Ready, set, order!

In no way to try and sound grumpy, dear reader (for I am your friendly bartender), I have to let off some steam on this grey wintry morning. Now it won’t be a major exhale of same so I dare say you needn’t worry…  it won’t be some screed from hell to sour your tea… just a minor release to keep that teapot from hissing.

Here goes…

When you walk for the first time into a bar (to wit: my bar) and can see that the place is busy as hell and note that the bartender’s toying with the modern land speed record, try and have an idea of what you want to order. But more important (and the point of this post which caused him to sit down and write it), don’t ask your friendly bartender, “What do you recommend?” It makes him crazy.

But before you accuse yours truly most wrongly of not having Job as a role model, let me explain the circumstance about which I speak. See, it’s one thing to come in after dinner and say, “I just had a nice meal and I’d like something sweet… what do you recommend?” We can solve that. Or, “I’ve been drinking (such-and-such) all night long and now I want to switch… what can you recommend that won’t make me sick?” Well, aside from a Twelve Step program perhaps there’s an answer. But to simply walk in without any context and ask your friendly bartender, “What do you recommend?”, without him knowing a thing about you or your evening, is just not a cocktail quest upon which he can embark. Nor has he the time!

Cases in point…

Here’s a conversation I had last night (while solidly two-deep at the bar), on three different occasions just moments apart. Each exchange was almost identical… typical whenever this occurs… almost as if we were reading from a common script. Two were with women and one was a guy and here’s how they all went down much to my chagrin…

Me: Hi, there, what can I get you? (And you thought I wasn’t glib!)

Clueless: (after a long pause) Ahhhh… geez… hmmmmm… what do you recommend?

Me: Well, that’s kinda’ hard for me to answer, really, I don’t know what you like to drink.

Clueless: (giggle) I know that but, you know, what I’m saying is… what would you order if you were me?

Me: I’d order a Jack on the rocks but I doubt that’ll help you.

Clueless: Oh, God no, that’s no help at all… I’m not a bourbon drinker.

Me: See my point?

Clueless: Yeah… hmmm… let me see here… oh, wait a minute…how about a drink menu? Do you have one of those?

Me: (The waiter is calling my name at this point to make some drinks for the tables, while I’m impatiently shifting my weight appearing to the untrained eye like I have to pee!) Sorry, no drink menu, we’re not what you’d call a fancy-schmancy place here… we’re just a bar.

Clueless: (looking around admiringly) Yeah, I can see that, but I really like it though. (Or some same version of a commentary.) This place is really cozy… how long has it been here?”

Me: (with a smile, of course) About as long as it’s taking you to order. (And then, seeing out of the corner of my eye at least six or seven people with a raised arm… either wanting another drink or, in keeping with tomorrow’s Super Bowl, signaling for a fair catch… I politely suspend this walk through time and excuse myself.) Listen, I’ll let you kick it around, okay? Let me go make some drinks and I’ll be back.

Well, after attending swiftly to what I had to attend… six raised arms and a waiter who looked like he had to pee… I managed to solve at least two of those three Bar-land mysteries. To the one gal I said, “What do you normally drink, miss?” And when she giddily said, “I love gin!” I put her in a Tom Collins and she was delighted.

And when I said to the  guy who was still on the fence, “Hey, man, it’s Friday night… how ’bout a stiff margarita but the way I make ‘em?” another home run was struck by your friendly bartender. Perhaps it was simply the “Friday night” part but I suspect it was more when I said, “the way I make ‘em”, but in either case this guy took the bait and partied. And he loved his “Rita”.

But sadly when I got to the third of the three, this gal not rightly a Job fan… this gal who along with her girlfriend would’ve really prettied up the place… all that was there to greet me were two empty spaces. And the cold air of impatience.  Which I guess is just as well, come to think of it, given how busy I was… though I could’ve come up with something had only they waited.  But so it goes in Bar-land, alas, and so it goes when moments are not meant to be. (Sigh!)

And so it goes when people can’t make up their minds, dammit!!!

Geez, I feel better now… I’ve been waiting to get that out since 0ne this morning. And again, like I said at the very outset, it wasn’t my intention to sour your tea or to pour some acrid tomato juice into your Bloody, I just wanted to blow off that minor steam from the pot. N’est-ce pas? For as I also stated at the outset, above all things I am your friendly bartender!

See ya’ again next week-end, gang, and please know your drink when you walk in the door.

