Where Do Retired Bartenders Go?

Ok, where do all the old-school, life-long bartenders go?
I mean, when a bartender pulls his last draft, or mixes his last Martini, then what? What's next?Before they want to sit and vegetate on the couch before the "big event."

Most of them hang it up, probably sometime in their fifties. I'm talking about professional barkeeps, not the young bar stars who just do it till they get "discovered" and think they're the next Marlon Brando.
A lot of them don't work much past fifty or so, due to age discrimination. Yeah, it seems as if these restaurant and bar owners would rather have some flunkie behind the bar, rather than a real experienced pro who knows how to mix classic cocktails.
Some of these guys and gals have been established in unionized hotels, and they have "tenure."
But these lucky rubes are few and far between.
For the rest of us, we have to compete with the FaceBook crowd, who'd rather text and tweet than study up on cocktails. But when you think about it, I guess that's pretty much the case, no matter what profession you're in. You're past fifty? Better hope you have a nice pension that's been in the works!

So, what do these ageing cocktail shakers do?
Some of them become brand ambassadors for various liquor products. That's actually a good venue for someone coming out of the bar trade. Who else to spout off about the qualities of a particular liquor than someone who knows the real deal? Who else would know what types of cocktails a particular bottle of liquor would mix well with?
Why, an ex-bartender, of course!
Not only would he have the knowledge of a particular product, but also the contacts to sell that product. If he's in the same city where his plyed his trade beforehand.

Some of the smart bartenders may have saved enough money to open their own bar. But probably not too many of them around. Why? Because many bartenders don't save their money, unfortunately. They have to spread the spoils after work. There are after-shift cocktails to be consumed, after all.
There are certain bars around town, where after midnight, it's all restaurant workers. Bartenders, waiters, busboys, cooks, chefs, etc., all comparing stories about who had the worst customer of the night. Sometimes it's a rather close call. A photo finish, so to say.
And they all try to out tip each other!

Harry Craddock, one of the original bartending pioneers, was born in 1875, in England, and came to America in 1897. He was a hotel bartender all his life. When prohibition started in 1920, he, like a lot of other American bartenders, made a mass exodus to Europe to work their trade. Harry became head bartender at the Savoy Hotel in London, and penned one of the best books ever on cocktails, "The Savoy Cocktail Book."  Harry Craddock worked as a bartender all his life, and didn't retire till sometime in the 1950's.
After his retirement, "He wasn't drinking cocktails anymore. 'I had so much over 60 years that I  didn't want anymore.'"
He died in 1963, 87 years old, from vascular degeneration and a cerebral haemorrhage.
Harry Craddock was one of the few old-time bartenders who worked his trade from the time he was a young man, until his retirement, which was about a decade or so before his death during old age.
(Above quotes and info on Harry Craddock from "The Deans of Drink," by Anistatia Miller and Jared Brown. Published 2013.)

Then there are the retired bartenders who spend their remaining days in bars. They go to their old haunts, if they're still around, and watch the action from the sidelines.
Two trains of thought come to their minds, as they watch the bartender run around behind the bar like a trapped rat, when the bar is packed three deep, and arms are waving, and people yelling,  "Hey buddy, where's my drink?!"
First thought: "I sure do miss this."
Second thought (the majority): "Sure glad I'm out of this. You coudn't pay me enough to do this again."

Some of the literate bartenders may decide to pen their memoirs. Changing the names to "protect" the guilty!

And let's not forget the "fun bunch" who meet up for lunch somewhere at the local diner, and reminisce about the old days over endless glasses of buttermilk, so as not to aggravate their ulcers.

Lastly, there are those retired bartenders, whose only bar they come remotely close to is the coffee bar at the local AA meeting!

God bless them all!
 

STRAIGHT UP, WITH A TWIST

STRAIGHT UP, WITH A TWIST

A Short Story

By

Nick Wineriter





     Four pm on a Tuesday afternoon and Rodney, on his way to work, was still hung over.

