by Leanne Shear
The ceiling was especially striking. Intricately carved out of what appeared to be mahogany, I would soon learn that it had lain hidden under a thick layer of plaster for more than a hundred years until Dan Finton had accidentally exposed it during a renovation. He discovered that it had been shipped from Vienna in the late seventeenth century and, according to appraisers, was priceless. Dan had it cleaned and restored, and now modestly likened it to the Sistine Chapel.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, a dowdy blond wearing elastic-waisted cotton pants, flat shoes, and an oversized oxford shirt that concealed her less-than-fit figure approached me and offered her hand, but not before outwardly scrutinizing my outfit. I wondered if Alexis’s smallest, tightest camisole from La Perla had really been the right choice.
“You must be Cassie,” she said.
I nodded, giving her my best firm handshake.
“I’m Laurel,” she supplied tersely, adding, “the general manager here at Finton’s.” She had a cropped hairdo reminiscent of the bowl cuts my grandma had issued me when I was in third grade and a shrewd, judging gaze.
Laurel handed me a memo on Finton’s bar policy that looked about as reader-friendly as the Communist Manifesto. As I paged through the introduction, I was immediately overwhelmed by the volume of information that a Finton’s bartender had to commit to memory and the severe penalties that followed if the rules weren’t strictly adhered to. For instance, if a “sanitizing tablet” wasn’t dissolved thoroughly in the rinsing sink, the bartender would immediately be “dismissed” because the Board of Health could come in and close the place down. The opening and closing procedures went on for twenty pages, accompanied by more threats that would be executed should any of the said tasks be overlooked. My anxiety mounting, I looked up from my reading and found Laurel studying me critically.
“If everything works out tonight and I decide to put you on the schedule, then I’m going to need to know your availability,” she said. “I know Dan promised you Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, which I’m sure you know are the best shifts, but he didn’t consult with me about this, and I need to revisit the schedule. Hopefully we’ll be able to figure something out that works for all of us. Are you available for day shifts, or do you have another job during the day?”
“Well,” I said taking a deep breath, “I don’t have an actual nine-to-five job or anything, but ideally I would like to keep my days free, because—”
“Are you trying to be an actress?” she asked with obvious condescension.
“No, I’m not an actress,” I said with all the confidence I could muster. “I’m a writer.”
“Interesting,” Laurel said insincerely. “You’re going to have to work at least one day shift. That’s the rule, if you don’t have a real day job.”
In the back of my mind, I could already hear my mother now: “I thought you were bartending so that you could keep your days free, so what are you doing bartending on a Wednesday morning?”
But the cold, hard truth was that I didn’t have much choice. I didn’t exactly have the funds to retake Martini Mike’s course, even at the reduced rate. In fact, I’d be lucky if this woman agreed to hire me at all, given that I’d never set foot behind a real bar.
I continued to pore though the mandatory reading material, the churning in my stomach mounting again. I hadn’t even considered things like serving minors or the difference between Burgundy or Bordeaux wineglasses. I read terms like “end-of-the-night drop,” “register ring,” and “comp checks” and I tried desperately to organize in my head everything I knew, didn’t know, and needed to learn—and fast. After enduring a short quiz on her excessive policies, Laurel granted me access behind the bar, where a handsome man of about thirty-five was mixing drinks with a style that I surmised could only come with years of experience.
“This is Billy,” Laurel said brusquely. “He’s been working here for seven years. You’ll be training with him. You better get to work.” And with that, she made a purposeful exit down the long flight of stairs to the left of the kitchen.
Billy was tall and fittingly Irish in appearance, complete with reddish cheeks and sandy brown hair with wild curls that framed his boyishly alluring expression. His blue eyes sparkled when he smiled, complementing his distinct dimples. I felt a tingle of attraction as well as a sense of relief—I was pretty sure that it would be easier to win over a man than a woman. If the difference between Dan Finton and Laurel was any indication, pure chemistry could count for a lot in this business.
“Hey!” I said. “My name’s Cassie. It’s great to meet you.”