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

What is it about the backbar mirror (your friendly bartender wonders) that elicits such strange behavior in those looking into it? What’s going on there? Is it some kind of Alice in the looking glass thing… an escape to an alternate reality… or simply a case of vanity meets the cocktail? Is it something we all do freely at home… perform for a party of one… and because of the gin and vodka do it in public? Yes he finds this to be an enigma indeed to be pondered like all imponderables, for some clientele seem to lose who they are when staring into that glass…  they lose who they are, forget who they’re with, and simply get lost in a world of other dimension.  Here’s what I’m talking about…

Take this chap I’ll call Chat-away-Chuck who definitely fills out this profile, who definitely has him a thing when it comes to the  mirror. Chuck is always  a well dressed chap, a man I’d say in his fifties, who always orders a Beefeater “tooney” straight up. In the true parlance of the word Chuck is a gentleman. However, and I say this with warmth and respect, along with being a gentleman this dude is out there! Because four sips into that first mar-tooney (he usually has two), he’ll discover “himself” in the mirror and the two will start talking. I mean full out chat-away. Now it’s never that loud, I’m happy to report, in fact I barely hear (them? ), but it’s definitely a two-way deal because I see pauses. You know… he’ll say something sharply to (himself?), react facially to the response, then pick up from there and tell (himself?) what for.

Sometimes the chat will be serious in nature, sometimes (they’re?) both in stitches, but (they’re?) always under control and, thank God, behaved. In fact, when I’m forced to interrupt this mysterious exchange to ask if he’d like another, Chuck promptly comes to his senses and does just that. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just qualified with flying colors for a padded room in The Upstate New York Laughing Academy.

Yet I can’t really shut them off for this stuff… (er-ah.. excuse me, dear reader, I think I got sucked into the mirror just now)… I can’t really shut him off for this stuff because really he’s not bothering anyone but himself. So I let things ride. And when he sets to leave after drink is done and his conversation is settled, you’d swear he was off to the U.N. to speak to the nations. Go figure!

Then there’s this gal who comes in quite often, who’s really a lovely person, who for purposes of this conversation I’ll call Nip and Tuck. Why? Because when that first Pinot Noir makes its way to her head and her eyes make their way to the mirror, she proceeds right there on the spot to begin a full make-over.  She’ll suck in her cheeks and purse her lips, turn to the left and the right, then widen her eyes as if someone had scared the hell out of her. Then, tilting her head to a coquettish angle and narrowing her eyes as she does so, she’ll give it the “fuck you” glare of a bone yard Vogue model. Then it’s on to the serious stuff… the “nip and tuck” part.

After beginning her second glass of soul-freeing grape while staring straight into the mirror, with a surgeon’s eye the scalpel-less surgery will commence. She’ll place her thumbs under left and right jaw, while pulling up skin from her neck, then with forefingers pull up the skin which is under both eyes.  And somehow she’s smiling. For now she’s got Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s jawline set under Madam Wu’s orbs, but the smile’s more akin to a grimace which is where I step in.

“Giving yourself a face-lift, sweet-ums?” I’ll say in good-natured ribbing, “eventually though you know you’ll have to let go.”

“Oh, shut up,” she’ll repsond in good-natured kind, “I’m just trying to see what it’s like if I ever did it. Just shut up!” Then she’ll let go her grip on this minor surgery, chuckle along with yours truly, and return to what was a lovely face in the first place. But I know we’ll have to go through this again next visit… we always do.

Now this next man we find in the mirror, dear reader, a man I’ll call Cry Me A River, will require by his very nickname little explanation. For he just comes in every couple of months, orders a Dewar’s on the rocks, and proceeds to bawl like a baby into his visage. And I mean real tears! Now I hesitate to make open fun of this man for who knows what lurks in his psyche, but after so many years, “Give it a rest already!” And especially since tears are often accompanied by laughter. Yet, like Chat-away-Chuck this guy’s not a loon, I’ve talked with him many times, and in between sobs I find him to be quite engaging. Ah, but once we have finished our brief back-and-forth and I make my way down the bar… it’s, “Grab an umbrella, Molly, here comes the rain again!”

And this last person caught in the mirror, I dare say, is actually many in one, and they all fit into that family I’ll call Bob and Weave. Yes, these are the ones (and believe me they’re many) who when talking to your friendly bartender talk to the mirror. Which in essence is themselves. And which in essence is rude. And your friendly bartender being aware of this fact (being most astute in most areas) will force them to bob and weave to accomplish that feat. They’ll move to their right and he’ll move to his left… they’ll move to their left and he’ll move to his right… and the game will continue til some savvy soul gets the gist. He can’t find the mirror.

“Hey, man, what’re ya’ doin’?” he’ll say, perplexed and annoyed.

“Whaddaya’ think I’m doin’, my friend? I’m trying to keep the mirror from cracking, you keep on freaking looking at it!”

“Ohhh,” he’ll say, with a look like he just got punked, “very funny, man, hah, very funny!” But once we resume the talk so will the game. It’s who they are!

And that’s just to cite a few of the many who lose themselves in reflection… who tumble into that Twilight Zone made of glass. Which brings me to wonder… mirror, mirror on the wall who is the strangest of them all? Perhaps it’s you, dear reader, if ever you come in.

Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ in the mirror!

PS: If you happen to be new to this bar (and welcome indeed if you are) may I refer you to a past post (this one) which is not only one of my favorites but deals with a mirror gazer. Enjoy!

