“Would you like it neat or on the rocks,” I asked the faux-blonde-headed woman next to her silent, excessively tan husband. The presumptive out-of-towner woman responded, “Big rock and an orange slice.” As my dear friend and eccentric bar manager supervised, I poured up two separate shots of the most expensive tequila in our Latin-fusion restaurant upon singular, solid ice cubes. I, too, was a restaurant manager, but I operated under less bar-centric duties. The couple strolled into the restaurant slightly before the specified hours of operation began, but when you are in the “yes” business, you can only say “no” enough times ’til it’s pure laziness. Plus, we were seemingly making money, and it was no sweat off of our asses.
The couple knew what they wanted before they made contact with the bar stools, and my coworker and I reacted accordingly, as we anticipated a Friday night plagued with ordinary margarita drinkers. The woman, concerningly eager to gulp her trophied tequila, requested the check as her quiet husband remained with his half-drunken bracer. Her total cost, unexpected and pricey, was blatantly an issue. “I am from New York, and it wouldn’t be half this price,” said the snarky woman. I glanced at my vibrantly multicolor-haired coworker with an unapologetic expression, only to receive the same from her. At the request of the manager, we both refrained from aimlessly walking to the kitchen, out of sight, and returning only to reintroduce ourselves as a sarcastic response. It was ironic that her sense of entitlement resembled the customers and residents in the richest, whitest area of Alabama.
“We are the managers, and we don’t set the prices,” said my then slightly spiteful yet bold coworker. Our lovely customer asked for the person who set the prices, our boss, who was out of town, and we fell short of an answer that would alleviate the woman’s blood-pumping frustration. “Okay, well, I will pay for mine, but I am not paying for his,” she proclaimed, as the husband, still with a half-full glass, abstained from intervention. I didn’t charge her for his drink; technically, I didn’t have to, given the husband lacked his wife’s nearly alarming haste. She clenched her phone with the calculator app open, crunching the numbers of the bottle’s typical retail price and total fluid ounces, arriving at the irrational cost of her liking. Using the focus of a matador facing a steaming bull, I activated every muscle in my body to refrain from adding ten more shots to her tab.
The number indicated that the restaurant would make no profit, apparently coinciding with her “New York” standards. We reiterated our lack of pricing authority, and she repeated, “That is just so ridiculous. It would never be this expensive in New York.” In reality, it probably is cheaper in the Big Apple. But she was in aspiringly metropolitan Birmingham, Alabama, where liquor laws are rigorous, and the bartenders drink the expensive tequila that your silent husband does not.
I didn’t feel a morsel of sympathy for her, and that isn’t because she left zero dollars as a tip. No, I felt no remorse because I did not care what she thought about the price of the tequila. I was there to sell it, make money, and pay my bills. Sure, I acquired some pride in my job and deeply respected my bosses, but nothing about this encounter disrupted my delightful and satisfying sleep that night.
Bartending presents a plethora of walks of life, depending on where you are. Unlike your tried-and-true, liquor-slinging dive bars cloaked in cigarette smoke and neglected mold, I have only bartended in self-proclaimed upscale restaurants. Nonetheless, you still get your liquor and wine snobs, alcoholics, close buddies, and your 40-year-old couples on a date night that sit at the bar to reinstate their youthfulness somehow.
Spend a few months behind the wood or marble, and you will realize that all those descriptions apply to every bar guest you might ever face. It doesn’t matter how well-versed these folks are in Spanish, Italian, French, or California wines; they will confidently confide in your descriptions and pairings as if you actually know what the hell you are talking about. Most bartenders want them to make a decision because the quicker they do, the faster the bartender can repeat their steps with the customer three seats down, hoping they tip better than their fellow Willamette Valley phonies.
If you work at a bar that doesn’t require you to compete with what feels like every voice you have ever heard and thumping electronic music, then you hear a lot. I am hard of hearing, which is a Southern way of saying I can’t hear as well as I should. But there are times, behind the bar, that I have unwillingly heard conversations that would easily spark a reaction from someone as sensory-deprived as Hellen Keller. We industry folk call this “Bartender Ears.” We know customers aren’t including us in the conversation. Still, it’s difficult to ignore the volume of voices discussing hot tub promiscuity and mistresses or the disappointing gas mileage of their brand-new Mercedes G-Wagon.
The truth is, we don’t care either. Most of us work with a tenacity driven by the fear of missing payments, which may marginalize our credit score compared to that of our typical clientele. Some bartenders are vastly experienced or have invested a significant amount of their free time studying mixology, contrasting with their college student counterparts, who scrape by just enough to comfortably go out on “Taco Tuesday.”
Contingent with ambiguous customers, bartenders are unpredictable as well. Some bartenders will buy you a shot or may serve it without paying while they swallow their own, only to find they have duplicates of shot glasses ready for potentially destructive swigging. They will douse themselves in the juice of their bosses’ dollars and excuse it by declaring, “It’s part of the job.” Other bartenders will spend two hours preparing a puree for a cocktail that calls for only a half ounce and then explain to the customer that the singular dash of Angostura bitters is what truly brought out that beloved cough syrup flavor they are pretending to enjoy.