“Jesus. Are we really training another girl?” Billy said to no one in particular. “That makes, what, five in the last two weeks?”
I felt a further prick of fear. How many girls had they trained there? Did any of them pass the training test and graduate to bartender status? Flashbacks of the monstrous failure I’d suffered at bartending school blazed in my mind. I wasn’t good at enduring criticism, and Billy was already giving off a whiff of outright hostility. What if I couldn’t pull this off?
“Well, hopefully, after tonight you won’t have to train anyone else,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension he’d created.
“In the entire history of this bar,” he replied, polishing a champagne flute and avoiding my gaze, “no woman has ever cut it as a bartender.”
I tried to squelch the bubble of feminist anger rising within me. Whether he approves of female bartenders is irrelevant, I told myself. The point is, I have to make this work. I continued to try to talk to him, but Billy wasn’t biting.
“When I have customers, get out of my way—they come first,” Billy instructed, before rattling off Finton’s bar details at a fast clip. “The white wine’s on ice, backups are in the far cooler along with backup fruit and grapefruit juice—all other juices are on the gun. Red wine is stored in the second cabinet from the left, and the backups are downstairs in the wine cellar. As for beer, the imports are in this cooler and the domestics are over there at the end. All the pint glasses are stored below the taps—be careful, the Guinness glasses are mixed in, and it really pisses me off when people pour Harp or Brooklyn Lager in a Guinness glass, because we only have about ten of them. I always work that side of the bar. This is your side of the bar—the service end. I stay on my side, you stay on yours . . . am I going too fast for you, sweetheart?”
I shook my head dumbly. I still wasn’t sure what he meant by “service end” and hadn’t known Guinness deserved its own special glass. That hadn’t been covered in Martini Mike’s course.
“The Burgundy and Bordeaux glasses are over your register. We carry a Cabernet from Argentina, a Shiraz from Australia, a Pinot Noir from France, and a Merlot from California by the glass. White wine glasses are in the lower shelves, we have a Sauvignon Blanc from France, a Chardon-nay from California, and a Pinot Grigio from Italy. When making mixed drinks, don’t pour too heavy—an ounce and a half is more than enough—your well is full, and all your call liquor is behind you—single malts are in the middle, and you’ve used Micros before right?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Really?” he asked, genuinely shocked. “It’s the most basic system there is. Every bar I’ve ever worked at uses it. What system have you used?”
“Umm, just one of those old cash registers,” I said, somehow managing to pull a scrap of an image out of my head from Cocktail when Tom Cruise is working his first shift at T.G.I. Fridays.
“Where did you use that?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine.
“This place uptown,” I said, shakily.
“What place?” he pressed.
It was only twelve minutes into my first shift, and I was already on the verge of a breakdown. Thankfully, at that exact moment, a yuppie in a Brooks Brothers suit approached the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke, unknowingly rescuing me from Billy’s Gestapo-like interrogation.
“So you honestly have no idea how to use this?” he asked, ind
icating the Micros computer, when he returned from making the drink.
I shook my head.
“Great,” he snorted. “Sean’ll have to teach you. I don’t have time for this. He’s also gotta show you how to do the bartender switchover from day to night.” He moved down the bar to where a flock of women were singing his name. They were all ultra-fit and wore tight Citizens of Humanity jeans and trendy skin-baring tops. Upon further inspection, however, the creases on their necks and the thick makeup they used to mask the crevices around their mouths and eyes showed they weren’t nearly as young as they were trying to be.
I looked at him, unsure of what to do, until Sean, a slender, dark-haired bartender, who, according to Laurel, worked all of the day shifts, approached me with a smile.
“Hi, love,” he said, his speech colored by a warm Irish brogue. I felt my shoulder muscles unknot a millimeter at the sound of a friendly voice.
“Hi,” I said warily, attempting an easygoing smile.
“How’s it going so far?” he asked solicitously.
“Okay, I guess. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”
“You’ll be fine. Remember, love, it’s not brain surgery.”
