Cocktailing

There are three distinct subsets of menu readers that diverge from the mainstream. These are people who regard the menu differently than other people – those who take it and show a distinct part of their persona by the way they handle a simple piece of paper with food descriptions and prices.

“You can stop training,” my coach said to me. “The contest is off.” I put down my weighted shaker, took my headphones off, wiped the sweat from my brow and looked up in disbelief.
The suicide drills between the kitchen and the bar, squats on full cases of beer, lunges with magnum Champagne bottles in each hand, and shaking drills have filled up my free time – and for what? There would be no Best Bartender Category this year in the Source's Best of Bend issue.

I just spent a week in Canyon Country in Utah staring at pictographs from hundreds of years ago and it reminded me that it is human nature to leave our mark. At our bar, it usually seems to be upon the men's bathroom paper towel dispenser, which I am now thinking taunts men who are just trying to keep their hands clean by saying, “Hey there, you look like the sort of muscular young lad you might be able to rip me off this wall!” or “Wouldn't I look better with a crack down my front?” Then there's our rechargeable tea lights, which are utterly worthless to anyone without the $400 charger yet are nonetheless stolen.
But sometimes what we forget is to cherish what people leave behind.

I was recently out at a bar, which is a rare occasion, as I don't often go to what I consider the “flip side.” There is a reason for that, and it's typically because I feel like I am working without getting paid. Most recently, I was enjoying an evening out with a close friend, which was a great pleasure as I hadn't been out at a bar in many months. As I perused the back bar to decide what I was in the mood for and chatted with a close bartender friend I rarely see, a young punk leaned into me and said, “You kicked me out of the bar once and I wasn't even doing nothing,” which reminded me exactly why we do kick people out of the bar.

There is a slow degradation of society happening that is often head through assertions that today's youngsters (as in 21, but barely so) are less healthy and less educated than preceding generations. But there is another measurement that should be taken into account and that is their drinking habits.
There is a certain downward spiral that has been happening for the past 60 years. Our grandparents drank brandy from snifters and threw their heads back in laughter while sharing a Tom Collins. They learned how to dance the twist, the jitterbug, and the cha cha. They spent money on dry-cleaning their three-piece suits and stiff dresses to go out and enjoy themselves.

It's sweet and innocent and endearing to see two people connect – even when they are at their most awkward. Typically, the man will spout witty one-liners and buy his love interest fancy cocktails while she smiles and coos while twirling her hair. But on rare occasion, there is a train wreck happening on the other side of the bar, so horrendous that you are afraid to watch – but you do to ensure the safety of those involved. It is the ménage trois. A troubling result of human ingenuity usually involving one douche bag of a man and two writhing women who need more attention than a newborn baby. It never fails that the beginning of their evening will be spent laughing and having a jolly time, but as the witching hour approaches the daunting moment when they all take off their clothes and hang out together in one queen-sized bed, the tension thickens. It is at this point that the barbaric sexual innuendos cause each person's insecurities to fume into embarrassing outbursts.

The act of whistling is akin to the act of talking on one's cell phone in that it's utterly annoying to everyone except the person whistling or chatting. In most public places it's not acceptable to tootle what are in effect high-pitched squawks. You would never hear a two-finger whistle at the library, in a college classroom or even at the grocery store. But, as with many other bad behaviors, the bar seems to be a perfectly justifiable place for folks to practice their incessant warble.
Many bartenders would claim that the most annoying whistle is the one that's blown to grab his or her attention. Certainly, it's hard to glance up and smile at someone whose intention was to shatter your inner ear. Still, it's a gentle cousin compared with the all-out party whistle.

You just never know what you are going to get in the ladies' restroom. This past weekend I walked in to see a neatly laid line of crisp white powder gleaming on the edge of the sink. Thinking that the 80s were back and someone was clearly not vigilant, I licked my finger and tasted what I thought was going to numb my tongue and sharpen my senses. Instead I was struck with the sweet and gritty flavor of Similac baby formula.
Although I've spent hours in the ladies' restroom, I am still amazed by the excitement that takes place in there. Anyone who thinks that the restroom is only for peeing and washing one's hands hasn't been in after 10 p.m. Late into the night the bathroom becomes its own entity where hair-styling tips are exchanged, Facebook friends are made, and secrets are spilled. It is where girls go to share the excitement of kissing the boy they've lusted after for weeks and it's also where girls go to cry when the they see their ex out with someone else for the first time.

There used to be a bartender in Denver who wore a button that said, “Ask me about water, no ice.” Only the truly daring would venture the question because the answer was a whirlwind of hate and distaste she had for those who didn't just take their water from the tap with some ice cubes in it. I don't share this hatred, but I am always amazed by all of the creative ways people have found to enjoy one of life's simplest pleasures.
A lot can be learned from the person who places a water order.
No ice? You think a lot about hydration and you don't sip your water you inhale it. You will drink at least three full glasses of water in long gulps and the only reason you stop devouring it is because you don't know what's going on in conversation as you've spent most of the evening making trips to the restroom.

This is the week the bar manager doesn't sleep, the lead up to what is the biggest night of the year when bar records get broken. Every angle must have an exit strategy, as it is an evening where anything can happen and the impossible will. It's the only night that it wouldn't be a surprise for the electricity to go out, the sprinkler system to spray water everywhere, the refrigerators to all stop working, and to have some crazy a-hole drive his car through the front door right as the balloons drop.
The preparation for such a night is fervent with panicked last minute runs to Cash and Carry, passionate apologies because we can't accommodate anyone else, and crazed ruckus as we try to find space for triple the usual amount of ingredients. For fourteen hours we will run at full tilt under unbearably stressful conditions to make the magic of New Year's come alive.