The things ya’ hear…

Like you, dear reader, there are times when your friendly bartender gets roped into chats he’d rather not have… “Sure, Mel, I’d love to hear about the movie you saw, scene by fucking scene except for the ending, leave nothing out!”… but it being a part of his job he tries to indulge. And yet there are times of course when the flip side occurs… when he’d love to have a meaningful chat based on something he hears in passing… but he’s just too busy to stop and have that exchange. He’ll think, Damn I’d like to weigh in on that, but alas he just can’t do it, to repeat… sometimes he’s just too busy.

Well, that said (and with the miracle of imagination), I’ve decided to try and make up for that loss… those curious missed tete-a-tetes… by quoting some lines I have heard to which I have comment. So pour yourself a drink, (or a cup of tea if you prefer) and please join me…

Now consider the time these two guys walked in for what was obviously a one-and-done… they not only paid for their drinks up front but pushed their change in the well (which is usually a sign)… who looked not only harried but almost scared.

First Guy: This is some serious shit, man, what do you think’s gonna’ happen?

Second Guy: I don’t know, Bro, we’ll see. I mean he already got caught for stealing and fucking on his desk… but this is serious!

Me: Excuse me? Did I hear you say this one is serious? What about those other two infractions, Corky, what would you call those beauties? Don’t they register an eight on the fire-able offense list? I mean unless you work for the mob, my friend, stealing is pretty darn serious, and as far as diddling on your desk is concerned… well, we all know what happened to George Costanza now don’t we? So good Lord, fellas, what the hell did he do that made this one serious? Did he pull out a gun at a meeting? Did he set fire to his office in hopes of a make-over? Do tell, harried office guys, do tell!!! But, alas, I was too damn busy so we’ll never know.

And then there was the time I remember well (as I pirouetted past two serious suits while juggling a tumbler of martinis and two chilled glasses) that I heard this ridiculous exchange which I still find hilarious…

First suit: Hey, man, I think that meeting went well, don’t you? I mean given the fact it’s our first time dealing with the Japanese.

Second Suit: Yeah, I guess it went okay, but I can’t believe I called the guy inscrutable. Jesus!

Me: You called him inscrutable? Holy number one son, Charlie Chan fan, serious gaffe on two level. First level… Charlie Chan not Japanese, Charlie Chan Chinese. Second level… like mist on glasses you obscure main fact, Japanese now more American than most American. Not inscrutable at all but most irrefutable! So tell me, honorable Sales Guy, how you get big job dealing with Japan! But, alas, I was too damn busy so I never weighed in.

And I’ll never forget this sweet, little pearl as I jete’-ed down the mahogany clutching three Coor’s Lights in one hand  cupping two Chardonnays in the other, handling a two-deep Happy Hour I had inherited.

First Coors Light: So there he is, obviously a homeless guy… I mean filthy clothes, the whole magilla… sittin’ on one of those plastic milk crates drinkin’ some kind of Starbuck’s deal and get this… he’s workin’ on a fucking racing form while he’s sittin’ there. Do you believe that shit? I mean actually circling the picks he’s gonna bet on. And right beside him is a big old cup for donations. And there’s actually money in it, dude, dollar fucking bills! Talk about balls!

Second Coors Light: Fuck, that’s beautiful. Only in New York, my man, only in New York (with a “high-five” accompaniment).

Me: Just tell me what corner he’s workin’, guys, that’s all I want to know. ‘Cause from me he gets a ten spot… three for originality and seven skins for flat-out freakin’ moxie!

And finally my all time favorite, strange as it seems…

Sales Rep: Well, those bastards did it again!

Guy to his left: Did what?

Sales Rep: They refused me again when I put down Viagra on my expense account.

Me: Who, whoa, you said Viagra there, right? Not “parking” or “business lunch” or “writing pads and staples”, right? Hey, Blue Pill Guy, I’m usually not one to poke my nose into other people’s… er-ah… shorts, but what the hell does Viagra have to do with sales?

Sales Rep: Viagra has a lot to do with sales because sales is all about  confidence… and confidence is all about putting your best foot forward.

Me: But we’re not talking about your foot now are we?

Sales Rep: Well no, we’re not talking about my foot but it harkens back to this confidence thing which is crucial to any salesman. See, when you’re out there all by yourself it’s important to keep your confidence up, no pun intended, because you want to feel like anything at all is possible. And anything that hinders that feeling is just another road block. So, do I have to paint a picture for you? Screwing is part of “anything” that is possible.

Me: Geez, I’ve heard of salesmen screwing their clients but you’re talking screwing them literally. Like in the Biblical sense.

Sales Rep: Not exactly. It’s not about actually screwing someone… bingo-bango in bed… it’s knowing you can screw ‘em if it comes to that. See my point?

Me: I sure do, pal, and I can see why you’re in sales. Your boss is a tyrant.

Geez, fictional response on my part or not, that really felt good to finally get that out. Better late than never I guess.

And to you, dear reader, please bear in mind this friendly advice which I freely pass along… when chatting away in your favorite bar remember your bartender hears all, so be careful of what you say or you might get blogged!

