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
