Sitting next to John at Bings. First break in six months. He lays this on me:

"You never eat in Chinatown on Sunday during NFL season. It's like seafood restaurants on Sunday."
-John, philipino but understands Chinatown's obsession with gambling.

Good night

Shift is over. Lights are off and we're saying goodbye on the street. Kiss kiss with the girls and slap punch with the guys. I'm going home. I should take the 1 California but I might cheat and take a cab. The bussers are going to see the midnight show at the Metreon - the benefits of working at a cafe and not a bar with a proper 2PM last call. The servers are going out. To the Mission, Castro and the Marina.
A few times a month some of us will rush home to the computers. Deadlines or homework or lesson plans before sleep. Different second jobs but shoehorning the work is shared.
The cooks go straight to bed. They have to open our kitchen or A16 or another joint in a few hours. Are they more focused? Sending money back to rarely seen children would focus most of us. Also, the demographics trend a bit older in our kitchen. Either way the GM never has to speak with the back of the house about being late. Front of the house, what's our excuse?

Jealousy factor

A customer who knows she's on a three drink limit taught the bar a new lesson in self-discipline/policing. She walked into the room last week with, I'm guessing, a four bar head-start. She ordered her first drink and pre-paid for the next two. She then counted out $40 in cash and put her remaining money, credit cards and license into a self-addressed, stamped envelope. While I was mixing the first cocktail she excused herself to post the envelope at the mailbox on the corner. She returned to her waiting drink, smiled and said without irony, "Nothing bad can happen now."

Terroir

A friend from DC and I start our night here. Three winebartenders behind a 12 foot bar. Stools occupied and the tables upstairs and down are half filled. The first bartender is flustered or disgusted by my request for a list. Why? The server to client ratio is 1:4. And pouring wine is quick. What else do you have to do besides talk about the wine?

Fortunately the second bartender is more patient. And the customers are brilliant. A pretty, hipster blonde reaches across two stools with a menu and a smile. I love those places with camaraderie-among-strangers.

We drank upstairs next to a DEA agent with his jacket off and his badge and handgun clearly visible. Typical SF organic winebar. Law enforcement drinking amongst hipsters, vinyl album covers on the wall, tattoos and fixed gear bikes parked inside.

In part because of current events, in part because my friend is Azeri and just to see if we can get a rise out of the agent we talk about Tabriz and his Persian grandmother.

He drinks red, I drink white and both are excellent. I naively expected natural or organic or biodynamic wine to taste not only different but worse than regular wine. Kind of like expecting a hybrid car to rattle at high speeds. After the run-in with the first bartender and the inevitable where-should-we-sit confusion it takes me half a glass before I remembered it was natural. Just outstanding wine.

Hopefully we'll post later about how unnatural normal wine is. From my last few years stumbling around Napa and Sonoma I suspect the industry polices itself quite well. We'll see.

After another glass we walk across the street to the food truck. Good, not great.

Viognier

We serve a beautiful glass of this. I love the grape, and I'm fascinated by the source. The Russian River Valley, sweltering by day, cool to cold at night, protective fog.

Cheers to NBBM's most distant reader for the image. I miss the days of looking out the window to see if it was still light enough to have a glass.

if the horse don't pull you got to carry the load

9 shifts completed in as many days. Tomorrow, actually later today, I finish the streak. I'd complain but my GM is spending her day off opening the newest restaurant in the group up in Napa. No thanks. I'll take our room with my normal busser and normal server. Change is for those working 40 hours a week.

I'm not sure there's much to learn from these marathon work stretches. It's a constant rush from bed to laundry to work to dry cleaning to work to the post office to bed. The email inbox overloads, loved ones are ignored, and you unwittingly earn the approval of the Central Americans in the kitchen. Mucho trabajo, they say as we slap, punch goodnight.

Tonight I went to retrieve a steak for B3 and found Juanito sound asleep on a milk carton. He wasn't slacking, it was his break. But two hours later, as he was leaving and I was closing up, we said our goodbyes:

"Manana?"
No, senor. Hasta el viernes.
"No trabajo manana?"
Si, senor. A16.

And then I remembered, he works two full time jobs, every week. No blog posts for Juanito. Not enough time.

Overheard

"What did you do on Sunday?" NBBM
"I took my shirt off." D sums up his Pride experience and explains his sunburn.