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

“Post” traumatic stress…

Saw an article in the New York Post this week that scared your friendly bartender near half to death, and he doesn’t scare easily. So what was this piece that took  him aback and made him get right with God, to atone for his sins against family, friends and acquaintances? Was it astrological proof, dear reader, that the long awaited planet, Nibiru (discovered by the ancient Mesopotamians), was fast approaching our solar system, ending its thirty six hundred year orbit with the promise of ending life as we know it in 2012?

Was it once and for all the scientific proof that Global Warming is real, and that if I wanted to remain a New York resident I would have to unload my spiffy apartment and invest in a spiffy houseboat to continue said residency?

No, something far worse…

The article was titled “Cocktail’s Bitter End” and the reason for that end was the end of Angostura Bitters. Can you imagine my shock? For the end of this remarkable Bar-land ingredient would not only mark the end of my cure for the hic-cups, but the end of the sacred cocktail known as the Manhattan. And that’s Armageddon!

Now it should be stated for clarity sake that like all rags dealing in “lurid” (they once ran the infamously classic headline, “Headless Body in Topless Bar”), the Post also majors in fear as its stock and trade… everything with them is “Code Red, run for the hills”. So, fearful though I was and sated with hope I tip-toed into this journey nonetheless wary.

Is this just a goddam come-on, I thought, to get me to read the article, or is life as we know it in Bar-land truly at an end? For a bar without Angostura Bitters, I say, is a hot dog stand without ketchup, mustard or onions!

So here are the facts as laid out by the New York Post columnists. Apparently a dispute had broken out between the parent company, C.L. Financial Group, and the company that supplies the bottles which hold this elixir, so they had to switch to a distributor coming out of China. (No MSG, please!) This in turn led to backlogged orders as distribution fell behind, and many of our bars over Christmas went without Bitters. (I know, there’s a play on words to be used with “bitter” but I used up my daily quota for puns in the blog title.) Then the article went on to sell even more fear by stating that during this dearth other brands were sampled.

Well, first of all, there aren’t other brands to be sampled, dear reader, which to my mind could even come close… it’s like using Red Devil instead of Tabasco to punch up a bland Bloody Mary… low grade gas going into a high end Rolls. And second, who in the world are these people doing the sampling? Do they have the power to end this long held tradition? What’s going on here?

Yes, if they’re sampling alternative brands, I pondered, is extinction indeed now imminent? Quit frigging yanking my apron string, Post, and get to the goddam point!

And after even more of their writerly subterfuge… more fucking dragging things out like I’m doing with you here… they finally got to their point and expert prediction. “While production is back up,” they concluded, “it isn’t expected to hit full stride til next month.”

Excuse me? Full stride next month? That’s it? That’s your whole fucking point in writing this article? You titled this expose’ “Cocktail’s Bitter End” and talked about how some bars were hoarding their stash (which made yours truly want to break into one after closing time), and how several cocktails would never, ever be the same… when all this was was a labor dispute and ultimately just a two month distribution hold-up? Have you no shame, Sir? Talk about saying, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!” Nothing fell!

So now that I know that I’ve just been had.. lured by a lurid headline… let me address that aforementioned quick-fire atonement. Dear God, I take all that back about daily mass but I will try to pay a few visits when I get the chance. And to family and friends let me say from the heart that I half meant all those apologies, everyone knows it always takes two to tango. And to the customer this week… that mere acquaintance… I told to straighten up or his ass would be barred? I meant it! Grow up, Dude, and learn to hold your liquor.

And finally to you, Mr.  New York Post, here are some words to round out my un-mea-culpa… and I quote the greatest of orators, George W. Bush. “Fool me once, shame on… shame on you. Fool me… you can’t get fooled again!”

Good heavens! I sure don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’m gonna mix me a cool Manhattan with an extra dash of Bitters, and try and figure out what the hell I just said there! It’s been a very tough week.

Over and out from a well-stocked Bar-land, hope to see ya’ next week-end.

And you call yourself a bartender?

Mama said there’d be days like this (and so did I on my bio page) so here I am “crawling in Sunday morning”. And why am I late? Simple and perhaps most obvious. I went out Friday night for a dose of inspiration, came home with inebriation, and yesterday left me with nothing but nasty hangover. But I did manage to glom this anecdote from the experience…

I stopped in to see my friend Alex who handles the action at Elaine’s, a place in my neighborhood that’s long been a New York institution. This is my usual end-of-the-week stop and clearly one of my favorites (you never know who will walk into the place, more important who will crawl out) and Elaine herself is a legend for over forty years. But what really makes it for me is the fact it’s a warm and friendly bar, and Alex who tends that bar is one of the reasons.

So somewhere into this late night foray (four or five drinks in?) I decided to order a round for the people standing near me. And in a weak attempt at humor I said, after referring to the people involved, “And get Duffy a Pink Squirrel while you’re at it.” Duffy was busy counting at the time, he’s their checker when he’s not tending bar, and probably didn’t even hear my silly little crack. But that’s when the fun began because someone else did.