Pretty typical for a Monday night bartender to feel, he thought. Kicked out all the riff-raff

at one am, then let the regular customers stay on. Cranked the music back up, re-opened

the bar, and had Sam, the bar back, go back in the kitchen and start frying some omelets.

By the time Rodney got out, half-a-dozen daiquiris later, it was six am, the sun

was coming up, and people were actually out and about. After having worked night shifts

for the past twenty years, he thought it funny that people were up doing things at this

time of day. On a normal morning, Rodney would not reach the REM stage of sleep till

about nine am.


      For a forty-five year old man, Rodney was still in good shape. At six feet four, and two

hundred and fifty-five pounds, his three days a week workouts kept him muscular. More

so than his younger proteges. He often held court at the bar with his college football

stories, like Homer holding forth about Odysseus. He was never able to finish his story

about how he broke his coach’s jaw. “That’s a two-hour story,” he always said. When

a bar fight started, he usually prevented it by telling the belligerent drunks that he would

get the winner.

    His salt-and-pepper hair, stylishly cut but a bit pre-maturely grey, seemed to age him

before his time, like a patch of newly sodded lawn that starts turning brown before it

takes to a new ground.



     Rodney walked into work at the Sidecar Pub at four-thirty pm. The pub, located in

the Georgetown section of Washington, DC,  was named after a classic cocktail called a

 Sidecar.  The story behind the Sidecar has it invented during the First World War.

A bartender at Harry’s New York Bar in Paris came up with it in honor of one of his

best customers who always arrived at his bar in the sidecar of a motor bike.

    The Sidecar was open only in the evening. No lunches. Rodney always liked

setting up a bar. He didn’t have to clean up after some sloppy day bartender who left

dirty ashtrays all over the place. And he could set the bar up to his liking. Placement was

very important. Everything had to be within six steps. It helped him stay ahead of his

customers and not get buried, or “in the weeds,” in restaurant-ese.

    Rodney was old-school. He always carried his shaker and strainer with him to work,

and took them home at the end of his shift. Other places he worked it seemed like he

could never find anything he needed. His bar partner would never leave the shaker

where it was supposed to be. He decided it was better to just bring in his own and

keep them close at hand. He also preferred working solo. Most bars are narrow behind

the wood, and with his size it was always a tight squeeze for him to get around anyone

else that was back there with him.  

    The bar had twelve stools. Long and rectangular, with a light colored, almost

blonde, mahogany wood. With three Tiffany-style lamps hanging down from the

ceiling and equidistant from each other, it had the look of a Victorian bar.

Definitely pre-prohibition, turn-of-the-century.

    Rodney always tried to conduct himself in a professional manner when behind the bar.

He always felt that customer service was more important than the cocktail itself. He

didn’t consider himself anyone’s personal valet. He wanted his bar clients to think of

him as a person, not a servant.

    The atmosphere was always positive and upbeat when he was on duty. His goal was to

maintain a light-hearted vibe. He wanted people to come in to relax and enjoy

themselves. Guests shouldn’t see a bartender with a down-trodden face, looking as if he

were on a guilt trip for clubbing a baby seal. Rodney always told his customers that if

they were having a better time than he was, he was in the wrong business. It was as if his

customers were guests at his home, and he was the host.

         
    Being Tuesday,  he knew ahead of time that he’d be going home tonight with a feather

weight wallet. Walking into work, the first thing he saw was a female body slumped over

the bar. How long had she been there? he thought. Probably some young thing that

couldn’t hold her shots of Jaeger and had passed out in the bathroom, and didn’t come to

till after the manager had locked up and left for the night.

     As Rodney approached the bar, he realized he was wrong. This young thing was

very much awake, and actually slouched over the bar studying the cocktail menu.

Hearing Rodney come in, she turned around quickly, stuck her hand out and said: “Hi,

I’m Trudy.”