"I can bartend, I can work construction...(no response from the pretty girl to his left), yeah, I can do manual labor." Customer flaming out in front of the previously interested girl. Should have told her he was a producer.

Two shifts into a ten shifts in ten days run. Already tired. Already worried about dry cleaning, sleep, my other job suffering and fitting in time with the girl. Waking up in horror to find I'm already two hours behind schedule.

How did it happen? Co-workers taking vacation and I have a hard time telling my GM no. We're a small crew but almost everyone can fill two roles, DL does three: manages, tends bar and serves. So, unless we figure it out among ourselves the GM runs permutations and slides people from a Monday night managing shift to a Wednesday day server shift and almost always finds people their day off. Not this time. She's willing to endure the phonecall from corporate HQ in Napa asking why NBBM is getting overtime, again. And just now in writing this I remember I'll get OT two weeks in a row. My help isn't entirely altruistic.

It's cliche but true: working weekends and working extra is beating the Yankees. You make more money and don't spend at the usual rate. At the end of this run I'll have restocked the cash happily lost to the girl's birthday weekend. And when I need a week to travel the GM will remember this. If she doesn't I'll remind her.

Ten days also seems unreal. In some ways it's easier than working one or two extra nights. You just give up, submit to the schedule and the room and the customers.

Overheard

"I don't gamble. I'll bet on a horse but I won't gamble." Friday happy hour regular to his bartender who doesn't drink alcohol. He'll have a beer and a glass of bourbon but he won't drink.

"They're talking about moving the 49ers to Santa Clara." TD
"They should move the 49ers to Cuba." PdL in stride. Not sure who he wants to punish, but can't resist the obvious, haven't the Cubans suffered enough?

"It's difficult selling to a whore." Business traveler lamenting the truth.

Champagne manifesto

Just reread 7x7's excellent post about champagne glasses. It's one of my very favorite articles of his and very difficult to argue with. Opinionated and quirky, well done.

Rogelio Chan Benefit

Thieves Tavern is hosting a fundraiser for the 19 year old dishwasher recently diagnosed with an operable brain tumor. The doctors have judged he has 4 months to live without the surgery.

This Sunday, June 14th at Thieves Tavern, 496 14th Street, SF, CA 94103, the pool tournament starts at 4 PM and the raffle starts at 8 PM. $10 donation at the door.

Inedit

A North Beach ex-regular, now corresponding from Biarritz, sent in this link today. Aside from the pretentious and odd storage notes this beer sounds delicious. Chefs collaborating on beer? Where's the bad part? Trying to find bars and restaurants which carry this. Stay tuned.

Easy Living - St. Helena

After burgers on the lawn at Taylor's Refresher we walked across town for a nightcap. It felt like a luxury, walking from dinner to the bar, although the same is easily accomplished in almost every neighborhood in San Francisco. Maybe it was leaving our table in a grove of oaks as 4 year-olds chased balloons, walking quiet sidewalks along quiet streets, feeling the air cool as twilight turned to dark. Yep, Napa is pretty polished and that turns some people off, but on a warm, early summer night it feels like America, 1958.

Our local friend leads us into Market. It's text book St. Helena: exposed stone wall interior; dark wood back bar; anonymous jazz on the hi-fi. And the service is good. Our bartender is trying to clean up and close but he's patient. I had a glass of Blanton's. More heat than the Black Maple Hill I've been drinking lately but still delicious.

The bartender recommends it, saying, "It's my favorite." Hmmm. If a customer, after the first sip, approves of the drink, it's appropriate to say, "Yeah, it's my favorite." But I never know what to make of that line as an opener. Will I offend him if I choose something else? What if I follow his lead and then hate his favorite? What if his favorite is coincidentally the most expensive pour in the house? Is it then his favorite because of taste or because of the increased ring?

He compounds my confusion by listing his unsolicited, personal, tasting notes ending with "charcoal." Now he's in my head. As I take my first sip instead of thinking of the girl to my left, or the ride through the vineyards of Pope Valley, I'm thinking "charcoal." And it's there, sort of. (I'm always put off by charcoal when discussing bourbon. One of the distillers at Wild Turkey in Lawrenceburg spoke to me of Jack Daniels' charcoal filtering with outright disdain bordering on anger. I know Kentucky bourbon picks up some charcoal during barreling, but still...) My friend JA who drinks better wine with Chinese takeout than most people drink at their weddings -not an overstatement- refuses to engage in the Crayola jumbo pack of tasting drivel: neither burnt sepia for him, nor black currants. He's the Greek count in The Sun Also Rises. And I've come to learn that as much fun as talking is, sometimes it's more fun to savor.

