Bartender Confidential

I will not lie to you. Tips and stories from the other side of the bar.

[bartenderconfidential-blog]

Don't order Grey Goose at a bar.

You’re all dressed up, it’s the weekend, and you’re at your favorite bar/lounge/club, ready to order some drinks. Don’t order Grey Goose.

So what can you do about it? Ask the bartender to open a new bottle in front of you when he has four open-bottles already? Good luck with that, and good luck being served again by him. Can you complain to a manager? Sure, but the manager already knows; he loves it in fact; his liquor cost is going down and his bonus is going up, right in front of his eyes.

Look, you worked all week and you’re here to celebrate, not fight the system. My advice is this: Order a different brand, like Tito’s, Absolut or Stoli. No one is really replacing those brands and they’re all excellent vodkas.

Vodka is about smoothness, and the number of times vodka has been distilled creates that smoothness. Absolut, for example, is distilled three times; plenty for a brand with a master distiller who knows what part of the distillate, (the cut, as it’s known) to keep. Grey Goose has been distilled five times; extremely smooth, and more than that seems excessive to me.

If you drink your vodka straight, go ahead and splurge on the premium brands. If you’re mixing your vodka with tonic or cranberry, mid-level brands will be easier on your wallet, and your stomach. If you’re adding red bull to the mix, vodka that comes in a plastic bottle will do nicely: You’ll save money and that’s good, because you’ll be calling out of work tomorrow anyway.

But hey, if you can’t stand the taste of anything other than Grey Goose with your Red Bull, go ahead and order it. This is your night bro. The DJ is spinning “Boyfriend”, by Justin Bieber, and that girl across the bar has been eyeing your chest hair for some time now. Buy her a drink; Goose and Red Bull for you, and the cheapest vodka they have, for her.

[bartenderconfidential-blog]

Want to become a bartender? My first bartending job.

I graduated college and had no idea what to do next. I had a passion for writing and music, but had no idea how to turn it into a vehicle for financial stability. I had not seen enough of the world to settle down and get a job, and maybe I never will. To date I have never lived in the same place for more than two years. So what to do?

Upon returning to New York City after college I landed a job working the door of a club in Times Square. I was excited by the fact that I was working in the center of the world, I met plenty of celebrities, beautiful women, and I was getting paid well on top of it.

If you go to a club you'll often see a doorman with a list, presumably it has the names of those who have reservations and are cool enough to get into the club. Mine consisted of song lyrics I was writing. I would hold the line of the club long enough for someone to introduce themselves, ask how to get in, I'd say some cliche line like "I can think of 20 things", they'd get the hint and offer a handshake with a folded twenty dollar bill, and lo and behold, their name miraculously appeared on my list. Access granted.

Fun job overall, but doormen aren't the most liked people and we frequently had to deal with fights. I wanted to work smarter not harder, and I figured that bartending was a skill I could utilize anywhere in the world so long as I spoke the language.

I paid $50 for an online course of drink recipes and basics, then I guest bartended one night at a friend's bar. One of my fellow bouncers at the club got wind that I could bartend (barely) and he informed me that his friend had a bar right under the 59th street bridge on first avenue and needed a bartender. He made a phone call, I went to the bar, met the owner and his hot Brazilian wife, and was hired on the spot.

I show up the next day, excited and nervous, ready to start or quit. It was a small bar, nothing fancy, and the owner gave me my training. The extent of it was this, "prices are listed by the cash register, ice and booze are downstairs, there's a bat behind the bar in case of any trouble, at the end of the night leave the money in the safe downstairs and don't close before 2am. Oh, here are the keys. Make sure you lock the gate and double check it when you leave."

So here I am at 25, given the keys to a bar from a man I've known for about 35 minutes, and one night of guest bartending is the extent of my practical knowledge in this line of work. What have I gotten myself into? Later that evening the owner calls. "There's an envelope behind the register for Joe from New Jersey. Give it to him when he comes in."

Sure enough not long after that a man in a trench-coat enters. "I'm Joe from New Jersey."

That's all he had to say and he knew it. I pick up the envelope, squeeze it in my hand and could only imagine how much cash was in there. The stack felt about one inch thick. Was it hundreds? What happened to the last bartender that worked here I wondered. Very shady.

"This must be for you" I say and hand it to him. He places it in his pocket and says "Alright take it easy."

I'm certainly going to die in this place, it was just a matter of how. I call my friend who got me the job and I ask him who the owner is. Should've asked beforehand. It turns out he's a bookie with mafia ties.

Ok, so the place is a front. Money laundering. I'm here on my first day bartending, and I just made an exchange. I shouldn't mention to the owner that my father is a detective. Best to stay off that radar.

For some reason I'm intrigued by the place, so I stay and I work here for about 8 months. I met very seedy people, pathetic regulars, one guy who would smoke an entire pack of cigarettes from 4-7pm, and would dip his fingers in the ashes of his tray and make ash drawings on a sheet of paper. He was actually pretty good and I can almost remember his name.

