What a swell party this was…

A friend and fellow bartender… this guy named Alex who handles the crowd and the pouring at a famous watering hole… hit me with this little gem the other night when I stopped in after my shift for a little “wind-down”. The man always has something.

“Hey, I got a line for you,” he said, the second I hit the stool. “Maybe you can use it.”

“Use it for what?”

“For your blog, whaddaya’ think, man?” he said like I had two heads. “It’s a movie line that maybe you can have fun with.”

“Oh, okay, I can always use an idea, whaddaya’ got?”

Then, as he poured with professional care my liquid escape, he started his riff. “All right, here goes. You got Jack Nicholson, right? The movie is As Good As It Gets. He’s sitting at the bar commiserating with the bartender after his date storms out of the restaurant and, after explaining his side of the story, looks up at the bartender and says, ‘Instead I’m here with you… no offense… but a moron pushing the last legal drug.’”

“Anything there?” Alex added, with a look on his face that said, How a-bout this guy?

“Shit yeah,” I replied, “there’s definitely something there. Let me think about it.”

But I knew I wouldn’t be thinking about it for if you read my blog last week… my rant about how some movies disrespect bartenders… you’ll know that your friendly bartender has already been there. He’s covered that terrain with a tarp and nailed down the edges. I can’t repeat that theme again, can’t be Grumpelstiltskin, hell bent on some kind of mission bordering on jihad. But hey, Alex was right, there was definitely something there, just bad timing.

But then, a few minutes later, after those first few sips of my drink had completed their mission… washed away the bullshit from work and opened the floodgates of thought… the Nicholson line came back with a whole new perspective. But unlike what you might expect, dear reader, it wasn’t the part about “moron” that grabbed my attention, it was the part about “legal” that jumped to the fore of my thinking.

“Alex, when you get a chance,” I said, pointing to my empty glass, “I’ll have another one, please, and I think I got something.”

“Got something for what?”

“For my blog, whaddaya’ think, man?” I returned in gleeful kind, and as he went to refill my drink the wheels starting turning. Here’s where they took me…

There was a time a long time ago when we “morons” weren’t all that “legal”, but toilers under the banner of Very Illegal. That time of course was Prohibition when the selling of wine and spirits could get you arrested. And since I work right now in a Speakeasy bar… one of the great ones of all time… it got me to thinking about how I’m somehow connected. How I’m four generational degrees of separation from that era. I thought about all those bartenders before me who worked in that very same room, whacking out nightly tips in a most different time. Those Roaring Twenties.

And my first thoughts were… what a romantic and fun, exhilarating time everyone must’ve had, everyone doing the wrong and feeling right about it. It was bartenders, revelers, cops on the take and everyone in between, raising their glasses on high, thumbing their noses at all who proclaimed that they couldn’t. And as I pondered those times and considered the mood I was reminded of the words to a song… a Gershwin tune that might aptly state how they felt… “No, no, they can’t take that away from me.” And for fourteen years no one could!

Then my thoughts got specific, about what it must’ve been like to actually tend bar back then. For these guys not only faced each night the prospect of losing their jobs, but their short term freedom as well if the place got raided. Talk about job security! I mean can you imagine today, working at a Barnes & Noble, let’s say,  quietly doing your job… alphabetizing gurus and frauds over in Self Help… and in come the feds to haul you away because some of those books don’t fit the moral agenda? Or you’re selling suits at Lord & Taylor’s and the guy you’re fitting just happens to be an FBI agent? And he hauls you away because the fabric in the suit is hemp? The kind you smoke? Now I realize that last is a reach, dear reader, but I’m just trying to make the point… to show what these guys were faced with when they went to work every night. For when they told their customers at times to “speak easy” or “keep it the fuck down!”, they said it because their jobs were on the line. Their futures. They were the Flying fucking Wallendas without a net!

Ah, but then I thought about all that was cool about being the man back then…  the yin to the downside yang of working in a speakeasy. It was the part about how the ladies back then might’ve viewed them. I thought, did a “flapper” ever say to her friend as she was walking down 51st Street just off of Madison, “See that guy who looks like somebody’s uncle? That guy in the tweed blazer and serious hat? Well guess what? He’s on his way to work and he’s a bartender. Can you believe it? I know! And not only that but he knows my name so we won’t have to come up with the password if we ever want go there. Is that the fucking bee’s knees or what?” And did her friend respond with equal excitement, “Bees knees hell, it’s the cat’s fucking pajamas!”

Yeah, unlike me who walks into work and slips on his apron and tie, these guys slipped through a back door and put on the magic. They were guys who could sell you the goods the law said you couldn’t. I mean there had to be an air of romance about that which women must’ve found appealing… this “fuck you” to moral convention and Miss Goody Two Shoes… if the guy didn’t look like a can of worms or was married. At least that’s how I see it, or how I imagine it was behind the stick.