“So what the hell goes into a Pink Squirrel anyway?”

“Ahh, it’s ahhhh…,” was the best yours truly could come up with, “Hey Alex, what’s in a Pink Squirrel, I forget.” And I had forgotten, embarrassingly so (And you call yourself a bartender?) but so had Alex which his face quite readily revealed.  But not totally. “White Creme de Cocoa, right?” he then said.

“Yeah,” I added, “white Creme de Cocoa, all those goddam cream drinks have White Creme de Cocoa. I remember that now, that’s the constant!” (You’d have thought, dear reader, that I’d just gone and cracked the Da Vinci Code.) “But what’s that shit that makes it turn pink?” I went on.

So there we were again, alas… two longtime professionals… staring at each other like someone had handed us a trig problem. Alex then turned his back and moved down the bar.

“Creme de Noyaux,” then rang through the room, via a smiling Alex,  “It’s heavy cream, White Creme de Cocoa, Creme de Noyaux! “

“Whoa, good call, man,” I responded, clearly impressed. “I never would’ve gotten Creme de fucking Noyaux. Well done, Al!”

Alex then flashed me an all knowing grin and held up what I guess was his cell phone (I never know what those damn things are… phones? computers? or what?) and proudly said, “I got the answer right here, baby.”

Man, I pondered (in my Neanderthal grasp of technology), years ago you’d have to drag out the Bartender’s Guide for this. That’s right, Grok… you’d have to drag out the goddam Bartender’s Guide, thumb to the section called “Cream Drinks”, or it might be under something else, and five or six minutes later you might have the answer. Now… bingo… “Creme de Noyaux, next question!”

And I did have another question which now I regret.  “Hey, Alex, and what’s that other drink none of us make anymore? You know, that green bastard.” Now  we really were at a loss because Alex couldn’t punch that in, he couldn’t punch in “What’s That Green Bastard”, so there we were again exchanging that stare.  Ahh, but since Alex was pouring and I was drinking it was he who would solve the enigma, “The Grasshopper!” he said, moments later with aplomb.

“And what goes into that?” I heard, again from that nosy customer.

“Check your goddam cell phone,” I answered with conviction.

So here’s the deal, dear reader, this little encounter  really did teach me something and not just what goes into a Pink Squirrel. .. it taught me it’s time to join the twenty first century. Yeah, why not get myself one of those toys which I swore I never would need, for out of the blue I just might be asked, “What’s in a Deep Blue Sea, and right in the palm of my hand would be the answer.

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

Location… Location…

Now if your friendly bartender told you he lived just across the street from Richard Price… famous novelist and screenwriter… you’d probably think he was doing pretty well. And if he also told you that right next door lived the great Oleg Cassini… the man who had women saying “Oh, Jackie!” before she was “Jackie O”… you’d probably think he was doing really, really well. And just as a bonus if he threw in the fact that Julia Roberts lived right around the corner, you’d be convinced he was doing not only well but stealing from the till and Chase Manhattan Bank. But of course you’d be wrong.

Because that’s just the way it is in Manhattan… the rich, the poor and the ‘tweens all stacked on top of each other. Oh, there’s Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue, those strips of opulence where peasantry need not apply, but they can’t house all the swells who’ve swelled on this island. For unlike most other big city lay-outs where the well-to-do are gated, guarded and acre-ed, here in New York they’re pretty much thrown into the mix. There isn’t enough space. It’s the high rise next to the low-rise, the high life next to the low life, and everyone in between simply rubbing elbows. Which is why I actually did have those neighbors… Rich, Oleg and Julia… back in the 90’s when I hung my hat in a neighborhood called Gramercy Park, and I often had fun back then dropping their names.

“So, Scribbler, where’s a good Italian joint in your neighborhood?”

“Hmmm,” I would ponder, with an expression on my face that could bluff the greatest of poker hands, “let me ask Oleg, my next door neighbor.” And Oleg actually was my neighbor (right next door!) but I had a unit in a building and he had a building. Yes I often would drop the names of the famous who shared my famous zip code, but never to try and impress but just to have fun. Unlike this clown…

He was about fifty years old. He had on a tailored herringbone blazer that molded tightly to his well-kept frame, and his shirt was starched to perfection and left unbuttoned. He had thinning grey-brown hair which he wore slicked back and wet, and had Lee Van Cleef’s cheekbones and squinty steel eyes. If you’ll excuse the play on words, dear reader, this guy could actually be called a real cool customer. He lowered himself onto the barstool, folded his manicured fingers and said, “Smirnoff, chilled… straight up.”

“Any vermouth in that?” I asked, just to make sure.

“No… Smirnoff, chilled… straight up!”

I could see he was taking himself way too seriously so I thought I’d push the envelope just for the hell of it. “Any fruit in that, my friend?”

