by Leanne Shear
Fortunately, Sam returned to our end of the bar and began filling his fruit trays with limes, lemons, and twists, and as he replenished the cherry supply he winked at me.
“How are the kids?” he asked, turning back toward Dan.
“They’re doing great,” Dan said without missing a beat. “Taylor just got the lead in the school play, and Alex has taken up tennis. They’re keeping us busy.”
“How’s the wife?” he asked.
“Linda’s fine,” said Dan.
“Cassie!” I heard my mother’s voice behind me. She was standing at the entrance of the restaurant with my dad. Even though she was smiling, I could tell she was nervous, and feeling about as out of place as Sean Hannity at a Hillary Clinton fund-raiser. I watched as the maître d’ explained to my father that the restaurant required coat and tie and that he’d have to give him a jacket before they could be seated. He disappeared and came back with a blazer that looked like it came straight from the Ralph Lauren purple label collection at Barney’s.
“Perhaps you’ll be more comfortable in this, sir,” he said, slipping it over my father’s shoulders.
I turned back to the bar. “Can I get the check, please?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Dan said.
For a moment I hesitated, but my mind was on rescuing my parents from the stuffy maître d’, and I was, frankly, too broke to protest. Plus, what were the odds I’d ever see him again? “Thank you,” I said, smiling at him uneasily. I slid off the stool and headed over to meet my parents at the door.
Twenty-six bucks for a salad!” my dad lamented after we’d been seated at a table in the dining room.
My mom gently kicked him under the table. “We’re here for Cassie,” she said. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
After the waiter had taken our order, I decided it was time to break the news. “So I was thinking,” I began. “You guys know how confused I’ve been about what I’m going to do after graduation. And you know how expensive it is to live in Manhattan. So I’ve been looking into some different options, and I think that for right now, I’m going to bartend.”
“Cassie, what are you talking about?” my mother gasped, utterly bewildered. “What happened to that position you got at Us Weekly? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”
“I do want to be a writer, Mom, but I don’t know if that’s the right magazine for me. I’d be an editorial assistant, and my salary wouldn’t even cover rent in Albany.”
“Well, you have to start at the bottom, sweetheart,” my dad cut in. “You work your way up—that’s how it goes in the real world.” If there was one thing my dad had tried to instill in me, it was the importance of hard work and paying your dues.
“I understand that,” I said, leaning in, “but what you guys don’t understand is that it’s really expensive to live in New York City. This will only be a temporary situation so I can support myself while I focus on my writing. I really want to work on my screenplay, and I’m going to try to pitch some freelance articles to other magazines as well. I don’t want to be stuck writing hundred-word captions about J. Lo and her latest wedding. And I know you guys can’t help me out, especially after helping me pay for college.” I regretted those last words immediately when I saw my dad’s face fall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You guys have been amazing, but I need to take care of myself from now on. And I’m going to need money quickly if I’m going to sign a lease on an apartment.” They remained silent, so I continued. “I found this bartending school where they promise they can get you a job where you make a lot of money—up to a thousand dollars a night! I’ll only need to work one or two nights a week. And I can spend the rest of my time writing.”
“But what about the late hours?” my mom asked. “You always get run down if you burn the candle at both ends. What about getting your master’s? If you’re so worried about money, why don’t you try to get a job at Morgan Stanley like Alexis? You said she’s going to be making a terrific salary.”
“Mom, Alexis got a job in investment banking. I haven’t taken a math class since freshman year of high school. And she’s going to have to work over a hundred hours a week. I’d never get to work on my screenplay.” I could tell just by looking at their crestfallen faces that convincing them was going to be a hell of a lot harder than I’d anticipated.
“What are you going to do about health insurance if you don’t have a real job?” My mother was working herself into a panic. “Our insurance won’t cover you now that you’re out of college. What if you get sick?”
I twisted the napkin on my lap and stared at my knees. I hadn’t even begun to think about things like health insurance. “I haven’t had a chance to look into that yet—but I will.”
“Health insurance is really expensive if you don’t get it through an employer. Are you going to be able to spend five hundred dollars a month just on insurance?”
“Yeah, I am. Mom, I’m going to be making thousands of dollars a month easily.”
My mom took a deep breath and clutched my father’s hand on the table. “Cassie, your father and I have worked hard our whole lives so that you’d have opportunities. You’re brilliant, you’re beautiful, and we think you’re capable of anything and everything. We want the world for you. We want you to have stability, a steady income, benefits, and not to have to worry about money like we’ve had to do our whole lives. You’re graduating from Columbia University tomorrow. You can do anything you want to do. Why bartending?” she wailed.
“Mom, what I’m trying to make you understand is that bartending isn’t what I want to do with my life. It’s just a means to an end. I want to be a writer. You have to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
The waiter arrived with our salads, and delivered the delicately arranged plates of mesclun and frisee into the midst of our stony silence. “How much does this ‘school’ cost, and how are you planning on paying for it?” my dad finally asked.