     Thinking she was another liquor rep wanting to sell something he didn’t really want or

need, Rodney just stood there. His head still had the Ramones dancing around inside.

     “The new server,” Trudy said.

     “You old enough to serve drinks?” said Rodney, while his right hand fumbled the

change in his pants pocket.

     “Old enough to serve em’ and drink em’, said Trudy, while thinking that this must be

Rodney. She put her hand back down. He fit’s the reputation, she thought.

     “I run a tight bar,” said Rodney. “Every cocktail that goes across this bar is made from

scratch. We don’t cut corners, and our cocktails are not made from cookie-cutters.

Understand?”

     “I think I get it,” said Trudy, as she thought that his lineage might be descended from

Lieutenant Bligh.

     “Take that menu home and study it,” said Rodney. “Your first drink quiz will be

Friday night. You need to know our cocktail list front and back, top-to-bottom, inside

out. You need to know all the ingredients, infusions, garnishes, recipes, and glassware.

Drink history and cocktail lore are of prime importance. I mix the drinks here, so just

remember that when you’re on the floor, you’re out there representing me, not the

establishment.”
 
     Whew, thought Trudy, as Rodney went back behind the bar. Nice introduction.

Picking up her purse, and not forgetting her study materials, she left for the trek home.


     Trudy was in no big hurry for Friday to arrive. She studied her material every day

without fail. It can’t be that bad, she thought. It’s just a cocktail quiz. I’m not trying to

decipher the recombinant dna theory. The worst part was the fact that Rodney would be

the one giving it. He’s just a lifer behind the bar, she thought. He’s been behind the bar

so long that he’s probably developed finned feet from being ankle-deep in spilled beer.


     Friday came and went. Rodney was actually impressed with Trudy’s test results. She

scored higher than most of the past cocktail servers. But he didn’t let her know that. Just

that she passed was all she needed to know, he thought.


      Trudy was now officially on the schedule, and ready to start. Being the new person,

her shifts weren’t the most desirable. Sunday through Thursday nights. But, hey, it’s a
 
job, she thought. And Sunday and Monday nights would be Rodney-free. She did have

some perks.


     Her first two nights were seamless. She worked with Cindy, Rodney’s understudy.

Cindy took her time with Trudy, showing her where everything was kept, and explaining

floor service. Trudy thought Cindy was great.  Being around the same age, they related to

each other, and enjoyed conversing about Sir Rodney. Trudy was glad she wasn’t the only

employee there with the same thoughts about Rodney and his old-boy worker mentality.

   
     Tuesday night came quick enough. Trudy arrived at work a bit early, as she wanted to

take her time in getting set up. Rodney was already there, polishing his glasses and

counting his bank. He seemed very focused, like a golfer getting ready to make a putt

from the far edge of the green.

   
     Trudy knew that no one was allowed back there when the bartender was behind

the wood.  Kind of an unwritten rule.

     “Permission to come aboard, sir” she said. “I need to get my apron.”

     With a flick of his head, Rodney granted permission. Kind of like the old days in the

Navy, when women weren’t allowed to serve on board a ship, Trudy thought.

   
     Trudy knew that most bartenders came to work with just a wine key. But seeing the

set-up that Rodney did was like walking into a display room for Williams-Sonoma.

There was an extra large very crisp white linen napkin that was spread out in the work
   
area next to the sink. Everything was layed out on the napkin in exquisite precision. The

top row had his Boston shaker set, glass and metal. Next to that was a cobbler shaker

with a screw top. But Rodney very seldom used that one, as it was a sign of an amateur

home bartender.  Below his shakers was a long cocktail spoon. Directly under the spoon

were two strainers: the Hawthorn strainer for shaken drinks from the metal part of the

shaker, and a julep strainer for stirred drinks from the glass part. The bottom row had his

muddler, channel knife, nutmeg grater, and a small metal hand citrus juicer. On the right

of the napkin was a small white cutting board with a paring knife on top. These tools

were layed out and ready to use as if they were instruments next to a gurney  in the

emergency room. But his wine key was always kept in the top left pocket of his burgundy

vest.