And I think I’m going to keep on imagining the next time I go to work, the next time I stand in the spot where all those guys stood. For it won’t be just a hardwood floor that is covered with rubber mats, but sacred ground that has covered some eighty plus years. And I’ll say to myself as I scan the room and ponder what might’ve been, these paraphrased words from another old song…  Cole Porter’s “What a swell party this was!”

Then three drinks later, after all those thoughts had coursed through my brain on a steady stream of nostalgia, I jotted some key words down on a bev nap, paid my tab and respects, then thanked my friend Alex for his idea. And as I started to make my exit, Alex and I both firmly agreed that if Nicholson or anyone else had called us a “moron pushing the last legal drug” on a night, we’d both be pushing something indeed… his fat ass out the front fucking door in a hurry!!!

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

Just a Bartender…

Note: Maybe you have to be a bartender to appreciate this week’s entry, but I hope not!

Here we go…

Instead of resorting to an ovine headcount the night he couldn’t sleep, or taking some kind of a pill that would make him groggy in the morning, your friendly bartender took to the couch and turned on his old TV for a little diversion. That strategy, if successful, would not only silence the voice in his head that was chattering away like a myna… recounting events from his shift that went down badly…  but would lull him into that stupor that drifts into slumber.

Did it work? Hell no. For when the bartender delivered that line in the movie that struck him as stone cold ludicrous, it not only wiped out the cob webs  but it kicked off an internal chat that lasted til dawn.

The movie that stopped my surfing that night was a classic black and white western the name of which escapes me. But what didn’t escape my mind that night (and obviously doesn’t escape still) is this brief exchange that occurred in the town saloon. The hero of the movie (either Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda, I can’t remember which), stumbling into love for the first time ever and in search of  some sage advice on the “female species” (you know, how ta’ handle ‘em, etc.), instead of going to a shrink which hadn’t been invented yet, sought out healthy counsel from his local barkeeper. And here was the exchange that knocked me out of my slumber…

Hero to Barkeeper: “So, Mac, have ya’ ever been married?”

Barkeeper to Hero: “Nah, I’ve been a bartender all my life.”

And as the Hero nodded knowingly… fully accepting that one rules out the other… I laughed my ass off.

I also then began this self-conversation…

Excuse me for inquiring, Mr. Scriptwriter, and I don’t mean to be a “noodge”, but why does being a bartender rule out marriage? Am I missing something here? For I could see if the question were something along the lines of, “Have ya’ ever done a heart transplant?” And the answer had been, “Nah, I’ve been a welder all my life.” That would makes sense. For it’s rarely heard in the operating room when a ticker is being replaced, “Scalpel, gauze” and then, “blow torch.”  So I get that. But why does the pouring of drinks for a living eliminate the notion of long-term female society? Just askin’? And still laughin’!

And the chatter continued…

First of all, the way the bartender was depicted back then in all those old westerns, you were given no indication the man was a person? You know, a real live character with thoughts and views and flaws and virtues just like everyone else. He never had any pals, never an outside life, and never (God forbid) any female company. I mean did you ever see a western bartender getting so much as a kiss, let alone a roll in the hay or a march down the aisle? Hell no. There was nary the hint of a man of substance, or at worst some smooth Lothario…  just that anonymous, invisible, “What’ll ya’ have?” Joe in a big white apron. Poor bastard. He just  served up his glasses of nameless rotgut, ducked when the glasses flew, and took all the shit the scriptwriter wrote his way. And if he ever did show an ounce of balls, like reaching below the bar for a bat or a rifle, he was immediately shot in the chest and out of the movie. Next!!!!

Ah, then this thought chose to tip-toe in at now three o’clock in the morning, adding more wood to the crackling flames of insomnia…

Since this movie was written in the late 1930’s was this the screenwriter’s opinion back then of his bartenders? And was this the opinion in general of people about bartenders? For when he took  his seat at the bar each night at the famed Brown Derby Restaurant, did he think the mixer of his sweet Rob Roy was a complete and total non-entity who slept in the back? Or someone who lived to just pour out drinks and then go home to an empty house and gear up for the morrow? Probably not. But then why was he prone to create each time a complete non-fucking-character, each time he entered the word “BARKEEPER” into his script? Couldn’t he just once have made that character a person? Again, just askin’!

Hmmmm, note to self: Write a cool western movie based on a cool western bartender, a Tom Jones of the old wild west. Never been done, you can bet your drink-pourin’ ass on it.

Yes, dear reader, some diversion I picked that night to quell all that internal dialogue, for instead of watching a movie of escape that would toss me into the arms of the mythical Morpheus, I instead got tossed to the wolves of personal resentment. But with a smile, I happily add, for if the line hadn’t been so goddam funny… “Nah, I’ve been a bartender all my life”… my romp through that riff might’ve taken a turn far more righteous.