The truth was that even though I’d saved up my last two work study checks, they amounted to a grand total of $313, and I was definitely going to need a loan if I wanted to survive for the next few weeks, not to mention pay for the bartending course.
“Five hundred dollars,” I mumbled. “But it’s an investment! I’ll be able to make the money back in my first night of work.”
A long pause followed. My mother finally broke it. “Cassie, you’re an adult now, you’re graduating college tomorrow, and you’re right—we don’t support you anymore. So I guess you need to do what you need to do. We’ll be proud of you no matter what.”
They both attempted to be lighthearted throughout the rest of the meal, but even as they raved over the mustard seed–encrusted salmon, I could tell they were distressed. After dinner I went with my dad to return his borrowed blazer to the maître d’. When we were alone, he pulled me aside and handed me a check.
“Your mother and I were going crazy trying to think of the perfect graduation present for you.” He sighed. “Looks like you’ll be needing this.”
My eyes filled with tears as I looked at the amount: $500. At that moment, I committed myself to learning to mix the finest cosmopolitan Manhattan had ever seen. I would live up to everything Martini Mike’s ad had promised, while simultaneously getting my screenplay produced. I would make my parents proud.
Welcome, future bartenders!” chirped the female instructor on the first day of the weeklong intensive class. She was perky, petite, and didn’t look old enough to drink legally. “My name is Britney, and in just one short week, I’m going to teach you everything you need to know so you can become part of New York’s fabulous nightlife!”
Over the past few days, I’d been deliciously anticipating all the knowledge Martini Mike’s was going to impart, knowledge that would not only enable me to easily make back the cost of the course in one night, but would also leave me with ample money for all the things I’d always coveted in the city: decadent brunches at Felix, lunches at Michael’s, and di
nner at Cipriani’s. I was so excited planning all of the other things I was going to spend my newfound money on (an iMac to write my new screenplay, a brand-new apartment rental in the West Village) that my student loans had nearly evaporated in my mind. I couldn’t wait to breeze through to my second diploma in one week. Once I had that certificate of mixology in hand, everything else was going to fall into place.
“Okay, so here’s the breakdown,” Britney continued as she distributed copies of The Martini Mike Bartending Manual. “Today you’re going to learn the ingredients of basic cocktails as well as basic bar etiquette, pour levels, and customer service skills. There’ll be a quiz at the end of the class. Tomorrow we’ll go over different types of wines—red, white, rosé, and also beers—lagers, ales, pilsners, you get the idea. The next two days will focus on scotches, liqueurs, cordials, ports, cognacs, and specialty drinks. Your final exam will be on Friday. Any questions?” and without waiting for an answer, she moved on.
“First things first. There are your three basic levels of liquor: well, which is the least expensive and housed in ‘the well,’ which is the rack—technically called ‘the speed rack’—in front of the bartender, below the soda gun. You use well liquors when someone just orders a generic vodka and tonic or gin and tonic. Then you have your call liquor—brands like Absolut, Stoli, Jack Daniel’s—which you use when people ‘call’ what type of alcohol they want. Finally you have top shelf, which refers to the most expensive liquors, like Ketel One, Grey Goose, Bombay Sapphire—they’re always located on the top shelves, got it?”
My hand rocketed across the page and my head spun as I tried to notate every detail she spewed forth over the next two hours. The class ended with a practical exam, where we were each called up to the front of the room to make a drink. Looking at the equipment behind the makeshift bar—shining stainless steel shakers, bottle openers, zesters, and wine openers—I felt like a prisoner eyeing instruments in a torture chamber. Much to my embarrassment, I failed—because I couldn’t make the “simplest of drinks,” a vodka tonic. It was the first time in my life I failed a test of any sort. To make matters worse, my poor performance was followed by that of Jack, my round-faced classmate who not only made a cosmo with a deft hand and style to boot, but was hilarious, opening with a classic bar joke: “A brunette walks into a bar . . .”
On the last day of the course, Britney pulled me aside. “Cassie,” she began, “you’re a nice girl, but I think you need a little more training before you can become a certified bartender, because you don’t seem to perform well in front of an audience. Bartending is all about showmanship—you’re an entertainer, the life of the party, the hostess who makes sure everyone is having a great time! If you’re interested, we offer a second round of training at a reduced price.”
My stomach sank. I’d failed bartending? I’d just graduated from an Ivy League university, and I’d failed a course on mixing drinks? Too stunned to argue, I ignored her offer and turned and walked out into the chilly late-spring night. The air in the city was heavy with humidity and the smell of ozone, and even though it was early evening, the night felt as thick and black as a pint of Guinness.
Panic set in. I’d wasted my parents’ graduation money on Martini Mike’s. And just two days ago, after spending fruitless hours searching through the Village Voice, Craig’s List, and nofeerentals.com for a cheap studio apartment, I’d realized that there was no way I could afford to live in Manhattan on my own and had impulsively signed a lease on an apartment with Alexis. Rent loomed. My work study checks wouldn’t even cover the first month, and on top of it all, I now owed Alexis’s dad $3,980 for my half of the broker’s fee and security deposit. It was a full-fledged disaster.
