The Truth About Bourbon

Regular readers know that I’m a huge Gizmodo fan. I ingest their spiel daily like a Phoenix House graduate loving him the sights and sounds of Tompkins Square Park on a mid-Summer early morning. All of Gawker’s assets post frequently and have just about the highest quality content of any blog known to yours truly. I suspect Giz’s scribes – in particular – have a penchant for “lubricating” their minds on the regular due to the stratosphericlly far-reaching research/writing demands “bestowed” on them by their Gawker editorial mother-ship. Based on the frequency with which the divigate into articles on… uh… imbibery (containing just enough science to pass technology blog muster – nice ruse guys) I theorize that I’m not far off base. Take Brent Rose’s latest booze-themed post on America’s spirit claim-to-fame: Bourbon.

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Keg Life Ain’t For Pussies

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I tend rail on sexism in Hospitality just a bit. But, not without significant justification. Just because something isn’t right – or you don’t like it – doesn’t mean it ain’t happenin’.  At interview time, your dime-a-dozen, baseline “7″ [or greater] vixen has barely to flash a momentary grin, or timely head-bob, to have a couple dozen patiently waiting males (or not quite so fancy bitches), quickly dispatched in search employment elsewhere – resumes in hand. Never mind that she may nary be able to discern the difference between Sour Mash and typical corn Bourbon, let alone a jigger from a Julep Strainer. Recommend a full-bodied, astringent red – let’s say a “shaly,” Old World v. a New World, warmer climate-based, Napa variety? Don’t even go there. Sigh… none of that matters though to most employers though. It’s simply reality. Generally speaking however, said F.O.H. eye-candy doesn’t stand a chance in the world of sucking the limitless life out of a corporate Amex card, without a plethora of helping hands. That’s particularly true of pub life as opposed to highly-mechanized corporate Hospitality.

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Joe Ardizzone Probably Shouldn’t Be Bartending

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Since starting this blog, I’ve at times been accused of misogyny. I dunno how that’s possible. In my business, it’s a woman’s world plain and simple. So, to counter my seemingly frequent exploitation of attractive female bartenders, tonight I’m gonna show y’all naysayers wrong and highlight a man wif strumf (in the immortal words of Blaine Edwards). This is fellow Bartender Joe Ardizzone up in the Brandy’s Piano Bar heezy. Joe likes singing – a lot. I don’t know Joe personally, and I’ve never stepped foot in Brandys, but I suspect he also fancies fancy craft beers and extravagant meals at least as much as I do. But, that’s besides the point. Joe absolutely kills Creep in smashing operatic style. At this point – given his stupendous talent – Joe should probably be auditioning for The Voice, backing up Il Volo, or worst case, making serious coin belting out tunes at the West 4th St. Subway platform or something.

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Why Sysco Sucks

Ask 100 folks in Corporate Hospitality “who is the #1 supplier of restaurant supplies?” and 99 of ‘em will name drop “SysCo.” By most accounts, half of them hold nary a clue as to what exactly SysCo supplies their establishments with. But sure as Kim fancies her a successive string of (a) previously obscure ballers, swinging big sticks or (b) au current microphone fiends with [conversely] smallish peckers – both groups of lovers being pre-qualified as wealthy and of the darker persuasion – folks sure as shit know the name, and that what SysCo sells them must be yummy. Now that’s got to be a result of either (1) ungodly clever and effective marketing (2) ruthless mafioso-like sales and business tactics (ala Walmart strong-arming supply chains, buying out any/all competition, bullying those who won’t sell, etc.) or (3) a combination of both. Who the hell knows really? In the end, what matters is this: SysCo (and similar industrialized distributorships) are bearers of mediocrity pure and simple.

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Casey Young Waxes on Bad Bar Behavior

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Here at TTAB, I’m just about never opposed to showcasing a fellow bartender who (a) consistently displays mad mixology skillz or evident bartending experience and (b) has upped their social media game somthin’ special, putting their unique personalities front and center. Like many a [straight] walking penis, I’m particularly enamored when said barkeep happens to be.. ehem… hot. So it is with great pleasure that I “discovered” Ms. Casey Young recently and highlight this pretty young thing for your viewing pleasure.

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Birthdays are the Worst Days – Unless You’re a PYT

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This is Nicole (actual lovely visage concealed to protect the not innocent). She’s from that place across the Hudson whose very existence as inhabited, I frequently deny. You know… the land wafting of an oh-so-lovely sulfur-dioxide (rotten eggs) aroma border to border, a dead-end destination bustling on one end with soul-sucking casinos, and a place overrun with millions of Aqua Net encrusted, Bouffant loving, lobster-skinned reality show addicts – seemingly all ex-pats from Brooklyn. Some folks refer to this wasteland as New Jersey. I call it I-95 – a place whose sole useful purposes are to fill up on cheap gas and and maybe an Arby’s gourmet roast beef delicacy on my way to destinations South. I jest (not). Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, it was Nicky’s 24th birthday. Lucky for me, she, and two of her equally attractive girlfriends, chose my bar as their afternoon celebration destination. There’s only one problem – not a single bartender actually cares that it’s your birthday unless you’re a Nicky…

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Ejected for Excessive Creepin’

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So look it: as I’ve mentioned before, cruising for Strange isn’t exactly a forbidden hobby at bars nor will it ever be in danger of extinction, I reckon. Little – not even an attractive chick’s hand-held, beefy date – will stop a determined person (read: every other dude in the bar) from attempting to get with some hot piece of ass. The reality is that many men in bars try really, really hard - but ultimately fail - to conceal their lack of couth and real agenda. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s innate unfortunately – how us Neanderthals roll. It’s hormonal, despite what modern corporate etiquette dictates, and what current Rule of Law enforces. Though some guys may be terribly crass, most of us are pretty much harmless. But there are some who are born-and-bred, habitual line steppers. As such, they routinely toe the the line between attractive confidence, and terrifying creeper. So it was the other evening when yet another recent graduate of Cleveland’s Ariel Castro Academy, seemed willing to stop at nearly nothing to either (a) assault a lovely middle-aged guest of mine or (b) become forcibly acquainted with our mammoth bouncers and have his teeth splattered on the nearest curb.

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Lobster Does Not a Bloody Mary Make

There are Bloody Mary’s. Then there are other bevies concocted with a lil’ tomato juice, vodka, Tabasco, spices and a cacophony of fresh meat stuffs, sauteed vegetables, and or grilled organic tofu with rare, Bangladeshi, Autumn herbs shizzle. Basically, it’s some cracked-out, French Culinary Institute graduate’s idea of a meal replacement. Voila – you have lobster Gazpacho with a dash “Vocka…” err… uh… or some facsimile thereof.

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Feeling Stout, Hefe?

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What’s black and not blue, stout and wheaty, and plain old tasty as all hell? Why it’s the venerable Black and Blue! What’s that you say? When you’ve finally matured and gained class tired of pisswater, do yourself a huge favor and ask your friendly neighborhood bartender for one of these delectible jamies. It requires you to have both Blue Moon (or any Hefeweizen really) as well as Guiness (or similar Stout) on drought.

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This Bartender Knows Monogamists

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Well, more like I knew The Monogamists. Sex and The City – Season 1, Episode 7. I know, I know… it’s not Throwback Thursday just yet. But what the hell. Pouring through some really old hard drives from yester-year, I dug up some vintage photos and video footage. Some of them – naturally – I really didn’t want to see (read: relics of relationships crashed and burned). Others, had me awash in smirks and nostalgia.

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