And then finally, as if my mind hadn’t chatted enough on this topic so near and dear, this last thought jumped into play and entered the fray… this inventory of Scribbler that ensured his insomnia.

a) I pour drinks for a living.

b) I’ve never been married.

c) I’m not in a relationship right now.

d) I came home to an empty house tonight.

Holy fucking eremites, Batman, what’s going on with me??? Then I went to the kitchen and whipped up a snack, there was no way in bloody hell I was getting any sleep.

And so what is the lesson to be learned, dear reader, the next time your friendly bartender can’t doze off? Take a fucking pill and wake up groggy! End of story!!!

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

James Bond-ing

When this sweet young couple slid onto their barstools your friendly bartender pegged them in their early twenties. The guy however was hell bent on acting much older. He said, “The lady will have your best Chardonnay and I’ll have (all in one rapid-fire exhale) an extra dry Beefeater martini, shaken not stirred, on the rocks, straight-up, water back.” And he said it so fast it didn’t sink in til I grabbed the scooper and went to pull up some ice. (WTF?)

“My friend, you said ‘on the rocks’ and ’straight-up’, which is it?” He’d obviously memorized this James Bond riff and somehow screwed up the ending.

“Pardon me?” He was still clueless.

“”On the rocks means with ice, straight-up means no ice. You said both.”  And believe me I said it nicely for I could see his rehearsed James Bond-ness swiftly going south.

“Oh-ah, of course, make it straight-up.”

“Twist or an olive?” I continued, again not breaking balls but guiding him through this.

“Umm… you know, either way.” Then, “I mean, no, make it both!” Then he winked at Chardonnay to assure all was well. It wasn’t. He looked like he’d swallowed an oyster laced with Tabasco.

But I don’t bring this up to make fun, dear reader, but rather to bond with young Bond, for your friendly bartender has been there himself many times. Yes, he’s made his share of mistakes acting cool out in Bar-land. Like this time…

On a long ago Friday night, when your friendly bartender was your friendly school teacher back in his hometown of Pittsburgh, with half his monthly pay in his pocket and packed in his new three-piece suit, he climbed into his Oldsmobile Cutlass and headed a half mile down the road to a place called Mary Stark’s. Stark’s was a grown-up cocktail lounge (a far cry from the screaming college bars) and it held all the promise of all kinds of mischief and intrigue. Men in sharp and fashionable suits, sophisticated ladies (all on the town for adventure and grown-up play), was the milieu in which I was attempting that night to immerse myself.  I’d thought about doing this for quite some time and this was the night I would do it, this was the night I would say hello to the cool world. So I parked my car on the gravel stoned lot, slid out into the night, and then slammed the door on my car and hopefully my youth. Then I ground across the noisy stones and opened the thick wooden door of the famed Mary Stark’s. And what a sight!

Dimly lit and made all the gauzier by billowing wafts of cigarette smoke, what lay before me was a scene out of the TV show Mad Men. A seemingly sophisticated older clientele (particularly older women!) was seated around a copper-top bar strewn with martinis and rocks drinks, each person planted and poised for the ritual of nightlife. This was it! But alas, as I ambled across the thick, burgundy carpet heading for a seat at the bar, I felt all of a sudden more like in a scene from a cowboy movie. You know, where the stranger in town walks into the saloon and everyone turns and whispers, for I swear every person at that bar seemed to give me the once over. And so I immediately felt out of place, ridiculously out of touch, and ultimately out of my mind for trying to do this. Here we go again! I thought.

See the problem I had when I was young, dear reader, (at least in this regard) was the fact that I looked too young to be going into bars. Way too young. I was easily and always a good five years off the pace. So with my mop of sandy-colored hair on this night draped goofily across my forehead, and the dusting of freckles that lurked and danced just beneath it, it was clear by the expressions on the faces observing I was Opie in Andy’s suit looking for Aunt Bee. In other words I didn’t evoke, “Ooh, who is that?” in any of these sophisticated ladies, but rather, “Didn’t I see him serving 10:30 mass last Sunday?” And of course in rounding out this bar-wide scrutiny no eyes were more discerning than those of the bartender.

“I’m gonna need some ID, pal,” he said when my ass hit the stool, which brought out a tinkling of laughter, most of it female.

“I’ll have an Iron,” I said with some force, once I’d proven I could vote any time I wanted. Iron is short for Iron City beer, at the time mother’s milk to our working class, and the bartender set it down with a tall, fragile pilsner glass. Aww, shit! I internally winced at the sight of this vessel, tapering it seemed into infinity, having always just drunk from the bottle and dreading the pour. For this wasn’t a mug, which I had poured into, but rather a tall fucking test tube testing my skill. But realizing I couldn’t drink from the bottle which  surely would be in bad taste, I raised the bottle and thank God pulled off the pour. (Every drop observed by the still unconvinced bartender.)