“N-o-o-o-o-o, Smirnoff, chilled… straight up!!!”

“You got it, pal, chilled… straight up.” Then smiling my professional smile I made his drink. Funny thing though, just as cold as his ordering was that’s how warm his conversation became moments later… and after just three sips. In fact by the time he ordered his second drink, Lee Van Cleef almost turned into Chatty Cathy. He proceeded to ask me about the history of the place and background stuff in general, and even how long yours truly had handled “the stick”. Which opened the door for me to ask questions of him.

“So, do you live here in the city?”

“Well,” he said, “I have an apartment here in the city and a beautiful house that I keep up in Connecticut. You know where Joan Rivers lives, right? Well I’m right around the bend just a bit north.” Excuse me? I thought. No, I don’t know where Joan Rivers lives, why in the hell would I, so I sure don’t where “just a bit north” is!

“And so where are you in the city?” I ventured further.

“I’m over on 56th in 819.”

Oh, you’re in 819, good building!” Now this is another thing that sets me off… people giving the number of their building as if that actually means something… what the hell does 819 mean anyway? Or 637 for that matter? Do you actually think your building’s that special that giving the damn number will set off some fireworks? Hey, unless you live at 10 Downing please spare me the number of your fucking building, okay? It means nothing!

Now here’s where it gets downright silly and see if I’m lying.

“Yeah,” he says, “it really is a great building. I happen to be on the exact same floor where Hermione Gingold used to live.”

Jesus Christ, is this guy for real? That’s not dropping names, that’s Trivial Pursuit! Now no offense to the late Ms. Gingold… a delightful personality and comedic actress… but unless you’re as old as me and had watched a shitload of  Merv Griffin shows, you’d wonder what the hell this man was even talking about. But wait, it gets better.

“I also got John Candy’s nephew one floor below me. Yeah, it’s a hell of a building.” Now again, no offense to John Candy who had his wonderful day in the sun, but is that a name to “real estate drop” and we’re not even talkin’ John but John’s frigging nephew.

Then, as the conversation moved further along, he also told me when out in L.A. he’d bought Dean Martin’s old house for a cool “two point three”, then sunk in another “two hundred G’s” to handle a hidden termite problem, then quickly sold the whole mess for “three point one”. Which reminds me, people who talk in real estate decimals are as laughable to me as the goddam 819 types. And this guy was both!

Now remember, dear reader, all I said to kick this off was, “Do you live here in the city?” and that’s what came pouring out like a goddam Friar’s roast list. He was a one-man cavalcade of yesteryear’s “famous” which I found to be not only bizarre but downright hilarious. And this from a guy who looked nothing like the type… Lee Van Cleef in herringbone?… who now seemed more like Mary Hart on uppers. Good grief, Charlie Brown!

“Would you like another?” I asked, after his second glass showed empty, I was hoping he’d tell me whose building he’d parked his car in front of. But no such luck. He was two and done. So he paid for his drink, tipped to match his name dropping (which of course I appreciated), then strode from the bar a far warmer person than had entered. He became a semi-regular after that, much to everyone’s delight, for with every drink he attached at least six more names. He was our  live version of Entertainment Tonight. All you had to do was ask him the time and he might say his watch was a gift from Zsa Zsa’s cardiologist. And to all this I say… only in New York, gang!

So where do I live now? I hear you asking yourselves. Well at the risk of blowing my anonymity I will tell you.

I live on the upper eastside atop a five story walk-up, right down the block from the building where James Coco’s niece almost bought. You know the one I mean… it’s right across the street from where Carol Channing’s agent used to live… which is a stone’s throw from that restaurant where Tommy Tune used to eat. You know the restaurant I mean… it’s on the bottom floor of that high-rise building where Mickey Rooney once spent an entire week-end. Is it making sense yet? Well if not maybe this will help… when I go out in the morning for bagels and coffee I walk right past that building where Craig Kilborn’s chiropractor lives. Now do you know where I live? Good, I figured that would do it.

Over and out from Celebrity-ville, see ya’ next week-end!

Note: When I posted this blog yesterday I had inadvertently typed in Jonathan Price instead of Richard Price (holiday hangover?) which I just now corrected.  Sorry for the brain lock and sorry to any of my early readers for the error! 

‘Twas the day after Christmas…

A Holiday Tale…

‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the pub,

Not a creature was stirring and there lay the rub.

Glasses were scrubbed, lemons-limes wedged and peeled,

With hopes that a customer soon would need healed.

But history says they’re all snug in their beds,

While visions of invoices dance in their heads.

“To go to a bar,” they will always lament,

“Is just what we need but we’re too overspent!”

So I in my apron and waiter with tray,

Had just settled down for a long tip-less day.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my post to see what was the matter.

There to the window I flew like a flash,

Threw back the shutters and pulled up the sash.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear…

Santa Claus seeking both solace and beer.

But gestures were clumsy, not lively and quick,

I knew in a moment this can’t be St. Nick.

