Is it Legal To Drink Behind the Bar?

 

See my disclaimer. But I’ll mention it briefly here again: I am not a lawyer. I make no claims in regards to the legitimacy of anything I publish in this article, or any other on my blog. I will not be responsible for your [bluntly wrong] assumption that I’m dispensing legal advice. If you choose to run with it, without appropriate validation, you’re an idiot.

Since I’ve been hammered with this question lately, I thought I’d address it directly and publicly. The answer may vary from state to state, and even municipality to municipality. I live and work in New York City so my answer will be based on local hospitality experience and  familiarity with New York State and City laws. I can’t speak for Nevada, Florida, or Timbuktu. If you need additional information, or if you’re opening your own bar, I highly recommend you hire the services of a reputable corporate attorney. Those sharks are abundant in this town – you’ll have zero trouble conjuring one up.

Now that the mumbo-jumbo is out of the way, let’s get to the crux of the matter…

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‘Cause Barbacks Need Some 12-Step Love Too

Houston, we’ve got a problem. Man down… uhh… make that several men down. My barbacks of the last few months have seemingly developed a new fangled love affair for this funny tasting juice distilled from Mezcal and Agave cactus plants. I don’t know exactly what the deal is, but these bros love this stuff. They love it so much, that in the last 5 months, four of them have wound up exactly like our latest barback, above. His name was Francisco and as you can imagine, he just got shit-canned.

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All Roads Lead to Cork or Maybe Dublin

Like most Service Industry dweebs, this bartender consumes copious amounts of Jameson Irish Whiskey – pure sorcery. I drink a lot of this shit. I’d estimate that I drink it more frequently than all other alcoholic beverages I consume combined. I drink it on the job and off, both day and night. There’s only one problem: Jameson Irish Whiskey tastes like ass. Yeah, you heard me; I said it. Given the choice, I’d rather suck on a rusty hitch ball than touch the stuff. Yet, I must continue to guzzle this crap. I’ll explain why.

The heart of the issue is twofold:

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