Well, as things can sometimes happen in life I finally got settled in, bathed in the glow of those first few swallows of beer. I was no longer feeling the “stranger in town” like before. And to add to my newfound ease and comfort and painting the picture just right, was the voice of Tony Bennett soaring from the juke box. He was belting, “I want to be around to pick up the pieces, when somebody breaks… ” etc.,  which richly added to the cool of this most cool setting. I took out a Marlboro, lit it with care but aplomb, then exhaled my contribution to the overhead cloud.

Well, here I am, I pondered, finally sitting in Stark’s, finally taking a shot at this grown-up drinking stuff! Fuck those stupid college bars, it doesn’t get any better than fucking this. Or at least that’s what I thought just before it happened…

I’d caught the eye of an awesome woman who was at least an awesome thirty five awesome years old, and she was staring at me for God knows what kind of reason. But she was staring, that I knew. So I reached for my drink to gesture her way, to give her a suave “Here’s to you,” but being in the habit of drinking from the bottle I reached for the bottle and knocked over the glass with my elbow. How appropriate then were the words to that Tony Bennett song. The glass hit the copper, the copper made it shatter, and the beer from the glass soaked a good three feet of good bar space. Fucking unbelievable!!! And the woman along with the whole bar shared a fun moment. Opie spilled his milk! I could hear them thinking.

“Awww, fer’ Christ almighty sakes,” yelled the bartender, “what the hell happened here?” sounding more like my principal than my bartender. Then he approached with two damp rags, he mopped and picked, mopped and picked, carefully gathering all the shards, then finished by giving me a look of, “Do you really want to be here?” And as I scanned the bar at the myriad expressions painted on my fellow patrons, here was my unspoken answer to the bartender’s query.

In less than a half hour’s time I had paid for my Iron City beer, gone home and changed into chino’s and a crew neck and was standing in a raucous college bar in Shadyside where I belonged. That was my answer. Stark’s would have to wait, I figured, this was more my speed…  at least until I could lose that goddam Opie thing. Or handle a glass!

And so to you, my young James Bond… Mr. Shaken-not-stirred-on-the-rocks-straight-up, if you please… I know what it’s like to screw up, my friend, your friendly bartender has been there, so don’t take to heart the encounter we had in my bar. In other words, don’t be “shaken” just “stirred” to do better next time.

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

The Steep Price of a Cocktail

Just when your friendly bartender thinks he has seen and heard it all… every tort and retort that could possibly run through Bar-land… someone comes along to broaden that body of bullshit. Like this guy whom I’ll call Evan in the following story.

A week ago Friday, on a night I happened to take off, my replacement was handling my shift in yeoman fashion. He told me a nice crowd had filtered in, they all were getting along, and especially the aforementioned Evan when this woman walked by. This woman was young (Evan is not), she was beautiful (Evan is not) and she was on her way to the ladies room which clearly he wasn’t. But when she returned and passed by the bar again Evan had succeeded in getting her to come say “hello”. Evan is equipped with a thick Irish brogue and a job in which he sells men’s clothing, both of which have gifted the man with a line of charming Blarney from here to Galway. Or at least enough to buy some woman a drink.

“Marty, me Lad,” he shouted, to Marty my valiant replacement, “would you make this fine young woman a Cosmopolitan? And put it on my tab if you would, my good man.” He was beaming (I’m told) as he said this, for he’d gotten his foot in the door of Sales 101.

“Yes, Miss?” Marty questioned, nodding his head towards the woman, making sure she’d accepted Evan’s offer. “Would you like a Cosmopolitan on our friend Evan here?”

“Sure,” she said, “why not?” So Marty made the drink and the two of them toasted. But then, after a few more minutes had passed and Evan had managed to get through Step Two of Sales 101… The Presentation… this sweet young lady broke through the pitch and cut off Step number Three which of course is The Closing. And she had every right to.

“Well, thank you for the drink,” she said, “and it was very nice to have met you but I’ve got to get back to my friends who are down there waiting for me.” Then she pointed to the two guys and gal at the other end of the bar. And if one breaks down that gender ratio which Evan immediately did, it seemed that this woman was the fourth in what appeared to be two couples. And that’s when the bullshit hit the proverbial fan.

“Marty!” Evan barked, “get over here, Lad, will ya’? Did you know this  girl come in with some fookin’ guy?”

“No,” Marty replied, trying to diffuse what he could see now rumbling down the highway. “And I still don’t know that she did. I just know she’s here with three other people. Why?”