     Trudy grabbed her apron, and exited from behind the bar. The place was getting ready

to open for business, and she needed to be on her station. She finished her side-work, and

patiently waited for the evening rush.


     “What do I have to do to get a drink in this toilet,” said Rodney’s first customer.

     “You obviously need a better line that that,” said Rodney. Boomer, one of Rodney’s

regulars, took his usual seat at the end of the bar.


      Rodney grabbed his glass tumbler and poured an ounce of sweet vermouth into it.

Next, he poured out two ounces from the Maker’s Mark bottle. He could free-pour more

accurately than most bartenders measured out with a jigger.  He then topped that off

with two dashes of bitters. Lastly he scooped in some ice and began stirring. He then

strained the mixture into a pre-chilled cocktail glass. He garnished the drink by twisting

a lemon rind over the drink before dropping it in.

     Boomer held his drink up to the Tiffany lamp hanging over the bar. The backlighting

gave the cocktail its proper due. “Just like a golden sunset,” said Boomer. “A true classic

cocktail. Made by a true man of the cloth.”

      “I’ll tell you what makes this drink,” said Rodney. “Bitters. It’s not a Manhattan

unless it has a few dashes of bitters. Most bartenders don’t put bitters in. They are either

too lazy to do it, or they don’t take the time to properly learn their craft. If you can’t make

a drink the proper way, then don’t do it. End of story.”

     “You know, Rod, sitting at your bar is an education in cocktailology,” said

Boomer. “If I took notes every time I’m here, I’d have quite a drink manual in a year’s

time. You’ve forgotten more about cocktail culture than most people even know.”

     Rodney prided himself on his passion for his chosen career. He had the utmost respect

for the restaurant and bar industry. When he started in this field, he studied cocktail lore

every night. His apprenticeship was lengthy, similar to what bartenders went through in

the nineteenth century. It was a common factor then for a bartender apprentice to

be an understudy to a mentor for a period of at least two years before being promoted to a

full-time bartender.


     As Rodney placed Boomer’s second cocktail down, he saw Trudy weaving her way

through the crowd to get up to the bar.

     “Order,” she said.

     “Call,” said Rodney.

     “I need four red-headed sluts for that group that just came in,” said Trudy.

     “Excuse me?” said Rodney.

     “Four red-headed sluts,” she said again.

     ‘Why don’t you just go back and tell them that we serve classic cocktails here,” said

Rodney. “Tell them this isn’t fraternity row.”

     “You know I can’t do that,” said Trudy. “Why don’t you just give them what they

want?”  

     ‘These kids really try my patience,” said Rodney to Boomer.

     “Yeah, whatever happened to real cocktails?” said Boomer.

     “They went out with the demise of the Rat Pack,” said Rodney. “And I mean the real

Rat Pack. Ya know, Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, and Sammy Davis. You take

Dean, for example. Now that guy knew how to order a drink!”

     “Your dating yourself,” said Boomer.

     “Seems like all these kids want drinks made with something out of their

grandmother’s kitchen cabinet,” said Rodney. “Lemon grass, peach puree, guava

nectar, what-have-you.”

     “Sounds like a witch’s brew,” said Boomer.

     “More like a bitch’s brew,” said Rodney.

     “Hey, wasn’t that the name of a Stones album?” said Boomer.

      Rodney strained the red concoctions into four shot glasses. “Tell those four guppies

over there that if they want dessert next time, go to a bakery.” he said to Trudy.

     Trudy smirked, then wandered off to deliver the goods.

     “Think John Wayne would ever go into a bar and order a strawberry martini?” he said

to Boomer.

     “Duke would sway up to the bar, look the bartender in the eye, and say one word:

whiskey!” said Boomer.

