts of the New Testament… you give the fucker room and hope that he stops!

Personally I’ve never had “the sneezes”, (I irritate in other ways), and none of my very best friends have had them either. But some of my very best customers have and I have to say it’s really a pain in the ass! And quite frankly, bizarre!

It usually occurs… this thing which can turn an itty bitty man into mighty Mt. fucking Etna… oddly and always after a sip of fine whiskey.  Ergo the “whiskey sneezes”. But I’ve also seen this occur on a good red wine. (”Wine sneezes, anyone?”) And your friendly bartender doesn’t know why, (he’s a bartender for God sakes, Captain, not a scientist!!!) and would like to get a handle on this phenomenon. For why really does a civilized person ordering a civilized drink… and who’s not, as history has shown, allergic to alcohol… suddenly launch into 30 or 40 eruptions? It boggles and baffles.

But one I thing I do know and this you can take to the bank… shortly after that very first sneeze and the subsequent and heartfelt blessings from those around him, “God bless you!” becomes “God damn you!!!” after sneeze number six. For this man has not only ruined the bar as a line-up of people with their palms over their glasses will attest, but he’s scared the shit out of those who’ve just walked in. Possible and raging flu symptoms kinda scare people.

And on a personal note, with regards to your friendly bartender’s all important tip cup, he’s lost his share of customers due to these monsoons. Yes, on more than a few occasions, more than a few of his loyal bar diners have folded their menus and asked to be moved to dry land. Real dry land like a table on the second floor! And as much as that pisses him off as he watches this exodus, your friendly bartender certainly can’t blame these people.

And now to the point of this post which is more than just bitching…

See, thanks to a few of my very good blog friends who happen to be in the science community (and you know who you are), I’ve attracted quite a few scientists who come to this blog. (I know, imagine that, me being read by scientists! Me, the guy who in college would run past the science hall for fear his I.Q. was showing, now typing stuff being read by scientists. Talk about boggling and baffling!) But that being said and the accolade humbly placed here, your friendly bartender tenders this most obvious question. Short of him throwing this guy over his shoulder and carrying him out like a sack of  spasmic amoebae, do any of you aforementioned scientists have a solution to this? Or at least a logical reason why this sneezing occurs? If you do, please feel free to enlighten or in this case rescue. For if your friendly bartender lays his eyes one more rolled-up cocktail napkin desecrating his bar with what’s inside it, a non-scientific approach just might be implemented.

Ah-choo and God bless you!

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!

Can I make a what???

Welcome back, dear reader, now that you’re here the bar is officially open! First let me get your drink out of the way because I’m really anxious to leap into this week’s adventure. Well, “adventure” is probably too strong a word because there isn’t much physical action, not really, just emotional action that could’ve turned physical had your friendly bartender not been a seminar in patience. You take a twist with that scotch, right? I thought so, here you go….

Okay, so anyway, this past Monday night… a night I don’t normally work… this guy saunters in, grabs a stool at the bar and before he says a word slams down his credit card. He’s all by himself and in age maybe twenty five. He’s wearing a tan corduroy blazer over an orange collar-up Polo shirt, his jeans are faded to perfection and he’s sporting the obligatory loafers-no-socks combination. He’s also wearing a self-satisfied grin that announces to the world he is to the manner born. But if these be the props of a station in life then the first words out of his mouth are it’s clear undoing. “Sir,” he asks, “do you know how to make a Manhattan?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, glancing down at his credit card to see if his name isn’t Duncan as in yo-yo? “Did you ask me if I know how to make a Manhattan?” “Yeah,” he says, “you know, a Manhattan!” “Yeah I know a Manhattan and I also know how to make one. Where do you think you are, a truck stop?”

Now before I go any further, dear reader, let’s have this little sidebar to point stuff out. See, I can almost-kinda-perchance, and maybe on a good day, understand a question like this if the guy who’s ordering the drink is maybe fifty five years or older and the guy behind the bar is just a kid… a kid who’s sporting his first goatee which is coming in like he’d just eaten cotton candy… but other than that this question should never be asked. It’s not only a fucking insult it’s bloody absurd. Like asking a dance instructor if he’s heard of the Cha Cha.

And as far as that age thing goes… one clear and discerning look at your most friendly bartender (once you get past his arresting good looks and the stunning ease with which he blankets the mahogany), you could easily detect that he’s been around the block as many times as the earth has orbited the sun. (Remind me to tell you about Tesla some time, him and that damn joy buzzer. And of course the Mae West thing!)