“Why? Fookin’ why yer’ askin’? The goddam girl played me for a fookin’ drink, that’s why. So take the drink off my tab and put it on theirs. Fook that!!!”

“Are you nuts? She didn’t play you, you played yourself. You ordered the drink, she drank the drink, it’s on your tab, it’s yours, case fucking closed!”

“Aww no, nothin’s fookin’ closed, Lad, unless you want me to close out me tab for good.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m never comin’ back, that’s what it means!”

All right, now this is what we call in Bar-land a situation. A real situation. Because Evan is a regular customer of ours, a good one for quite a few years, and an otherwise really nice guy until this moment. This was totally out of character for him and so why on this night of nights… on this one fookin’ night for whatever of fookin reasons… had it seemed that a stranger had shown up in Evan’s suit?

So what should one do, dear reader, or better put what would you do? And because this was an isolated incident… not the normal Evan fare… one might want to give slack and try to appease. But you know what?  Not me. Not in this silly case. Not when someone is this far out of line. So Marty, in true “replacement” fashion, thought like your friendly bartender… he closed out the tab and sent our man Evan on his way. And when I heard of Marty’s decision I immediately thought of the immortal words spoken by Marlon Brando in One-Eyed Jacks…. after he’d killed a persistent antagonist who’d flat-out asked for it… he said, “He gave me no selection.” Yes and since Evan gave no selection Marty did right.

I mean what did Quagmire expect out of this for the mere ten bucks of a Cosmo? Did he expect “this fine young woman” to spend the night? Was the next step after the drink to pick out a silver pattern? C’mon, man!

Yes Marty did the exact right thing by not bowing down to this nonsense, regular customer (otherwise good guy) or not. And when all is said and done, our fine little bar will do just fine without our man Evan’s business, but I’ll bet our man Evan won’t be fine without us. We’ve been too much a part his act for too many years. And, hey, if Evan ever does come back… if he places his tail between his legs and reduces his bark to a tiny Pekingese “yip”, we’ll welcome him back with semi-opened arms and hopefully he’ll be the wiser for his trip into folly. Everyone has a bad night and this was Evan’s.

There are no guarantees or givens, you guys, when you spring for the price of a cocktail, and no one owes you anything when you do so. Else it’s prostitution. Case closed, indeed!

PS: Before I sign off, dear reader, I’d like to take a moment here to say a couple of words about the great Budd Schulberg. He passed away this week at the age of ninety five. This legendary writer was a longtime customer of ours and his passing marks truly the end of an era. I didn’t know him well but thankfully I knew him. The first time I met him we spent an hour and a half after closing time talking about and dissecting his movie, On The Waterfront. I’ll never forget it. That night was magical. And to bring it back to the present (if I might) he’s also the subject of one of my posts, this one, if you care to go back and read it because it’s not only about Budd Schulberg but it’s the subject of one of the most amazing coincidences ever. At least to me.

Yeah, Mr. Schulberg was a great man who lived a truly amazing life… so God, this Budd’s for you.

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

Everything old is new again…

It’s probably because his youth is now an image in the rear view mirror… an ever diminishing remembrance of wild days past… that your friendly bartender reacted the way he did. Because when he heard the much younger customer say, “Damn, now that’s old!” he immediately channeled his inner Robert DeNiro.

“You talkin’ to me? Are you talkin’ to me?” he thought, as he wondered whether to set this whipper snapper straight. “Doesn’t this kid know that age gets better with age?” But when he realized the comment was not about him but rather his backbar co-star, he immediately changed the channel and canceled his Mohawk appointment.

And who is this co-star, you ask, who shines behind the stick along with the Scribbler? Why it’s that hulking, jangling, bell-ringing, banging, classic NCR cash register I’ll call Big Bertha. That’s right, for next to the endless flood of high praise that is heaped on your friendly bartender (at least two kudos per annum) few things exact more favorable reviews than Big Bertha. The minute she’s noticed hovering behind me by some curious first-time customer, who is staring as if in a museum at a T-Rex display, the focus is off of me and the questions begin.

“Wow… is that thing real?” “Hey, does that thing actually work or is it just a prop?” “Jesus, man, how old is that baby?”

“Well, that baby is circa: the 1950’s and if you want to see if she works just give me some money!”