     “Yeah, and the barman would give him a bottle and a glass,” said Rodney. “They

knew how to drink back then.”

   
     A young man of about twenty-something walked up to the bar and asked Rodney for

an application.

     “You mean there’s a cocktail called an ‘application’ now?” said Rodney.

     “No, I want a job application,” said the twenty-something, frowning as he spoke.

     “Take some advice, son.” said Rodney. “In this business, you never ask for a job

during the evening rush. Managers are too busy then to even acknowledge you.

And when you do come back, and that’s if we let you in, make sure you’re dressed for a

job interview.”

   
     “Why were you so rough with him?” said Trudy, as she placed her dirty glasses in

the glass rack underneath the service station.

     “That kid’s got a fat chance of getting a job dressed like that,” said Rodney. “Doesn’t

matter if he’s applying for a bartender or a bus boy. Make yourself presentable, and dress

for an interview.”

     Trudy just shook her head and went back on the floor.

     “At least we know he’s a Kiss fan,” said Boomer.

     “How do these kids expect to get a job dressed in a tee-shirt, jeans, and wearing

Nike’s?” said Rodney. “Years ago, to get a good bar job, you needed at least five years

experience in a top-notch place. When I was a manager, I wouldn’t even talk to an

applicant unless they had a nice dress shirt, slacks, and preferably a jacket on.”

     “They don’t take pride in themselves, anymore,” said Boomer.


       Trudy was back at the service end.

     “Well, what sort of candy cocktail do you need now?” said Rodney. “Maybe we

should come up with a cocktail list for the Mother’s Day crowd. Brandy Alexanders,

Pink Squirrels, Grasshoppers, all those granny-drinks. All the blue-hairs that go out

for their once-a-year cocktail.”


   
 Two elderly gentlemen sat down a few stools away from Boomer.

     As Rodney placed two cocktail napkins down in front of them, one said: “Can you

make a good Negroni?”

       “Sir, I’ll make you the best Negroni you’ve ever had in your life,” said Rodney.

“Guaranteed.”

     “How about a Silver Bullet?” said the other one. “Can you do that good?”

     No, I can’t, thought Rodney. Why do people ask if I can do a good cocktail? What do

they want me to say, no, I can’t?

     Into the glass tumbler went equal pours of gin, sweet vermouth, and a little less pour

of Compari. Stirred and strained, and garnished with a flamed orange peel. A bit of pyro

technics.

     Into another tumbler went a short pour of dry vermouth, and a generous pour of

Plymouth gin. After straining that one, Rodney slowly poured a small amount of a

peaty single malt scotch over the back of a bar spoon to float on top of the gin.

     The two men toasted and sipped the first swallow. The one who orderd the Silver

Bullet stood up and asked to shake Rodney’s hand. “I’ve never had one made properly

like this one,” he said. “To you, suh.”

   
FINIS

New Year, 2014

Well, another New Year's has come and gone. Again, good riddance. Can you tell I'm not a big fan of New Year's Eve? Not New Year's Eve itself, but just the amateurish celebrations of it. Why do people have to act like idiots? Every New Year's Eve now, I'm so glad I'm retired (for now), and can just have a quiet eve at home with Joanie. I often think of all the eve's I worked, and all the bacchanalia that went along with them. I usually don't drink any cocktails that night, as a sort of silent, self-protest against amateur night. It's so nice to go out with Joanie for an early dinner, maybe around 4pm, come home, relax, have some hot tea, or a cup of hot chocolate, watch an old black-and-white on the TCM channel, do some reading, and be asleep before midnight. Best thing about that: no hangover the next morning! Get up early, go to the 10:30am Mass at St. Elizabeth's, then take my wife out for a New Year's brunch buffet at Normandie Farm Restaurant in Potomac, Maryland. Great popovers, by-the-way. Then later that night, to help bring in and celebrate the new year, I just may have a cocktail!