My mind raced. Temping was my only real option for fast cash, but even if I made $12 an hour and worked a full forty-hour week, I’d still bring home less than $300 a week after taxes, and that would never cover my living expenses. I’d hit a brick wall. How was I going to afford to eat? I’d feel like such a loser moving home to Albany. And I couldn’t even afford to do that. Moving costs money, especially when you don’t even have a car. I quickly calculated that I could survive a maximum of two and a half days in Manhattan without working.
By the time I reached the subway station, I’d all but given up. Feeling decimated, I resigned myself to breaking the news to Alexis that I couldn’t take the apartment and calling my parents and begging them to come back to New York and rescue me. Fighting back tears, I fumbled through my purse, looking for my MetroCard. Among the handful of old receipts and gum wrappers, my fingers curled around what turned out to be not my monthly subway pass, but a dog-eared business card.
Suddenly the heavens seemed to clear, and the night changed from Guinness to Amstel Light. With shaking hands, I reached for my cell phone.
Dan Finton answered on the first ring.
Two
____________
SICILIAN KISS
Finton’s was tucked in the quiet corner of Grand Street and Centre Market on the border of Soho and Nolita, with Chinatown and Little Italy mere steps away. If I hadn’t gotten explicit directions from Dan himself, I would’ve walked right past it, even though it was situated at the nexus of at least five eclectic New York neighborhoods.
As I surveyed the red brick facade of the building, which was softened by expansive bay windows, I imagined backroom deals being brokered inside under thick curls of cigar smoke. I would later learn that the bar’s clandestine location had provided a safe haven for drinkers during Prohibition. Rumors still lingered that a brothel had existed upstairs, along with an underground tunnel that ran between the bar and the old police headquarters across the street. According to neighborhood lore, the policemen would travel surreptitiously through the tunnel to visit the speakeasy or brothel. Commissioned by Teddy Roosevelt in 1908, the headquarters—a stately stone building with a Greco-Roman portico—now housed some of Manhattan’s most luxurious apartments and famous (or infamous) tenants, notably Madonna and Monica Lewinsky.
I raked a hand through my hair to tame the frizz (full-blown New York humidity had set in, even though we were barely into May) and yanked down on my skirt to maximize its coverage. Earlier that evening I’d had a hard time deciding what to wear. When I’d asked Dan if there was a uniform or dress code, he’d replied, “All black. Whatever you decide, I’m sure you’ll look great.” After a brief pause, he added, “But I do prefer the women to wear skirts.”
I’d holed myself up in my new nine-by-eight room and stared at every single black piece of clothing I owned, which I’d spread out on my twin bed. Fortunately, I had a lot to choose from. Any rational woman will agree that after spending an extended period of time in New York, at least 75 percent of your wardrobe will be black. I shuffled and rearranged, trying to assemble an outfit, and after ten minutes, items were covering the floor and even dangling from my lamp. I finally settled on my favorite knee-length black skirt from H&M and a slim-fitting long-sleeved button-down shirt from J. Crew. For good measure, I unbuttoned one extra button. The small silver cross necklace that my grandmother had given me for my confirmation peeked through on my exposed neck.
I was checking myself out in Alexis’s floor-length mirror when she sauntered into the room. She took one look at me and rolled her eyes.
“What?” I demanded, annoyed.
“Is that what you’re wearing to work?”
“Yes,” I said, shooting her a withering look over my shoulder. “I know I look like I’m going to a funeral, but Dan Finton said we have to wear all black.”
“But you don’t have to dress like you’re Amish!” she said.
“It’s my first night, Lex! You dress conservatively for work too!”
“Yeah, but I’m a banker. You’re a bartender. You’re going to work at a bar. They want you to look sexy, and you’d better want to look sexy too if you’re going to make any money.” She noticed my crestfallen face and then suggested, “Why don’t you wear that Marc Jacob
s skirt I bought you for your birthday? It looks adorable on you.”
That Marc Jacobs skirt was about three inches long. I’d never worn it. “I don’t know, Lex, it’s really short.”
“Cass, you’re supposed to look hot. It’s in the job description.” As I scowled, she continued. “Think about when we go out—all the bartenders and cocktail waitresses are always practically naked, but they probably make more money in one night than I make in an entire week! Come on, just try it on.”
I’d reluctantly left my apartment in the hip-hugging miniskirt and a snug tank top that Alexis had pulled out of her underwear drawer—but just to be safe, I’d stuffed my long-sleeved blouse in my backpack, within easy reach should the need arise.
A brunette walks into a bar . . .” Jack’s joke popped into my head as I pulled open the heavy mahogany door and stepped over the threshold. The lighting fell softly on the overstuffed, red-upholstered couches. The bottles behind the bar, lit from below, cast colored shadows on the wood floor, and drink specials were ornately written in white on the mirror-covered wall, French bistro style. White, gauzy curtains billowed in the warm breeze, drawing my eye to the black-and-white photographs of historic New York adorning the walls. Candles reflected off the shiny brass of the beer taps built into the middle of the bar.