I’m glad we’ve never replaced Big Bertha with some new-fangled, Slim-Jim computer, and not just because I’m still as tech savvy as Tarzan. It’s because a computer wouldn’t make sense in our classic surroundings. For just as that song repeats in refrain, “Everything old is new again”, why replace our “old” which is cool to new eyes? Yes, everything else you see in our place is just as it was when we opened back in the Speakeasy Era, so to throw a computer into that would be decorative malfeasance. Like hanging a pair of dice from a Stutz rear view mirror. Like redoing the rooms in the Neuschwanstein Castle with IKEA. And another reason it wouldn’t be right is the story I’m about to share with you never would have happened…

This gal came in a few weeks back with a group apparently from work, when I noticed this woman’s immediate fascination with the cash register. She was probably around thirty. And while her colleagues were bantering cost-per-thousand and who did what to whom at “that fucking meeting”, this gal just kept on staring at the big metal box. Then she spoke. “Ya’ know something, bartender, my parents had that exact same register when I was a kid. I swear to God. They were third generation owners of a candy store on the lower eastside, and that’s the kind of machine they used to use. Just looking at that thing takes me back to my childhood. Man, I remember how as a little girl I used to sit right next to the counter and wait to hear that rat-a-tat-tat and the bell go off. I just loved it!”

“Did you ever get to operate it?” I asked.

“Nah,” she said, “they sold the place before I was ever old enough. Too bad.”

“Not too bad.  C’mon behind the bar,” I said, “you can give it a whirl right now, how does that sound?”

Well, dear reader, you would’ve thought I’d handed a Stradivarius to a budding violinist. This woman was ecstatic. And after I showed her what to do (Cash Sale 101), she stepped up and did her thing on the very next transaction. “Yayyyyyy!!” she shrieked, and actually jumped up and down, as the bell went off announcing the end of her concert. She was no less proud at that very instant than had her fingers just played Mendelssohn or Brahms on that Strad. For it also announced a time in her life well remembered. “Oh, thank you,” she said, “thank you for letting me do that. You have no idea what wonderful memories this brings back. “You’re welcome,” I said, then watched her go back to her seat like that little girl again. Imagine, a little thing like that bringing so much joy. Truly sweet. And truly not ever possible with “HAL” the computer.

The guy who does the inking on Bertha when he was in the other day, had this dire prognosis after he’d finished. He said, “Ya’ know, if anything ever goes wrong with this thing it’s all over. There aren’t any parts in the first place to fix her and there ain’t no one who can fix her even if there were. She’d be ka-pooey!!”

Well, to that I say, “ka-phooey!” Big Bertha ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. She’s too much a part of what’s been not to be, and just like the great divas past… she does have her adoring public out there to think about.

Brava, Bertha!!!

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

Me and Cronkite…

Since the life and times of Walter Cronkite have been covered this week like a blanket, with every Tom, Dick and Mary coming forth with an anecdote, your friendly bartender has decided to come forth with his… his Cronkite moment. And though he’d like to share with you something on the order of, While sailing on the great man’s yacht, about a mile off the coast of Nantucket, I leaned into his good ear and inquired with devilish delight, “Tell me, Wally, who was the better man at holding his drink? Was it Harry Reasoner or Eddie R. Murrow?”… to which Walter replied as he threw back his head and roared into the saline air, in that marvelous basso profundo we’d all come to revere, “Scribbler, you’re incorrigible, ya’ know that? Now have another cold one or it’s man overboard!” Yes, he’d like to share with you tidbits like that but alas the facts won’t permit it… his encounter took place on land, in a place called Barnaby’s Hotel, and the whole ordeal took less than thirty seconds. Here’s what happened.

It was my first day on the job… a bartending gig in Manhattan Beach, California, to make enough money to get back to New York where I belonged… when, clad in my brand new Barnaby’s vest, emblazoned with the hotel logo, I rounded a corner and headed down a very long hallway. It was a Sunday, as  I recall, because they wanted to break me in by working the brunch crowd. And as I proceeded down that hallway, filled with first-day earnestness, I noticed I wasn’t alone in this carpeted portal. There, some forty feet ahead, another was walking towards me in equal earnest. It was Walter Cronkite.

Holy shit, I said to myself, this must be a classy joint. First frigging minute on the job and look who I’m seeing!

And since I had on my logo-ed uniform vest, announcing to the world I belonged there, I figured I’d give it a shot and say hello to the man. I mean this is Walter Cronkite (no?), “America’s Most Respected”, how do you not take a shot at something like this? So when I got about three feet away I threw out my greeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Cronkite,” I said, in a voice as warm and sunny as sunny California.

And in a silence as cold and bitter as a North Dakota winter, Mr. Cronkite set his jaw and brushed right by me. His eyes straight ahead.

Excuse me? Or, as they say out there in cyberspace, WTF? Did this just happen? Did America’s Most Respected just disrespect me? Did everyone’s favorite uncle just put coal in my stocking? I guess so!!!!

Now besides this being quite awkward to the “nth” it also kind of puzzled me, for it had to be harder for him not to respond than to respond. I mean we’d easily observed each other’s approach for a good twenty seconds or so, so how do you not acknowledge that other presence? Especially a presence wearing that Barnaby’s vest. This was calculated coldness.