I was grateful for a little perspective.
“So,” he began, “here’s how it works: when the day bartender is leaving and you’re coming on, we just have to make sure your register bank is back at three hundred so you have change right at the beginning of your shift.” He led me carefully through the rest of the procedure, which miraculously—perhaps on account of his laid-back and supportive delivery—didn’t seem so hard. Giving a customer change for a twenty, counting out the money in your drawer before starting a shift, and filling a glass with ice before putting in the liquor was hardly nuclear physics.
After he’d taught me how to use the Micros computer (a maze of different-colored buttons and screens that referenced a practically encyclopedic compendium of different drinks), I watched longingly as Sean gathered his belongings, poured himself a pint of Carlsberg, and left me to drink his beer on the other side of the bar. I’d known the guy for five minutes, but I already wished fervently that I could attempt my virgin bartending gig under his tutelage instead of Billy’s.
Once he’d gone, I took in my new vantage point behind the bar. Facing the crowd and being the focus of attention was strangely intoxicating.
Sean had left used pint glasses with rims of dried caramel-colored foam, half-empty bottles of Beck’s, and bar rags soaked with a rainbow of cranberry juice, various whiskeys, and Guinness on every imaginable surface. Just as I was about to attack the dirty glasses that were piled up, Billy traversed the back of the bar and appeared beside me in all of two seconds.
“Your side is a fucking mess,” he declared.
“I-it, was Sean’s mess,” I stammered, “I was just about to clean—”
“Don’t blame it on Sean, just do it,” he directed, and then continued in militaristic mode. “Let’s go over drink prices. Pay attention. Domestic beer is five, imports are six, except for the Paulaner, which is seven. Glasses of wine are eight, well liquor is seven, call is eight, top shelf is nine, and then there are the martinis . . .”
After he finished rattling off the laundry list of drink prices, Billy abandoned me to attend to the customers gathered at his end of the bar. As his side got busier with the happy hour crowd, most of whom wore suits and greeted him warmly, he started barking orders at me. I was his designated workhorse running up and down the stairs, to and from the basement, which was home to the bathrooms, Laurel’s office, the storage area, liquor room, and the wine cellar. First, he needed more beverage napkins (“bev naps,” as he called them) and little red stirrer straws. The second I tore back up the stairs and delivered those, he shoved an empty bottle of Absolut at me and shouted “Bring two!” as I bolted back down to the liquor room. When I finally arrived back behind the bar, he immediately needed two bottles of Jack Daniel’s. Laurel didn’t even glance up as I huffed and puffed by her office five different times. She sat hunched over a pile of paperwork in her dimly lit, cinder-block cell.
It was now approaching seven-thirty, and I settled back behind the bar as the initial happy hour rush receded. There were still no customers on my side, so I pretended to look industrious. After I finished cleaning up Sean’s mess, I took a cloth and wiped down the bar, polished the beer taps along with every glass on my end, and scrubbed every metal surface with Fantastic until my side of the bar sparkled like Harry Winston diamonds. I looked around at all the bottles, trying to familiarize myself with my new environment, so that when I actually did have customers, I wouldn’t be completely lost.
After about twenty minutes of excruciating boredom, I noticed two people walking toward Billy’s end of the bar. I was wiping down the bar for the fiftieth time and saw that Billy was too busy chatting with an attractive redhead in a crisp oatmeal-colored Jil Sander suit to attend to the couple now seated comfortably on bar stools and looking for service. Determined to seize the opportunity and show that I was a capable bartender, I hustled over to where they were sitting.
“What are you—some kind of idiot?” Billy snapped. “This is my side of the bar and that is yours. Understand?”
I nodded dumbly, trying hard to let his anger roll off my back. Don’t cry! I chastised myself. But I could feel the tears welling so I quickly turned my head and let my long brown hair hide my wounded expression. No matter what happened, I wasn’t about to give him reason to gloat to Laurel that another girl couldn’t cut it behind the bar at Finton’s.
