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.
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…
Shoemoney – I need me some. Above, are my recently deceased bartending kicks. They’re in desperate need of burial-at-sea, and replacement. They’re Clark Roars and they were actually quite stylish, comfortable, affordable and stank-free when new. They finally shit the bed last week at the most inopportune time: mid-shift. The soles separated from the leather. My Clarks lasted me 10 months of nearly daily use under extremely toxic conditions. That’s not bad for a $100 pair of leathers. If you’re bartending routinely, uber-comfortable, stylish (and hopefully water-resistant) dogs are essential to your health and happiness. Unfortunately, comfy almost never plays nice with stylish and waterproof, at least not for a shoe intended for harsh bartending environments.
Note to bar owners: spring for behind-the-bar dishwashers and/or a proper dishroom. Washing glasses by hand, in your classic three-sink setup, leads to inevitable minor (and sometimes major – as seen) injuries due to hidden broken glass behind all those bubbles and murky waters. When busy, or when washed by less than O.C.D. barbacks, hand-washing also leaves a not so pleasant film on all your glasses. That’s an issue that gets progressively worse as the bar liveliness ramps up, and as the hours tick by without changing wash and rinse waters. Yum! Mucho gusto el extra flavor in cocktails!
Bartending seems pretty cool, doesn’t it? You’re sitting on your couch 4:30am, after a long night of partying, inhaling Cheetos, toking a bong, and wishing you hadn’t sucked down those last two shots of Jager. The TV is glaring and - wouldn’t you know – Tom Cruise is spinning bottles, without spilling a drop of precious booze – go figure. “Cocktail” is on again. You’re captivated by this ultimate display of Flair and enthralled with the “the good life” bartending can offer… a playboy lifestyle on a Caribbean island, and endless string of doting groupies – ready to rip of your clothes, travel, fast cars, easy drugs, blaa, blaa, blaa.
You want to be a bartender above all else. Screw the post-graduate work, your parents ambitions for you, law school, or whatever. You’ve got your eyes set on getting behind the stick. I mean, how hard could it be? Any monkey can pour drinks, right? Let’s find out…
I’m unique in appearance. You can’t really make out what I really am. My entire life, I’ve managed to both fit in to every imaginable group, as well as feel excluded from those same groups from time to time. Usually, I can deftly move into just about any group (outside of Neo-Nazis) with aplomb. I can shape-shift my appearance, swagger, tone, lexicon and dress to fit just about any environment. I’m agile like that. Well, in my latest bartending gig, you can reasonably assume I’m making full use of my God-given talents, and fully leveraging my Thug Dizzle. That’s because, I’m once again living the
Thug Life Pub Life.
In all my years of tending bar, rarely have I seen any other cocktail prepared as inconsistently (and wrongly) as ye olde Hot Toddy. Why? It’s mostly a result of the “telephone game” or Pass It Down theory of learning to bartend. It’s a situation where Barbacks working Service Bar, teach Runners “how to bartend” – the stupid passing down (uh…) knowledge to the ignorant. This cocktail requires a couple of minutes of preparation and often, a bit of running around. Usually, that means leaving the bar for a trip both to the espresso machine and perhaps to the bowels of the kitchen to retrieve necessary components. What bartender in their right mind would look forward to unnecessary complicated cocktail prep in lieu of serving 3 or 4 other gratuity-rich guests? Answer: the usual suspects – the short-sighted contingent.
Your job is not like my job. You sit in your comfy, leather-ette Herman Miller recliner, basking in the warm glow of Earth Saver florescent fixtures, eyes transfixed on that formula-heavy, Excel spreadsheet, listening mercilessly to the Senior Director of Sales wax about his penchant for your Sales organization to make next quarter’s quotas. You’re on a Web sharing, whiteboard session with a dozen other mid-level managers. You nefariously test your Mute button by saying “hello” once in a while, ensuring it’s properly working, before launching into an expletive-laced tirade with your cubicle neighbor about how your hate your job, your supervisor, and your measly 7.5% increase this year. All the while, you’re scheduling 2 “personal days” off in the adjacent window’s Human Resource Management System. You get to do that…
Bartending? Forget it. You’re talking apples and oranges. Got an unexpected hot date tomorrow? It’s Thanksgiving next week and you’re planning on chowing down with the fam? Cut your finger? Need some sutures on that bad boy? Broke an arm? Forget it – you’re totally screwed. Welcome to the world of bartending – where the reality is, every day is no day off. You get your ass to work, or you don’t get paid; or, you lose your job.
Oh Jeff the Server. How we
envy loathe thee for getting all loose at the Micros terminal and speaking/typing your mind. How we all [secretly] wish we could tell guests how we really feel, don’t we? Newsflash Jeff: (1) it seems you skipped the corporate training manual’s sensitivity training chapter (2) your parents have failed you something awful (3) you’re going to have the worst time finding a new gig – especially in Hospitality (4) you’re a straight-up, god-damned schmekel tip of the highest order and (5) in the infamous words of that dude with the terrible dome rug, you’re fired! How in the hell did the filter between your noggin and your finger tips fail you so miserabley as to assign the term “Fat Girls” to one of your checks and subsequently hand it to your guests?
Bottle of Grey Goose at Ye Old Liquor Store: $30. Same bottle at a prime NYC club: $350. Bottle imported beer at Felipe’s Corner Bodega: $1.75. Lounge price? $10. From the consumer side of the bar, we all know it makes zero financial sense. Yet, throngs of college-edumacated adults, who all took Economics 101 at the least (or who are Wharton MBA’s and Hedge Fund managers at best), continually make terrible business decisions by imbibing in the company of others. WTF? Why in the hell do rational people knowingly throw away money at some dark alter, voluntarily ingesting crap-tasting mind-altering fluids that – quite honestly – quench your thirst nowhere near as well as water or Gatorade? The explanation is simple: it’s The Bartender’s Theory of Social Anarchy.
If Moral Bedlam and Inhibition could be plotted against Time and Alcohol Consumption what’d you’d wind up with is a non-linear,increasing (to a point) curve (see Figure 1 – above). In Mathematics, it would be described as an Exponential Curve where y = b^x. I was big on Calculus in college – a Mechanical Engineering major – what can I say? I’ve been studying the situation and collecting critical data (from both sides of the bar) for decades. My findings are described herein.