And to further make the case, my friend, as to why this question is beyond any barroom propriety, let’s delve into the matter of degree of difficulty. Because plain and simple, and after years and years of pondering this notion with some of the finest of minds in the mixology industry, it’s been concluded that the Manhattan cocktail is not the Manhattan Project. In other words it’s not the trickiest mix in the witch’s brew. In the bartender’s manual, “Making a proper Manhattan” probably appears on the following page after, “Always remove the cap, future bartenders, when serving a bottle of beer, no matter how sharp the customer’s teeth appear.” End of sidebar!

But all of this matters little to Duncan because even after my “truck stop” line he still doesn’t get it. Indicative of that are these words which I swear he uttered next.  “But do you know how to make a good one?”

(Hold on a second, dear reader, my leg is starting to twitch… I have to leave the keyboard for a minute… I’ll be back!)

Okay, I’m fine now, where was I? Oh yeah. So when I hear this latest from Duncan the yo-yo I swear to Bacchus I actually consider checking his credit card to see if there are any Roman Numerals after his name. You know, to see if he’s a fucking scion or something in some longstanding asshole tradition, because if he is a “II” or a “III”… I might consider eliminating the chance of a “IV”.

“Look, Pal,” I say, rivaling Job in bearing now the unbearable, “trust me, I know how to make a good one. This happens to be a bar, I happen to be a bartender and a Manhattan is not what you’d call high freaking alchemy. Even a good one!” But even that doesn’t make a dent because with people like this the embarrassment gene doesn’t flourish. You want proof? Here’s what he has to say next after all I’ve laid out. “Or should I have a Dewar’s and soda? Which do you make better, Sir, a Manhattan or a Dewar’s and soda?” (Hold down my arms, God, please!!!)

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets where the trembling won’t show. “Let’s assume that every drink I make happens to be a good one. Got that? I make good drinks, all kinds of good drinks, but the only question you need to ask is which of those many good drinks would you like me to make? That’s all there is to it?”

“All right I’ll have a Manhattan,” he says, after enough deliberation to buy a new car. “What kind?” I then ask. “Do you have Maker’s Mark?” “We have Maker’s Mark.” “Then that’s what I’ll have… a Maker’s Mark Manhattan.” Needless to say, I wasn’t busy at the time because god forbid if I was, my otherwise friendly customers would’ve turned into a most unfriendly mob. A mob attacking him!

“By the way,” I then ask Lord Duncan, as I set myself to dive into mixology magic, “would you like that drink on the rocks or straight up?” Oh, on the rocks,” he blithely replies, brimming with self-assuredness, signing the dotted line on his yo-yo membership card. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with a Manhattan on the rocks or even a martini on the rocks, it’s ordered all the time, but if you’re going to make such a big fucking deal and act like the chief connoisseur in all things cocktail, you’re not going to add fucking ice to dilute the experience. Case closed!

But there’s a secondary theme in this story, dear reader… besides the one spotlighting high end ass-holery… and it has to do with the classically traditional cocktail. And that theme is this. Is Bar-land now filled with too many bartenders who spend so much time on their fad-of-the-month drinks that forgotten in the mix are the drinks that have survived for a century? Are most of the “young guns” working behind the stick more about Bar-land gymnastics these days… flipping their bottles, lighting their drinks and moon-walking through their shifts… than they are about preserving the good old, grand old cocktail? Else how could a question like, “Do you know how to make a Manhattan?” be remotely acceptable?

And finally, (my ego prods me), did this guy simply ask this ridiculous question because he somehow thought me also to be a young gun?

Fuck no… Duncan was just a yo-yo.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!

Water, water everywhere…

Welcome back, my favorite barfly, thanks for flying in. How was your trip through cyberspace? “Fast, Scribbler, fast! Like, click-of-a-button fast.” Good, now c’mon down here to the end of the bar, I saved you a seat in the corner where we can talk. “Okay.” The usual? “Yeah, Bombay Sapphire gimlet, straight up.” With two limes, right? “Hey, good memory there, Scribbler, and let me have a glass of water on the side.” {Grrr!}

Hey, sweet Gimlet, wanna play a guessing game while I put your drink together? “Sure, love to.” Okay, here goes. What’s the most common drink your friendly bartender is asked to pour every night? I mean the one liquid he dispenses more than any other? “Hmmm, that’s a tough one. Let me give it some thought, okay?” Sure, let me see what those clowns want down at the end of the bar. I’ll be back.

All right, Gimlet, time’s up. Any ideas? “I have lots of ideas but why don’t you give me a hint?” Okay, I’ll make it a multiple choice. Is it Ketel One and soda with a glass of water on the side? Is it Chardonnay with a glass of water on the side? Is it Tanqueray and tonic with a glass of water on the side? Is it Jack and coke with a glass of water on the side? Is it dirty Grey Goose martini with a glass of water on the side? Is it Pinot Noir with a glass of water on the side? Or is it Dewar’s and soda with a glass of water on the side? Whaddaya’ think, my little Gimlet?