Neither one, at least in moderation and correlation with the law and restaurants’ standards, should be ashamed for any reason. The job is entertaining. Bartenders get to be creative, thrive on adrenaline, and cultivate a craft that will inherently show in our paychecks if we play our cards right. Some bartenders are better at talking, and some excel with their lips sewn shut as they compensate with their tireless, rugged hands and strained biceps.
I am a bartender who hopes to crank out drinks. But upon my first grip of the tin, I longed for my final shake. My mind has always strayed from the contents I hoist into the air and finally into the mouths of strangers who likely care less about me than I do them. Bartending is typically a fruitful career, again, depending on where you work. It can be amusing enough to tide us over ’til payday, but it can damage our sleep schedule, livers, joints, and social life if we let it. “Cole, the bartender,” some customers have called me as I wince and create a list of personality traits wholly dislocated from the money I have in the bank, even if it’s not much. My work for my bar guests tells them nothing about me.
The fact of the matter is that I rarely give a damn about how customers review my cocktails. That doesn’t mean I intentionally concoct drinks that will come out the same way they went down. No, I make drinks with the intent of being up-to-par, but mostly so it is all said and done once the customer touches their so-catered lips to a beverage I designed merely to mute their scattered voices. Even if they glide by the bar on their way out and say, “The drinks were amazing,” I will smile and thank them, unaware of what they ordered. It could have been a beer.
I am not afraid of hard work. Sometimes, however, bartending is more than a hoot-and-holler away from labor. I find it leisurely when the servers frantically pace from the well to their sea of customers, but undoubtedly empathetic nonetheless. Where I lack customer concerns, I aspire to compensate by accommodating those with whom I have built genuine connections. It is quite an intimate notion to immerse in the dynamics of working alongside another bartender. This chemistry is where two coworkers of the same trade adapt to each other’s mannerisms, strengths, and patterns. This is where they begin to predict each other’s movements in times of frenzy and pandemonium. Amidst that chaos, knowing your partner-in-crime’s next move can calm the storm that you get paid to moderate.
The food service industry is a physically and mentally taxing business. Though I haven’t worked in places where I clock in at 9 p.m. and DoorDash Taco Bell when I get home at 4 a.m., the nature of the trade still scratches at my inner delinquent. It is awfully common for servers and bartenders to weasel their way to another bar where the service is charmingly mediocre, and you pay no more than ten dollars for a Coors Banquet and a shot of the cheapest jet fuel disguised as tequila on your itemized receipt. Just say yes to the lime.
It is equally as common for these individuals to commit health crimes in the midst of it all. From sketchy cocaine in even sketchier bathrooms to cowboy killers, from a shot too many to being a little bit of an asshole to someone who doesn’t deserve it, we are more liable to degeneracy. From ignoring your lower back pain that will only get worse with age to showing up to work the next day wreaking of vomit and curse words, we anticipate our memories whenever our headaches dissipate and we have performed damage control on the text messages we regret.
Sadly enough, many people tread the line of concern. At the moment, it’s funny when your coworker’s filter evaporates as they vent about work. It’s less comical when they go home ready to verbally abuse their significant other or collide with a pine tree, increasing payments towards the car insurance that they may or may not have. Our cheeks can rest from laughter when they chronically call out of work and inevitably never return because they are ashamed to admit that they are too occupied with rehab.
I can openly admit that substance abuse was not a concern until I started bartending. The devil at the bottom of a bottle is so suave, slick, and persuasive the more time you spend with him. I am not proud of it, but I know some of my contemporaries willingly listen to him with significantly less regard for consequences. “No, I think I’m going to have a dry week,” I have said numerous times. I have grown enough to know that I mean it when I say it now. But it’s a common practice. According to a study by American Addiction Centers, one in five food service workers use drugs or alcohol multiple times a week outside of work. 40 percent consider casual substance use to be a part of their work culture.
We are essentially actors, putting on a face that mimics genuine worry for our customers’ experiences. We often find ourselves in positions where socializing is less encouraged and more mandatory, and our tips may reflect this. We clock in, never truly knowing what type of night awaits us, but pissed if it is either too slow or so busy that breathing becomes a voluntary exercise. We incessantly need to take a load off, or we feel like our days only consist of a muscle memory craft worth only an unspoken 20 percent of the business, which we also can’t guarantee.
Most workers only stay in one place for a short time. Some employees need a change of scenery, don’t make enough money, are fired for saying something racist, sleep with their coworkers and leave because it’s awkward now, or somehow show up to their brunch shift drunk. Some people just don’t care. There are many reasons why your dearest bartender may have left your default lunch spot. It’s a trade that will always stay in style, and the offer of something better or worse is always there for us. I don’t take it seriously. I don’t believe you should take anything too seriously. But that doesn’t mean your tips don’t pay my bills.
cole manasco 