AN OPEN LETTER TO BAR GOERS EVERYWHERE

FROM A WEARY INDUSTRY VET

First of all: fuck you.

For leaving shitty tips or no tip whatsoever.

For saying, "If you’re really good, I’ll give you a little extra!"

For the vitriolic reviews on Yelp and Google.

For going after our jobs because you didn’t get your way.

For the water with lemon.

For saying, "Can I get a little less ice?" thinking it means more booze.

For the rude comments you mumble under your breath knowing we hear every word.

For not making eye contact with us because we aren’t worth the effort.

For the rich drunks who discuss millions and tip with cents involved.

For waving and snapping in our faces.

For expecting everything and giving next to nothing.

For taking pictures of us while we shake and stir for your Instagram stories, then treating us like human scum.

For ordering Long Island Iced Teas.

For ordering "the strongest drink on the menu."

For making us cut you off instead of being somewhat responsible adults.

For causing a scene when we tell you, "I’m so sorry, but I can’t serve you any more alcohol."

For deteriorating before our very eyes, then staggering back for more like methadone patients awaiting their morning fix, wide-eyed and slurry, drooling slightly, limbs heavy, saggy cheeks lusting for the floor.

For expecting us to clean whatever mess you leave.

For vomiting in our bathrooms and lying about it to our faces.

For saying, "I’d like to speak with the manager, this is ridiculous," when you are the ridiculous one.

For using us as props to impress your grotesque girlfriend.

For saying, "I’ll leave you a nice tip, my man," and leaving one crumpled five-dollar bill that smells like hell and looks the part.

For the late nights when you have "just one more" seven times while we stand there physically and mentally destroyed, and you notice, but you love the feeling of control, so you stay for as long as you’d like, and we get home at three in the fucking morning while you eat lethal fast food and have slovenly sex with some ugly cow who vehemently hates you.

(Breathe.

In and out.

Hear the wind whisper against the window.

See the shitshow cityscape in the distance.

That goddamn city. It burns with hope and hate simultaneously.

A vision of promise, one might say.

(If one were an imbecilic optimist.)

The comforts of society loom like ebony clouds containing cold rain.

I am not something beautiful that doesn’t exist.

I am here.

I am in here.

(—Wallace.))

Second: I’m not your fucking therapist.

I don’t care about your kid’s recital, your ugly wife’s nagging, your boyfriend’s cheating, your generalized family horrors. Quite frankly, I don’t give a single fuck. I’ve got my own issues. My own bills, my own nagging woman, my own family trauma that ruins me every time I open my eyes. But you forget that. You forget that I too exist on the other side of the bar. That sticky slab only separates us physically. We share the same world, hit the same potholes, feel the same fear. Our hearts beat with the same plastic-tainted, pesticide-laced blood.

Here’s a hard truth: the bartender you go to when you fight with your significant other, when you’re depressed and lonely and feeling bad about yourself, who consoles you with booze and slips you a free shot occasionally, who you tip over 20% every time—they are not your friend. They are impeccable actors capable of Hollywood stardom, and you’re paying their electric bill. Sure, if you were to ask this same bartender, "Hey Bobby, we’re good friends, right? I read this article online that says this is all a sham…" Bobby would reply, "Of course! That guy’s full of shit, don’t worry about it!" with pseudo-enthusiasm.

And you’d continue paying his electric bill. . .

I believe it should be mandatory for every human being on Earth to work in a restaurant for at least a month.

Why?

Because every beating heart in existence needs to experience the horrors of customer service.

Those who have never done so are the worst to deal with. They’re the ones who commit the atrocities I’ve described in the above paragraphs. To a normal person, these are the futile complaints of a man-child who’s made too many mistakes in life, mistakes that caused him to perpetually work in restaurants. Bartending, like most restaurant work, is seen as a stepping stone, not a career. Something you do on the side to make extra cash. It’s certainly not considered a respectable profession. You’re the drink pourer. The plate setter. You are, for the most part, nameless, and you learn to respond to, "Hey bartender!" (This is also the name of a great documentary.)

My future mother-in-law once said to me: "How hard can it be? You pour beers, shake cocktails, and leave with cash every night. Sounds like a party!"

It was a party. In my early twenties, I thought bartending was the greatest job imaginable. I was, of course, a rampant alcoholic, and I used my job as an excuse to drink and do drugs. I’d wake up in the late afternoon with a mind-bending hangover, shuffle into the shower and wallow for an hour under scalding water, then stumble to work, stopping at the packie to grab my daily damage—a sleeve of Evan Williams bourbon nips, two off-brand vodka nips (think Rubinoff, but worse), and a bottle of Minute Maid Fruit Punch. I’d take a gulp of the Fruit Punch to make room for the vodka nips—my morning pick-me-up. After that, I’d guzzle a large Dunkin’ Donuts (this was before the lame name change) iced coffee mixed with two bourbon nips. An hour later I’d be behind the bar, shaking and stirring with ease.

Ah, the good days.

They didn’t last long.

I’ve been a barman for over twelve years now. Seven years in, I quit booze and the glamour was instantly gone. I was forced to face the grim reality of being a somewhat sober service worker in his late twenties with no college degree and zero experience doing anything else, save a few grueling manual labor gigs. My alcohol addiction morphed into a kratom and cannabis addiction, a combination I still haven’t kicked, one that steals a sliver of my soul and liver with each passing moment. I quickly learned that without alcohol, I had to be high on something, otherwise I couldn’t act. And if you can’t pretend everything is okay when everything is completely fucked, you won’t last long behind the bar.

While working in a restaurant isn’t seen as a real job (unless you’re at a Michelin-starred spot with secret sex dungeons and "genius" chefs), there’s still a massive, ever-growing population of us who know nothing else but the trenches.

I dedicate this publication to them.

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DESMOND’S PROPER OLD FASHIONED

4 dashes of Angostura bitters

2 dashes of Orange Bitters

1oz Four Roses Bourbon

1oz Rittenhouse Rye

0.25oz Amaro Averna

0.25oz Demerara syrup

Combine all ingredients into a mixing glass. Add ice. Stir until chilled and diluted. Strain into a chilled rocks glass over a big cube. Express an orange peel over the glass, then tuck it in and go fuck yourself! Cheers!

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