“Scribbler, why do I get the feeling that this is a trick question?” Because it is a trick question, you clever little devil. Oh, then the answer is… ta-da!… a glass of water.” Bingo, Gimlet, well done! It’s that goddam, pain in the ass, ordered for nothing, ubiquitous glass of water!

“Whoa, holy smokes, Scribbler, do I detect a little malice or did you accidentally swallow a bottle of grumpy pills? Don’t you know that water with a drink is a good thing? Health-wise I mean?” Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean it’s still not a pain in the ass. Hey, a guy performing the Heimlich Maneuver is doing a good thing too, but that doesn’t mean he still can’t be thinking, “Damn, my soup is getting cold.” So let me lay this out in a little more detail.

“Okay, but before you do let me have another and make this one a double. And let me have two glasses of water this time.” Sure thing, Gimlet. {Grrr!}

All right, here’s the deal. The glass of water in and of itself is not a big deal, it’s not what you’d call heavy lifting in the workplace. In fact I order it myself when I’m chasing down a stiff Jack Daniels or two. But that’s the point… I actually drink the stuff and put it to use. Nowadays though, like with everything else that crops up in Bar-land, a trend has emerged and it’s the “thing to do” more than it is a healthy drinking exercise. I swear to God, except for your basic beer drinkers who would wet their pants and beds at night if they ordered water with their suds, it seems that every other drinker has water on the side… water they rarely touch and that’s what gets me! See, most of the time it’s nothing but bullshit, woops, sorry about the language there. “That’s okay, Scribbler, {hic!} let ‘er rip.” Okay, so most of the time it’s nothing but bullshit because they rarely touch this water they had to have. And so the ice turns to water, the glass fills up to the brim and then the condensation forms a puddle around the glass. But pick up that glass and try to tidy up and Lance-less Armstrong is sure to say, “Oh, Sir, could you throw a little more ice in that? Thanks!” Sure, no problem, Lance, how ’bout I throw in some Ginko and St. John’s Wort while I’m at it?

Are you starting to see my point, Gimlet? “Ahh, sure, Scribbler… {hic-cup!}… kinda’.” All right then how about this to further make my case. When this “thing” really does become a pain is when you’re slammed two-deep at the bar, ten people come in all at once, and eight out of the ten want that extra glass of water. So now, when time and speed are of the essence, your friendly bartender is asked to pour eighteen frigging drinks instead of ten. See what I mean? And again, obviously not a big deal as far as actual work is concerned, but I guarantee you six of those eight will never touch that water come hell or high water. Let the puddles begin!

All right, all right, I see your point… {hic-cup!}… Scribbler, now I see it more than… {hic!} just kinda’.” Are you all right there, Gimlet? Would you like me to put some bitters and sugar on a lemon for you? It’s foolproof for the hic-cups. “Nah, I’m okay. But let me ask you this question while I’m thinking about it.” Sure… shoot. “Okay, what is the most popular drink you pour that isn’t a glass of water? You’re earlier question pleaked my ’sinterest.” It what? “It peaked my interest.” Oh, I see. Well, besides beer and wine, I’d have to say the most common drink in here is either Ketel One and soda or Grey Goose and soda. But I’ll tell ya’, this dirty martini is slowly takin’ over the world!

Oh yeah? {hic-cup!} Then lemme’ have one of those, Scripper, but this time hold the water if it’ll make you sappy.” Whoa, are you sure about this, Gimlet, you really want a dirty martini at this point? I don’t want you getting too loaded over there, you gotta get back through cyberspace, remember? “I know, I know, I’ll be frine.”

O-k-a-a-a-a-y-y-y, but if I make it, will you promise to let me call you a techie to help you get yourself back? “Sure, is he cute?” (Grrrrr!!!!)

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!

PS: I’m just waiting for the guy, and believe me he’s out there, who orders a bottle of Perrier with a water on the side. He’ll get his freaking water all right… from a hose!!!

Stinko de Mayo

Now I don’t know much about “acid flashback” (unless acid reflux counts), but I do have a working knowledge of “tequila flashback”. Yes this past Tuesday night, on Cinco de Mayo, while the rest of the country was busy trying to be Mexican… dancing to the strains of Mariachi gaiety sucking down agave extract in all its concoctions… your friendly bartender was quivering in a corner locked in deadly combat with tequila demons past. (All right, I exaggerated a little so let me rephrase that.) Your friendly bartender was sitting at the bar, sipping his Jack Daniels rocks, cringing while recalling his first trip south of the border. There, that’s better!