I was paid in cash, I could drink behind the bar, my friends would come in and I wouldn't charge them, I played whatever music I wanted, handed envelopes of cash over to shady guys who would only say their first name and where they were from, and hooked up with a few different girls downstairs by the ice machine, one of whom would give me a large tip upon leaving which made me feel like a male prostitute which was great.

I felt alive and was experiencing a part of life some would describe as the underbelly and it was fantastic. I knew that what was cool at 25 would be pathetic at 35, but here I was at 25 and I soaked it up.

I was playing music in a band, acting in an Off Broadway play, and bartending in a dive bar under the Queensboro bridge. I was living the high life, making memories, and I knew it wasn't forever because I didn't want it to be. I always kept my eye on that bat behind the bar, wondering when I'd have to use it and if it would all be worth it. Fast forward to today. Totally worth it.

[bartenderconfidential-blog]

The most embarassing thing I've ever seen in a bar...ever.

So this is my first entry, and I’m leading with this, the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen in a bar…ever. Why start with this? I’ve been cursed you see, and what better way to introduce myself than by sharing a horrible story, of a girl, and a little known holiday where people sometimes drink too much known as, New Year’s Eve.

I can still see it, burned into my mind’s eye. Disgusting. A true mess this girl was. I’m trying to set it up for you but all I see is the outcome and I shake my head at it. She was probably a sweet girl for all I know. Poor thing, out celebrating on New Year’s Eve with her friends. She was in high spirits when the night began I’m sure. Probably bought that sequin dress just for this occasion. She couldn’t have been over 21, so this may have been her first New Year’s Eve celebration where she was legally allowed to drink in the great city of New York. Outstanding. Mind you I did not encounter this girl at all while she was sober. I didn’t serve her, she was sitting at a table with friends being served by a waitress no doubt. Waitresses. See, a bartender has way more discretion in cutting people off who have had too much. I’m pouring the drink in front of you, you drunk bastard, so if you can’t pronounce your own last name for the tab you started, you’re not getting the drink. But, waitresses…they will gladly take your money and ring that drink in, and if you ordered Grey Goose and cranberry, that’s not Grey Goose you’re getting, but we’ll get to that topic another time. If you think I’m bashing waitresses, I’m not. I love waitresses. I’m dating one now. But this is a bartender’s blog, enough said. Back to the girl.

I’m bartending at this lounge in a boutique hotel on Park Avenue near Union Square in Manhattan. It’s New Year’s Eve 2006, and the single digit temperature didn’t stop these women from wanting to be naked, but at the last minute they decided that they would play hard to get, so they decided to wear panties. Our girl wore panties, thank God, but those poor threads of cotton were no match for her over-indulgence, and in the end, it couldn’t save her.

New Year’s Eve is a rookie holiday. It’s the biggest one of them, with St. Patrick’s Day and Cinco De Mayo rounding out the top three. In Manhattan, the crowd that night is known as bridge and tunnel, being that most of them came from Long Island or New Jersey, and crossed a bridge or tunnel on their way to party in the big apple. No disrespect, I’m from Long Island originally. This girl was definitely bridge and tunnel.

The night was winding down. The champagne had been popped hours ago, and we were reaching our threshold at around 2am, where everyone is hammered and we’ve made our money, so it’s kind of pointless to stay open another two hours just so the crowd can stay and feel each other up in the dark corners of the bar. We should wrap it up before people start passing out and the bartenders become babysitters. This girl beat us to the punch.

Here I am meeting this girl for the first time in life on this planet we call Earth. This is the girl that I would blog about 6 years later. A staff member comes over to me at the bar and says “George this girl needs help.” So I come out from behind the bar, and there I see the subject of our story for the first time. White girl, 5 foot 6”, brunette, sequin dress…then she started vomiting.

With an open mouth this girl rejected everything that was inside of her. “Fuck it” her body said, and she gave it all back. I don’t know how many people she hit with the vomit, not enough to cause a riot, but enough to open up a 12 foot circle around her in a packed lounge. 

How can I help this girl without being attacked by her undigested drinks? There’s got to be a better angle. I’ve got to get behind her. I slip around to her backside and place my hands on her shoulders holding her so she is unable to turn. Like trying to grab a hose spewing water in every direction, once you get your hands on it, you grip it tight because this girl could go off at anytime. 

Being behind her was great. It was like holding a loaded gun or being behind a police car in highway traffic. Every way I turned her, a lane opened up.

Her brain wasn’t working right, that was for sure. It gave up when it sent the signal OK’ing the release of her stomach contents. I felt bad in a way. We stole this girl’s money. She purchased liquor from us at a premium, and then didn’t keep any of it for herself. Her legs were like rubber bands. Where were her friends? Dance floor probably. They were paying for this night too and couldn’t be bothered.