For here was a man who was still on a tear,

A department store Santa in nobody’s care.

I ushered him in, nonetheless, I dare say,

For under that costume a broken heart lay.

Yes here was a man who had spread all his cheer,

To whom was left nothing but whiskey and beer.

A bartender knows this… that lonely man’s gaze,

It’s something he’s seen over too many days.

Bravado and bluster at this time of year,

Do nothing but heighten the trace of a tear.

“So how about coffee?” I ventured with hope,

As he slid on the stool fairly struggling to cope.

“It’s not what I want I must tell you, alas,

But that’s what I need ’cause I’m drunk on my ass!”

Then coffee was served, and a cup after that,

He told me his story right there as he sat.

For his was like many, it’s too sad to say…

The orphan on Christmas and then the next day.

A story as old as the Yuletide itself,

Poor souls discarded and placed on a shelf.

When these should be days that we reach for each other,

Claiming to all we are sister and brother,

We toss to the wind that most noble of notions,

Reaping instead needless stress and emotions.

But that’s what it is and that’s what we’ve wrought,

Now that our Christmas is paid for and bought.

So then when the coffee had managed its trick,

I threw in some breakfast for ersatz St. Nick.

Finished, he thanked me with words quick and clear,

Gone was that cloud and all signs of a tear.

And then with a wink and a nod of his head,

He soon let me know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang to his feet, to a cab did give whistle.

Away he then rode like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight,

“I really was Santa, at least for a night!”

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

Holiday Hiatus

Merry Christmas, everyone, and happy holidays to you all… your friendly bartender is taking the week off. May the spirit of the season take hold in your hearts and remain throughout the new year.

Cheers,

Scribbler

Thanks, all these years later!

One of the things your friendly bartender likes about working in New York, is the chance to meet all the different people who don’t… those people who visit. And because we’re often recommended, dear reader, by several hotels in the area, not to mention our good word of mouth from here to Europe, we get our fair share of tourists along with our regulars. And I love that. For it not only gives me a chance to maybe show off what the hell I know about where they should go, but I also get a chance to learn about where they are from. And sometimes, (as I wrote in this old post), an amazing coincidence occurs from one of those encounters. Now here’s another one.

When Tony our revered greeter (all eighty six years of him now) was still able to wait tables, he always made it a point to let me know when he had a customer who hailed from Pittsburgh. My home town. And frankly I’m glad that he did because it often led to a wonderful exchange of info. You know… the places in common, the things in common, our beloved Pittsburgh Steelers, and sometimes a mutual acquaintance on that rarest of occasions. Like this one…

“Hey, Mister Bartender (I swear that’s what he calls me), I got you over here some very nice people from Pittsburgh. C’mere.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I shouted back, “just a sec.” So I finished my pour, I scanned the crowded mahogany to see if it was safe to leave my post without anyone hitting their forehead on the bar weak from thirst, then I made it over to the table-of-five next to Tony.

“Sooo,” I began, ever the gallant host, “where in the Burgh do you nice folks hail from? The last stop for me was a place called Greentree, South Hills.”

One of the two guys at the table spoke up first. “Well,” he said, “we’re actually outside of Pittsburgh from a town called New Castle. Do you know it?”

“Do I know it? I went to Slippery Rock College, for God sakes, just down the damn road. In fact my freshman year roommate came from New Castle. Any of you ever hear of an Eddie (Italian name)?” The table immediately fell silent and all wore Cheshire cat grins.

“I dated an Eddie (Italian),” one of the women then offered, utterly amazed. Now bear in mind, dear reader, this took place rather far from the scene and a good twenty five years after the fact…. we’re not talkin’ last Tuesday just down the road! “Eddie,” she went on, “was the first love of my life, I’ll have you know.” Then all three women giggled as did the men.

“But when did you date?” I inquired, ’cause if this was my guy I had a story to tell.

“All through high school,” she replied, “and all the way through his freshman year of college. As in… Slippery Rock College!!!” Bingo, that’s me roomie. Holy smokes, dear reader, what are the odds???

“Well then all I can say to you is… thank you, thank you for all of that pasta!”

“Excuse me?” she said. Then she glanced across at her friends who were equally perplexed.

I looked back over my shoulder to see if anyone’s head was resting face down on the bartop, which it wasn’t, then I pulled up a chair and set about explaining my statement.

“See it’s like this. Eddie was so lovesick over you that whenever he returned to campus on Sunday after spending your week-ends together, he had no appetite for the food his mother had packed for him. Which I sure did. And because of you and what you did to that poor little guy’s stomach, no one on campus ate better than me Sunday night. And I mean it! His Mom sent along all this amazing stuff…. some stuff I never even heard of… plus all the dishes I knew about like the noodle entrees, the chicken catchatori, lasagna, antipasto, you name it… and by Tuesday I was speaking with an Italian accent. And I freakin’ loved it. It was the best of times and the worst of times… the worst for him and definitely the best for me. So again,” I added with a smile and a wink to the table, “thanks for all of that wonderful pasta and thanks for making Italian my favorite cuisine now.”