“Remember, I’ve been doing this since you were in diapers, kid,” he added wryly, rubbing thick margarita salt in my wounds.
Another hour dragged by, and my side of the bar remained deserted. Time seemed to stand still. I kept checking the clock on the Micros computer: 8:17. I checked again after it seemed like hours had passed only to find that it was 8:23. The one thing I’d learned from my training shift so far was that nothing is more painful than a slow night as a bartender. You’re literally stuck in one small space, unable to pick up a book or make a phone call without looking unprofessional. At least when I’d been bored stiff at my internships, I’d been able to occupy myself by jotting down screenplay ideas and making to-do lists that I carefully edited and revised. To kill a few minutes, I grabbed a bev nap and a felt-tip pen and jotted down the description of a man in an expensive pinstripe suit, figuring I might be able to use it for my screenplay.
I folded up the napkin and put it in my pocket, then scanned the scene around me and sighed. I felt like I’d wiped down the bar 450 times in the span of two hours. I polished the glasses again. I rearranged the straws and napkins, all the while wondering how I was going to endure the rest of the night—and if I still stood the smallest chance of actually getting hired.
“Hey, kid, make these two nice people each a vodka martini, extra dirty, straight up,” Billy yelled suddenly from his end of the bar. I straightened up. I knew this was a test, because he could have easily handled the order himself.
I vaguely remembered from Martini Mike’s that a “dirty” martini was one made with olive juice. So I took a stainless steel shaker, scooped some ice in it, and started pouring the amount of vodka that I guessed was about right for two people. I added olive juice. I couldn’t locate the dry vermouth. Hopefully, they wouldn’t notice. I pulled two frozen martini glasses out of the cooler (proud of myself for remembering their location) and placed them carefully on napkins in front of the customers, but not before I placed three olives in each glass, because, according to Martini Mike’s, an even number of olives in a martini was bad luck.
I placed the smaller shaker on top of my vodka and olive juice concoction and triumphantly started to shake. I felt a splash of something cold land on my face and immediately realized, much to my horror, that the smaller shaker hadn’t been secured properly over the larger one. Worse yet, I had just shaken two very dirty martinis all over the two customers who had just order
ed them.
Billy dove toward me and grabbed the shaker out of my hand.
“What are you doing?!” he hissed.
Flustered, I grabbed a bar rag and began to wipe down the bar and cabinets. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammered.
Billy grabbed the rag out of my hand and said through clenched teeth, “Serve the customers first—and give them some napkins. They’re soaked!” Turning to the customers, he continued. “I’m so sorry. It’s her first day. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Those drinks are on the house.”
Thoroughly humiliated, I turned to the customers—two good-looking men wearing the standard Wall Street uniform—pinstriped Hickey Freeman suits, Thomas Pink French-cuffed shirts, and Ferragamo ties—and said, “I’m really sorry. Can I pay for your dry cleaning?”
They both smiled indulgently, and one of them said, “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Your blue eyes more than make up for it,” the other one agreed.
I flashed them both my biggest, most winning smile and caught Billy rolling his eyes.
I set up for another try, and this time managed to make their drinks successfully. Though my shoulders were still permanently brushing my ears from all the tension, I felt better when I saw that they’d actually left me a $20 tip! I hoped it was an omen of good things to come and made sure Billy saw me drop it in the tip jar.
As the clock ticked toward ten, a rowdy group of older, Italian-looking men came in—not surprising since Finton’s was only a stone’s throw away from the trattorias and pasticerias of Little Italy. As soon as they were assembled at Billy’s end of the bar, they directed him to put on Barry White and “turn it up,” and he surprised me by immediately following their commands. I wouldn’t have pegged Billy for a fan of the infamous icon of love. One of the men, who was plump and balding and wearing a flashy red silk shirt, climbed up on the bar and started waving his chubby hands above his shiny head while he crooned along to “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” in a deep timbre. The rest of the men had formed a circle and were dancing around a shorter, scrawnier man. The other customers in the bar looked on, both baffled and bemused.