Time: May 5th, in the year of our Lord… nineteen a whole long time ago.

Place: Ensenada, Mexico.

“I’ll have a double margarita,” I said, after my buddy had wisely ordered a Dos Equis beer. This friend was a native Californian, an older colleague from work, and wise (to be sure) as to all things Mexican and Mexico. I on the other hand was six months from Pittsburgh and as savvy in these parts as George W. Bush in a library. But we’d just arrived the night before, had partied til damn near dawn, and as P.G. Wodehouse would put it, “I needed a restorative!”

“Doble?” inquired the waiter, suspiciously clarifying my order, acting like I’d asked for a Pink Squirrel. “Yeah, I mean si, si,” I replied in an admirable Spanish accent, “I-would-like-a-doble-mah-gah-lita!!!”

What the hell’s the big deal? I thought, as I winked at my friend in full asshole bravado. Why I’d done tons of double margaritas back home, at the local El Torito in L.A., where you had to order a double to cut through the slush. Hell yes, I wanted a freaking double!

“Doble?” I now heard the bartender repeat, his eyebrows rather high on his forehead, making sure he’d gotten the order right. (Warning #2) Of course looking back I should’ve taken heed as to what they were trying to convey, but obviously then this was totally out of the question. I was a wild and crazy young gringo in this wild and crazy old Mexico, hell bent on providing the fodder for Porky’s III.

“Do you believe this shit?” I said to my friend. “Why are they making such a big deal out of this? You’ve seen me do doubles before, right? This is child’s play!” My friend just smiled a knowing smile that triggered a glint in his eye, like he’d just tossed a wet banana peel onto the sidewalk. And he slyly sipped his beer which had already arrived.

Fifteen minutes later when it was time to order again, we went through the same damn ritual only this time there was an added twist to the script. This time the bartender directed his “Doble?” at me. As he held the bottle poised above the tumbler about to drop that second shot into the mixture, he shouted across the room, “Doble, Senor?”

“Si, doble,” I shouted back, now getting a little annoyed at this questioning of my manhood. To which the bartender responded with a low “Eee-hah!” as he poured it. Then fifteen minutes after that, about two thirds of the way through my second double, a single appeared in front of me which I hadn’t ordered. It was one of those “compliments of the chef” kind of gestures but in this case issued by a bartender… a bartender obviously impressed at my handling his worm juice.  So I held up the remains of the double and toasted him “thanks!”.

“Do you believe this shit?” I said once again, wondering now why my friend’s eyes were also widening. Is it me or is this whole fucking room going fucking nuts? “What the hell’s with you,” I then asked, “you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” “What the hell’s with you?” he replied, “do you realize that shit is pouring straight down your chin?” Holy shit it was! My jersey was soaked and my jaw was frozen as if I had just taken Novocain straight to the bone. And it all had happened so fast, dear reader, that I honestly felt as though someone had simply walked up behind me and smacked me in the head with a plank. My brain was working but the motor skills no longer knew me. “Eee-hah” indeed!

“Got to get the hell out of here,” I said, in what I’m sure sounded Sino-Balkan, mixed with a Swedish lilt that hinted Taiwanese. “I need air!” And as I struggled to my feet to head for the door of this dimly lit room, several sets of white teeth were glowing in the haze… teeth whose baring gleefully announced, “Say goodnight, Gracie!” And it was only fucking ten o’clock in the morning.

Fortunately and amazingly, right next door was a diner which boasted cheeseburgers on its window menu so I stumbled in, (like a marionette sans strings), and somehow managed to order three of those beauties. And when minutes later my friend had arrived to check on my shaky progress, he was shocked to see that a crowd had formed due solely to the fact I was then on my seventh cheeseburger. That’s right my seventh. Now they weren’t those double whoppers I was downing but they weren’t little sliders either, just regular-size single glorious cheeseburgers. And they did the trick. For at the end of the seventh burger I had managed to eat myself sober and the world here south of the border again made sense. Yes in the span of an hour I’d covered the gamut from hangover to smashed to reasonable, and I’d also elicited an applause when I left the diner. Some morning, eh, reader? Now on to Porky’s III and let’s not get arrested!

PS: Now I’m not recommending seven cheeseburgers the next time you’re loaded. Four or five oughta do it.

Over and out from Bar-land, see ya’ next week-end!

Caution!!!

