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…
Chicks and credit cards. When did they become joined at the hip and so socially unaware of anyone and everything around them? Young chicks, old chicks, models, fugly chicks, college girls, 4′s, 9′s, sophisticated Upper-East-Siders… all kinds. It’s as if 8 out of 10 of them skipped the entire semester on Dining and Drinking Etiquette – opting instead for How to Behave Badly at Bar 101.
The air around a gaggle of girls rolling up my bar is so thick with anticipation, it makes bartenders instantly panic-stricken. The last thing I want to see when I’m rolling 3-deep on a Friday night, is see Cindy, Paula, Antionette and Lindsey sashay (they do that on purpose) up to the counter. They’re all 24 years of age, sporting super-sexy platforms platforms, barely-there spaghetti-string chiffon blouses, and skirts that really don’t hide their vajayjays all that well from most angles.
Compared to the small niche of Mixologist/Cocktail bloggers, and the even smaller subset of Bartender-Bloggers, I’m terribly wet behind the ears in El Blogospher-O. I should have kept a journal of my experiences beginning Day-1, in 1994. As of this writing, this blog is only 9 or 10 months old. Regardless, if you take a random sampling of my posts, you might come to the gnarly conclusion that I’m somewhat of a misogynistic pig of man – a dickhead. Fair enough in some circles I guess. I’ve even received comments from outsiders, shocked that I’m in the service industry at all due to my apparent “attitude.” In the actual bar/restaurant world, none of that is even remotely true. It doesn’t even accurately describe the somewhat sensationalized character responsible for this blog.
I must have mentioned chicks’ and boobs about eleventy billion times since I got started here. I’ve also gotten my Hatorade on extensively in terms of my frequent references to huge favoritism towards hot chicks in most of the NYC bartending world.
I’m not crazy. I simply have a penis and, like most men who haven’t been lobotomized, have allowed it to veer me off into the wrong direction at times. Furthermore, I’ve experienced the discrimination I document, first-hand for years.
Well, tonight, it will help me sleep ever so slightly better to know I’m not the only dick in town who can’t help but point out the obvious (no pun intended). Just head on over to these fine hormone laden authors’ blogs, who handily confirm my musings and experiences.
- Bartending and Your Boobs – Darcy O’Neil. This is the Godfather of Bartender Bloggers. He’s been at it for 7 freaking years.
- Wanted: Female Bartenders – Doug. I think this guy should have been a syndicated columnist or some shit as opposed to a blogger. He’s got just the right combination of content, funny bone, timing and tying the whole story together – a rare gift.
- I’m Female… And I Still Don’t Understand This Shit – Krissy. Writer extraordinaire. Attractively loose at the lips – no holds barred. Love it.
On Rolling in the Deep
Bartenders: In packed neighborhoods teeming with nightclubs (Chelsea, The Village, MPD, LES, Bedford), filled with weekend bridge-and-tunnel drunkards, bartenders are expected to handle a bar 3 or 4 deep for hours, without suffering a mental breakdown or losing money.
Mixologists: Doesn’t happen. A lot of mixologists hone their skills either in boutique or high-end hotel bars – places like PDT and Apotheke, and The Four Seasons, Le Bernadin, and Le Cirque. They take their sweet-ass time, blending Employee Manual certified house cocktails to perfection. However, put them in a club setting, with an extremely loud DJ, and shirtless cokeheads begging for Goose-Redbull and a Gatorade, and they’d run crying for their Mamas.
Jessica Elizabeth… you complete me. Oh Proof nightclub.. you had me at boobage.
So, the genius powers-that-be at Proof nightclub in Chi-town decide it’s in their best interests to hire a stripper-looking bartender to boost business. They proceed to employ a stereotypical, bleach blonde bimbo; one with a perfectly matched, but ghastly, set of surgically enhanced, out for the world to see, double-dee endowments, an unbelievably even glow
disgusting spray on salon tan, and fresh bleached teefs.
Now, I may be wrong (does an Oh God 360), but I suspect that the manager/owner who did the hiring, in this case, was a dude. I also surmise that Ms. Elizabeth would stare like a deer in headlights, if I walked in and ordered a Perfect Manhattan, Seagrams V.O. Old Fashioned, or Knob Mint Julep. I’d likely be directed to enjoy a refreshing Jack & Coke instead. I challenge you to prove me wrong on both charges.
Well, the eagle has landed. I’ve got a new gig in one of New York’s uber-busy and desirable destinations – The Meatpacking District. For those not in the know, there are very few actual meat processing facilities there. Rather, it’s a trendy bar/restaurant/lounge/hotel “scene.” The area has a storied history dating back to a time when – yes – it was a dingy/dirty/stinky meat processing, warehouse infested, blue-collar industrial strip. An elevated railroad ran through the West Side, beginning in MPD in order to deliver pre-processed carcasses as well as to ship out post-processed meat products. Though the train ceased all operations decades ago, alongside the exodus of most meat processing facilities, the elevated tracks remained and have been famously turned into the urban oasis called the Hi-Line.
A while back, on a late weekday evening, an uncommon but highly interesting interaction unfolded. It was about 2:00am – so most of the 9 to 5 revellers had long cleared out. There were maybe 8 or 9 customers left at the bar quietly engaged in conversation. There was a pair of cute girls – both maybe around 30 years old. One was White and one was Latina. Both were impeccably dressed, engaging, funny and had been tipping well. They weren’t obscenely intoxicated, just happily buzzed.
The early evening shift bartender had cleared out and it was just me and my barback “T” on the closing end – awaiting 4:00 a.m. T was clearing the bus bins near the girls when they started chatting him up. Watching from a distance, tending to another customer, I noticed some very strange looks coming from their direction.
A minute later, T wanders my way giggling himself silly. He reports to me: “Yo, those girls are crazy. They asked me to take my shirt off!” I looked at him completely baffled and . “What was your response?” I gasped. T says “I told them ‘Hell no!’” I shook my head, put my fatherly hand on his shoulder and relayed my huge disappointment in his youthful inexperience.