Our lounge was one floor below street level. There in front of me and my victim was a staircase that lead up to the front door. It looked impossible to climb. With the help of two other staff members we began the ascent, one quivering leg at a time.

I stayed behind her, as the two other staff members each stood by her side, holding her by her armpits. I figured staying behind her was the safest move. We got about halfway up the staircase and I’m watching her feet to make sure she gets each foot up onto the next step. As I’m looking down I notice that her dress has ridden up on her and I’m staring at her ass. I’m not a pervert, I didn’t get any kind of thrill by seeing this, although it wasn’t a bad ass, it was just that this girl was such a wreck, you’d have to be soulless not to feel for her. I want to lower her dress for her and cover her backside, but this girl will go down if I let go. Then this happened.

I noticed a spot. A small dark spot on her panties, now getting bigger. What, the fuck, is happening. This spot is spreading and it’s not what you think, or maybe it is. It’s big enough now to see that it is a dark red spot and I realize, oh shit no, this girl is having her period right now.

God hates this girl. I’m standing behind her as her panties absorb the blood and the spot gets larger. I’m sorry this is so graphic, but this is what I witnessed. Life didn’t censor it for me, so I’m not censoring it for you. This is burned in my mind, and I’ll probably remember it when I’m 80 years old. The poor thing. I mean this is some poor bastard’s daughter.

So now what? Vomit I’ve seen before, this is an entirely different kind of animal. Blood, coming from down there. I didn’t sign up for this shit, but here we are and there’s no going back now. We’re halfway up the stairs, as far away from the bottom as we are to the top. No man’s land. Fuck the dress, we need to get this girl up the stairs.

When we do finally get to the top, the girl's friend shows up. I guess word had spread. She pulls the girl’s dress down thank God, and as she does our hero vomits again. This time she is lacking in force, probably because the valves were open at both ends, so to speak. Disgusting. The vomit streams out of her mouth, down her neck and onto her chest. This dress is ruined. Just get rid of it. Burn it. Don’t even try washing it. Who wants this memory.

We sit her down on the curb and more of her friends arrive. A guy now comes up, and they’re rubbing her back trying to comfort the girl. She starts crying. Who did this to this girl? I swear it wasn’t me. She is responsible for herself, I don’t know what she decided to take, or drink. 

I’m in the street trying to flag down a cab. I look back at the girl and her legs are spread open, she doesn’t even have the sense or the strength to keep them closed, and there in full view is her period. Burned image number 2, thank you. Her guy friend sees it too. There’s nothing, nothing we can do for her at this point. She was crying for a bit, now she’s just drooling. If I had seen an ambulance I would’ve probably waved it down, but what could they do for her, pump her stomach? There’s nothing in there. It’s on her and in the club for everyone to see. Then the trifecta completes itself.

I remember it clearly, looking at her from the street as she sits on the curb, sequin dress up around her hips, red panties that were once white, vomit on her chest and neck, tears in her eyes, drool on her lips and it’s around 9 degrees out. There is a fire hydrant to her left, and her friends are petting her. She quivers a bit, like the body wants to throw up more, but there’s nothing. So instead, all of it’s functions give up, and the girl starts peeing.

A puddle emerges from her panties and begins to surround her. She’s sitting in it, not moving. She’s done. Game over. Shoot her. If it were me I’d want someone to shoot me. There’s no coming back from this. It drips down the curb and finds the street. Her friends stand up, step back, don't want to ruin their shoes. “Oh God” one of them says. It's all one could say, but it won’t do anything. I give up. I put my arm down. What fucking taxi is going to pick this girl up? She’s a casualty. She's the most pathetic heap of a human being I have ever seen. If she had melted into the gutter and out of existence her friends probably would've shrugged it off and said, "it's better this way".

People, don’t do this to yourself. Just don’t do it. Blood, urine, vomit, all in a pretty sequin dress. Happy New Year. Thank you for making the drinking age 21 in this country. When human beings are told we can’t have something, we want it more. So when we turn 21 and can all of a sudden have as much of this as we want, we abuse it and something like this happens. This girl was taught no self control. You can’t say "no no no", followed by, “here you go” with no limit. It’s a bad formula. A better way would be to introduce it, step by step, not nothing followed by everything. I digress.

She was surrounded by friends now, my part in it was over; wish it had never begun. The girl will never live this down. I felt sorry for her, but now, I actually think that she owes me an apology. She has no recollection of that night I’m sure, and I have to live with it. What a way to enter your adult drinking life. I wonder where she is now. She could be reading this and would never know it was her. Is this you? Are you the girl? Did you make a comeback from this? I doubt it, but if so, please email me at [email protected] to apologize.

Three things could have drastically altered this for the better: number one…tampons, number two…pants, and number three…order from the bar. I would’ve cut you off way before you got this bad. Waitresses get your own blog:)