Answer: this is not me. Understand? Need I explain further? I consider myself a decent-looking dude. I have exceptional cocktail knowledge, super-fine efficiency, unmatched situational awareness, and lighting speed. And oh… I can sell my ass off – something owners love. I can ring $3,000, $4,000 or even $5,000 on my register alone, without bottle service. None of that is worth a damn when attempting to compete with boobs. I’m simply outgunned in every way, shape, and – uhh – form. No matter how many “friends” my following consists off, it’s no match whatsoever for the draw someone like this consistently maintains. $1,000 and even sometimes $2,000 a night in tips – without taking [all] of her clothes off is what this girl can routinely earn.
Ponder that one for few minutes folks…
I’ll state it outright: I have instant disdain, deservedly or not, for Vodka Soda drinkers. They’re the scourge of bars everywhere – a festering scab that refuses to heal. They represent to me the epitome of mainstream. They’re Camry drivers and undergrads destined for cubicle life and 2.5 kids. They’ll eventually own a Chocolate Lab, and a vinyl-clad, attached, townhouse in Nyack. Heaven help them – please. Barf me out. No concoction at a bar screams boring, self-righteous, terrified to try something different, and “I’ve got an Eating Disorder,” louder than ye Olde Vodka-Club. Now that I’ve fully gotten my hate on properly, let’s look at some of the “facts” behind the cocktail equivalent of Rice Cakes.
1900-Series NCR Register at Karavas Tavern in Greenwich Village
To hell with Point of Sale systems. I have a message for Micros, Aloha, Squirrel and the like – F.O.A.D. (brush up on your Urban Dictionary fu if you’re confused). P.O.S. systems are ubiquitous in just about every town, and in every genre of bar and restaurant these days. 20 years ago? Not so much. WTF happened? There are two main reasons for the proliferation of computerized terminals: (a) the age of micromanagement – control-freak owners wanting as many metrics about their operations as possible and (b) The Man – big government. It’s far easier and for the
legal mafia I.R.S. to ensure that they get their vig fair share of tax revenue.
Man. Way too many folks love them some gilded-lettered, framed certificates in Gothic fonts, don’t they? It seems to make dudes pump out their chests just a little bit higher. Chicks tend to strut and hold their chins up just a wee bit more, huh? Well, today, we’re gonna set the record straight once and for all when it comes to Certifications and Licensing in the bartending profession.
No fools. Not that kind of bone. I’m talking bovine bone – the real deal – the kind my grandmother would force us to scoop the marrow out and nom it down when I was a kid. I didn’t know what the hell the stuff was at the time. As if you needed any further evidence that Gawker (and it’s primo property, Gizmodo) are full of win, they’ve got the skinny on Bone Luging.
Today, we have a new Blog Category today: Idiot Clergywoman of The Day. Although, I suspect this may turn out to be a very, very lonely section for quite some time to come. Umm… that’s probably because the other 99.999 percent of Pastors, Priests, Nuns, Deacons, Rabbis, Imams, etc. are - you know – followers of a certain credo, shall we say? Like the one that is peace-loving, forgiving, tolerant, and above all – generous. I like to believe that they are not cheap, vindictive, PMS’ing hypocirites like our sister above.