Geez, when you read all these “side effects” warnings listed on the sides of medicine bottles, or hear them rattled off in television ads (oh so swiftly and in a sing-song tone as if they’re listing a set of beatitudes not maladies), it gets your friendly bartender to thinking… should he be listing “side effects” warnings on his bottles? Just check out this disclaimer for a simple hay fever medicine. “Could cause nose bleeds, blurred vision, loss of balance, upset stomach, vomiting, muscle cramps, confusion, and in very rare cases death… if it leads to a crime committed in the state of Texas.”

Okay, so I went for the cheap joke there but didn’t everything else sound like something that could occur from your favorite cocktail? Me thinks it does and thus the following list…

Vodka: Possible side effects could include blurred vision, vomiting, memory loss, horribly impaired judgment… often resulting in a “one night stand” and a “morning after” from hell when vision returns. Vomiting could also recur at this point and in rare cases broken legs, as some have tried to escape through a second-floor window. (A woman in upstate New York dropped a full five stories!)

Recommended Usage: Two drinks a day if served as Martini or Gibson, four if mixed with soda water or tonic. (One if part of a Long Island Ice Tea.)

Single Malt Scotch: Possible side effects could include Acute Reverse Amnesia… your friends don’t recognize you! This is the result of their bearing witness to a heretofore unseen pedantry in all things Single Malt, disorienting those who knew you as a Bud Light. And further blurring their powers of recognition is your uncontrollable cork and snifter sniffing in public. Vomiting could also occur here, but again, only by your peers. (Caution: In very rare cases a distinct blackening under the eyes has occurred and a flattening of the Malt drinker’s nose when his pedantry has pushed a bartender way too far.)

Recommended Usage: Find a brand you like, stick to it and shut the fuck up about it!

Gin: Possible side effects could include, in addition to blurred vision and its attendant vomiting, V.B.S. or its full name… Verbal Diarrhea Syndrome. This results from a sudden rush of pseudo-knowledge in sports, politics and entertainment, which has to be expressed immediately and at great length. A blackening of the eyes is again a possibility, the result of a disagreeing viewpoint by a non-gin drinker. (Caution: A sudden English accent could also creep into your speech, but only if you’re wearing a bow tie and hate your station in life.)

Suggested Usage: Two drinks a day if served as Martini or Gibson, four if mixed with soda water or tonic. (None if you are standing next to a beer drinker.)

Beer: Possible side effects could include farting, bloating, belching, gloating, diarrhea and a severe loss in IQ points. Swelling of the palms could also occur due to excessive high-fiving, and sternum bruises from constant and unchecked chest bumping.

Suggested Usage: None if standing next to a gin drinker.

Irish Whiskey: Possible side effects could include blurred vision, rushes of manly bravado and, (especially if ingested as Jameson’s), acute Tourette’s Syndrome whereby  “fuck” is inserted every third or fourth word per sentence. Blackened eyes could also occur here but only to the person standing next to the Irish Whiskey drinker.

Suggested Usage: Four drinks a day if ingested “neat”, three if “on the rocks” (a heavier pour), but none if ingested within two blocks of an elementary school.

Wine: (See Single Malt Scotch.)

Tequila: Possible side effects could include vomiting, blurred vision, vomiting, swollen tongue, vomiting, memory loss, vomiting, a “one night stand”, excessive vomiting, and bruised heels due to excessive dancing. A bruised forehead could also occur but only if most of your falls happen face first. (Caution: the word “party” will no longer be pronounceable as you will only be able to express it as,  “pahhhh-teeeee, pahhhh-teeeee!”)

Suggested Usage: Three a day if part of a Margarita, four if done as a shooter, and one in any form if drunk in Mexico. (That shit is lethal down there!)

Rum: Possible side effects could include blurred vision, the desire to purchase a parrot, and in some cases a parcel of land down in Tortuga. Slurred speech could also occur as “Arrr-be-garrrr!” starts appearing in between sentences. (Caution: In very rare cases rum drinkers have started revolutions and overthrown governments, so if the urge occurs make sure you have an army!) Oh, and did I mention vomiting? Yeah, vomiting is often quite likely… and a corny Latin accent when ordering the Cuba Libre.

Suggested Usage: Two a day if part of a Mai Tai, three if in Cubre Libre, but none if flanked by a beer drinker and a gin man.

End of List.

PS: If you think I exaggerated about the parrot and the the rum drinker, check out this disclaimer (this actual verbatim disclaimer) for a pill that supposedly cures Restless Leg Syndrome. “… and could cause increased sexual drive and the urge to gamble.” Can you imagine? “Hey, Dude, how’d those pills work out you were takin’ for your legs?” “Like you wouldn’t believe, man. My legs are fine, I have a constant boner and I just won six hundred dollars in Atlantic City.”

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end.