So standing there feeling (at best) like a fool, licking my internal wounds, I finally took solace in the fact that I had me a  scoop. That’s right… a big scoop. “Guess what, America, everyone’s favorite uncle is a pompous ass! Change that word ‘avuncular’ to fucking ‘rude’! America’s Most Respected is most disrespectful! Cronkite is just another full-of-himself jerk!” I couldn’t wait to get to the bar to broadcast my scoop.

The first person I saw was the food and beverage manager, it was an hour before we opened and he was there to give me a crash course on how things worked. You know, where the inventory was located, what glasses go with what drinks, how they fill out their checks, how to work the computer register… silly shit but shit that had to be covered. Every place has a system and I had to learn theirs. But before my boss could utter a word I cut off his tutelage for a recap of what had just happened.

“Wait til you hear this,” I blurted, like some twit on Entertainment Tonight with the latest on Britney. “I just said hello to Walter Cronkite, no one else in the hall, and the son-of-a-bitch walked by me as cold as ice. Not a word, not a smile, not one freaking nothin’ but a nasty scowl. Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, I can believe it,” he said, “I’m just surprised he didn’t try to strangle you. He’s down at the desk and he can’t check out of here fast enough.”

Well, it turns out that everyone’s favorite anchor had chosen this cozy little establishment precisely because it was a cozy little establishment… an out of the way refuge under the radar. And not because he was up to no good, (this is Walter Cronkite we’re talking about) but because he was after some good old peace and quiet. But from the moment he’d picked up his room key on that previous Friday morning, to the moment he gave me the cool breeze up in the hall, the man had gotten almost none of that peace and quiet.

The owner of Barnaby’s… a Kennedy wanna-be with a mop of Kennedy hair, a gang of kids in tow and an “I’m to the manner born” pervading air about himself… had hassled the man his entire stay at the hotel. It started by asking Mr. Cronkite to pose for a family photograph portrait, to be used in the hotel brochure, which Mr. Cronkite graciously agreed to and did. Then from that moment on it spiraled into insanity. “Would you care to dine with us tonight, Mr. Cronkite” “Can I show you around the area, Mr. Cronkite? “Do you mind if I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. (so and so), Mr. Cronkite?” “Would you mind just signing this photograph if you would, Mr. Cronkite? “Is there anything else I can get you since the last time I asked if there was anything else I could get you?” A-I-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!!

And now here comes me, after a full week-end of this non-stop intrusion, boppin’ down the hall like a long lost cousin. No wonder the man couldn’t get himself past me fast enough. He was probably afraid I’d ask him to join me for a swim. Or to sing the National Anthem in two-part harmony. Jezuzzz!

And I only share this story this week not to compete with those real life Cronkite memories, that would be ridiculous, but to share with you this mighty lesson I learned. When you encounter a so-called celebrity, some hero or person of note, you never know in that moment in time what happened the moment before, what devilish act might’ve sprouted the horns on your hero. So try not to judge.

In fact just last week I encountered someone I think is pretty cool… famous chef and author, Anthony Bourdain. He’d just come out of his bank and since he was walking right beside me I threw him a compliment. “Mr. Bourdain,” I said, “loved your book, love your show, I’m really a big fan!” But after I said it, with an expression on his face that couldn’t come close to melting ice cream, it was all he could do to just nod and mouth the words, “Thank you.” Not say the words, mind you, just mouth them. But since my encounter with Uncle Wally and the wisdom accrued therein, I didn’t judge Mr. Bordain I gave him some slack. The man owed me nothing. And hey, who knows what heinous news he might’ve gotten in that “moment in time” in his bank? Or what other unhappy horseshit the man was dealing with.

So again, the moral of the story? If you ever encounter one of your favorites and he doesn’t grab you and kiss you on both cheeks, just remember, it might be because the fan before you grabbed the man and kissed him on both cheeks!

And as for you, Mr. Cronkite, I more than forgive you that moment in time, it is I who owe the apology. I’m sorry I all but scared the living be-Jesus out of you.

“And that’s the way it is….”

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

By any other name…

Unless your reason for entering a bar is to meet someone in a tryst, to go undercover for the C.I.A. or to sit by yourself in the corner and cry in your beer, then “You wanna go where everybody knows your name.” For, just like the message in that theme song from Cheers, camaraderie is usually the name of the game and it helps to pull up a stool where you are known. But if your name is not on everyone’s lips… you’re at best a semi-regular… do you know what throws down the welcome mat just as effectively? A bartender knowing the name of your drink instead. If you don’t believe me, check out this little exchange of a few weeks back. It surprises even me.