Then, after a few more stories in common and a little more Pittsburgh, we all shook hands warmly, I gave Eddie’s Ex a kiss on the cheek then I walked by a beaming Tony who couldn’t believe it. “And thank you, Tony, for the nice heads up,” I added as I passed him by, (Tony who was raised in Turin no less), “how’s that for Pittsburgh with a slice of Italy?”

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

Hooray for the little guy…

Your friendly bartender posted once about a (place where he used to work), where it was all the help could do to avoid their wine list. Yes, they hated that little nine by twelve cardboard nightmare. They found it too much trouble, too damn fancy, and simply too much not just a glass of beer. But just as dreaded as that “Whine List” I might add, looking back on those days of yore, was the posting of the summer drinks on the overhead chalkboard. For when that fateful day occurred each year as those drinks made their way onto the menu… usually around July first… louder than the chalk heard scratching across slate as the manager scrawled out the list, was the collective groan of the staff in ursine conniption.

And from that day forward (when the boss was out of the building of course), if someone was brazen or foolish enough to ask for one of the selections, and exchange something like the following would surely be heard…

“Ahhh, I’ll have a Banana Daiquiri.”

“No you won’t, we’re out of bananas.”

“How about a Strawberry Daiquiri?”

“Sorry, the strawberries went bad.”

“Hmmm… well then let me just have a nice Pina Colada.

“You know what? Let me check in the back, I think the goddam blender broke last night. Hold on a sec.” And gone he would be maybe never to return.

Get the picture? No “soup” for you if it has to be chopped, sliced, minced and it goes in a blender. But there was one on the staff, I’m happy to report, who was clearly different from the rest… the guy from that previous post named Louie the Cigar. Now granted, Louie also had no intentions of ever making a blender drink, but the way he went about that avoidance each time was priceless. For Louie was a politician, dear reader, a schmoozer of the first order, and he always chose a massage over the body block. Here’s an example…

Three young guys came in one day… one hot-ass summer day… and took a seat at a table right near the bar. These guys were sweaty and tired and ready for a liquid cool down. But when the biggest guy of three looked up and saw the “Summer Drinks” sign, Louie was over at the table so fast you’d have thought his mission was to deliver the life saving Heimlich Maneuver.

“Soooo,” said Louie, trying to run a diversion, “are all you guys football players or what?” They were taken aback at first when he said this and the two smaller guys looked surprised, while the big guy just kept staring up at that drink list.

Then the littlest guy of the three finally broke the ice. “We’ve been known to toss a ball around,” he said, “why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, because yuz’ look like a coupla’ athletes to me, that’s all.” Louie was laying the groundwork with a sharp pick and shovel.  “So what kind of beer do yuz’ want,” he went on, “you look like you could use a nice cold one.”

At which point the big guy, the only one of the three who not only looked like he’d tossed a ball around but had actually carried a ball in full pads into an end zone, took the lead and not to Louie’s liking. He said, “I don’t know, I was kinda thinkin’ about one of those summer drinks. You know, like a Banana Daiquiri or somethin’.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there,” said Louie, feigning shock and kerfuffle, as he walked around and grabbed the  guy by his bicep. “Jesus, man, that stuff’s not for you, a big strapping guy like yourself, that shit’s up there for broads if ya’ wanna’ know the truth. If you want my advice, and believe me I know what I’m talking about, you’re better off stayin’ away from a drink like that. I mean think about it!”

And by the look on the guy’s face after he’d taken this whole thing in, one would’ve thought that instead of summer drinks that list had contained seven cute outfits for Barbie. And one for Ken!

“Well I don’t know about these guys,” the littlest guy broke in boldly,  “but I’m having me a nice cold bottle of Budweiser.” Louie gave him a wink.

“And so will I,”  said the middle guy, also middle in size, “a Bud’s exactly what I feel like having right now.” Two down and one to go!

“Now yer’ talkin, fellas, now yer’ makin’ sense. That’s what yer’ supposed to  do in a place like this. Two Buds comin’ up.” Then he turned to the big guy with hopes of a clean sweep.  “And what about you there, Moose, should I make it three?”

To which the big guy said forlornly, his manhood fairly at stake at this point not to mention his sweet tooth turning more sour by the second, “Ahh, yeah, sure, I’ll have a beer as well… yeah, make it three.” But not wanting to appear a lemming he added, “but make mine a Sam Adams if you would, okay?”

“You got it, pal, Sam makes a hell of a beer… you made a good choice.”

And as Louie marched away from the table having run yet another successful anti-blender campaign, he winked one more time at the little guy… the one in his mind who’d taken the lead… who’d caught Louie’s pass and taken his team into the end zone. And the little guy, smiling in conspiratorial glee at that wink, gave him a wink right back… he was, for that moment in time, the big guy at the table. Yes, a sweet sight it was indeed… the little guy, for a change, scoring the touchdown.

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