This couple in their early sixties came in, having only been in once before, and the time of that initial visit was almost a year ago. So they slid onto their stools, handed me two warm smiles, then the woman put down her purse and leaned in to order. “I’ll have a Pinot Noir,” she said, taking the lead in their dance, but before her husband could follow I quickly cut in. “And are you still a J & B rocks, Sir, with a twist?” Well, after picking them both off the floor (so to speak) they recovered enough to have the following conversation…

Him: “Jesus, man, you remembered that? You re-mem-bered that?”

Me: “Based on the way you’re acting, looks like I did.”

Him: “But how? I was only in here the once and that was a year ago.”

Her: (teasing) “Are you sure about that, dear? Are you sure it was only the once?”

Me: “I’m sure of it, Ma’am, I met him the time the two of you came in last year.”

Him: “But how do you remember one guy, one drink, almost a goddam year ago? I’m flabbergasted!”

Me: (serving up bartender B.S.) “Hey, classy people are memorable, what can I tell ya’?” Then, my healthy tip rather neatly assured, I moved down the bar leaving in my wake one very happy, very “welcomed” couple.

Now I don’t bring this up to brag, dear reader, (more B.S. there!) because I’m not really sure just how I was able to do that.  And though the story just told was clearly a home run… that rarest of feats in my game… what isn’t so rare are my frequent doubles and triples. Nailing the drinks of my occasionals… those people who come in every two or three months… is almost as common to me as that home run is rare. And I’ll bet almost every other bartender can make the same claim.

Names? That’s a different story. If I don’t write the names at the top of the tabs of the people who don’t come in often, Ben will invariably become Barney, Joan will be addressed as Janet, and Luke will morph into Lenny or freaking Aloysius! Which brings me (maybe) to a theory on how this all works.

See, a drink somehow carries a built-in identity, it pigeonholes the person who is ordering, and when the person orders that drink an association is made. She’s a Sapphire and tonic, he’s a Johnny Black rocks… painting an image more vivid than Janet or Lenny. For you don’t actually “make” something based on a person’s name, it’s just a handle in the ether, but you do make something based on the name of a drink. You perform a thirty second task matching face with that task. And it sticks. At least that’s how I figure it, else how can a guy who can’t find his keys two or three times a day, do the stuff I just stated with any regularity?

Now where you don’t want use this drink memory prowess, a mistake I’ve made in the past, is when someone comes in with a client and wants to be low key.  “Hey, man, the usual? Belvedere martini straight up?” is not what the guy wants to hear when he’s wearing his serious suit. He doesn’t want it to look like your bar is his office and jumping the gun on his drink can often convey that. A furrowed brow and a detached delivery is usually the signal he gives, but if you miss that signal you’ve clearly blown the man’s cover.

Yes, to identify a drink when the name does escape is often the perfect equalizer. And a rose is a rose by any other name but a drink is definitely who you are when you walk into Bar-land.

So in closing (and if you feel like it) how about telling your friendly bartender who you are. In other words, if you have a regular drink tell us what it is. It might just give us a mental picture to have fun with. Are you a dirty martini? Are you a whiskey sour? Are you a pint of Guinness? Are you a Side Car? Are you (good grief!) a frothy Pink Squirrel? Just for the record… your friendly bartender happens to be Jack Daniels rocks.

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

PS: For those of you not familiar with Tony… my eighty five year-old colleague and walking malaprop… see my post of December 21st called “Say What?”. For those of you who are familiar, this just in…

The other night Tony had a disagreement over policy with our benevolent owner, a woman who inherited the business from her father, so to show his clear disgruntlement he declared the following. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. If your father was alive today he’d be rolling in his grave!”

Sorry!

Sorry, gang, I won’t be posting this week… your friendly bartender is off on a mission most urgent. I can’t divulge what it is at this time except that a cape is involved, a mask, a belt with a whole lot of gadgets, and a crazy plane that streaks at four hundred miles per. But if all goes as planned and those countless lives are saved (and the medal presentations don’t drag on for too many days) I promise I’ll soon be back behind the stick and we’ll resume our ongoing Happy Hour again next Saturday. In the meantime… have a bang-up week-end, a wonderful week ahead, and until we meet again I’m holding your seat.

Cheers, guys!

PS: Does anyone know of a pill that thwarts acrophobia? Or a serum that makes one immune to Penguin fever? I don’t need them, mind you, just curious.

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 of which I speak  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 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, they are darlings and even big sisters, but in stating their case can swear like a bunch of truck drivers.

Thus I advise as well as caution you, if you ever want to get a good read, dear reader, as to who’s doing what and what the hell’s going on in a crowded joint, 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 fucking hang on! The experience can be enlightening, perhaps hilarious, and often an “R” rated event which you shall see. For their jobs are packed with urgency and pressure and pressure, as everyone knows, makes that 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. So 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!