But I'm being too critical of our bartender. He kept a spotless counter and graciously offered us last call at ten past ten. We declined and went home to bed. Country living.

Chris Libby named Bartender of the Something by SF Examiner

Chris is indeed an excellent bartender as well as a riding buddy and sounding board. I've long admired his ability to make consistent, high-quality drinks at a very quick pace. Those of you who have sat at my bar know on the bartender-mixologist scale I lean heavily towards the former. Speed(-ish) and efficiency triumph over flourish, nuance and art. The ideal would be a combination of these skills, but I have yet to find anybody who has them all in equal measure. Chris - and the rest of the crew at Solstice - come very close.

He's taken to wearing a jaunty cap behind the bar lately. Not sure why. Maybe he's just celebrating his good press. Next time you're in for a drink ask him what the above smile is called.

Overheard

"I really want a cigarette." GM, trying to quit.
"You should smoke a joint." Assistant Manager not trying so hard to quit.

"They keep the Sabbath on Saturday." Customer describing Seventh Day Adventist town Angwin, CA.
"So they can drink all day Sunday." PdL

dietary restrictions

Perhaps on an 18 month medical mission to Habana the customer stumbled upon an old bartender who made drinks for Papa and Papa, in between punching journalists and stroking cats, taught him the Secret of the Low Carb Mojito. Perhaps the customer was a Castro-era exchange student and just prefers acerbic cocktails.

Anthony Bourdain, much maligned but always entertaining, writes and speaks eloquently about submitting to the house. Checking your preconceptions at the door. The theory allows for asking the manager to turn down the music, but asks you to leave your cd's in the car. Alerting the server of your allergy to peanuts is sensible; requesting every sauce, dressing and glaze on the side is tedious. If you just want to give orders perhaps you should stay home and hire a cook. And waitress. And bartender. Or you could walk into a restaurant/bar and let them serve you. That requires trust and an open mind.

Back to the habana-phile. We can only hope there were three people at Table 1 otherwise the low carb mojito would be off set by the decidedly high carb beers.

And of course the rum has its own nutritional baggage, but what's striking about this request is the wrestling with reality. This is a simple drink, with simple ingredients: rum, muddled mint, lime and sugar, finished with soda. Take away too many of the ingredients and the drink ceases.

Having smirked at the special order I still appreciated the challenge. And I was happy to see the low carb glass returned a few minutes later, empty. Must have been good.

Overheard

"I know a little about the stereos."
- DL un-ironically troubleshooting the house hi-fi.

"Where'd you go to high school?" CR
"Lowell." New Guy
"That's all Asians and Jews." CR
"Actually, I'm Jewish." New Guy
"So you know what I mean." CR, not PC but would give Asians and Jews the shirt off his back.

cocaine

Our room is clean and surrounded by windows. We don't get Gollum drinkers - those afraid of light, those who drink to forget the world. Usually we get customers who want to meet and chat. Fun groups requiring little shepherding on my part.

Into the midst of one such group last evening entered Overly Tanned. She's mid fifties, unapologetically burnt orange with hair set in bronze. Handsome. She kisses the guys and kiss-kisses the girls. Talking, greeting, smiling, repeating herself, laughing. She orders and excuses herself to the Ladies Room. Back in a flash and she drains half her drink in one go. Without asking if she's dining I lay down a menu. She takes the hint, points, and I ring in her food. The slip reads, Rush, por favor.

She leaves for the powder room and reappears. Now she's touching a married guy on his knee and laughing. Now she's complaining that her just poured drink hasn't been refilled. I start to freeze her out. Ignore her, handle other customers, handle tickets for the servers, polish glasses, anything to beg for time. She goes back to the Ladies Room just as her food arrives.

(The Day Bartender claims he's frozen her out for 30 minutes and I believe him. She asked him for another drink and he said, One minute, without looking up. For 30 minutes they engaged in a battle of wills, a not-staring contest. Eventually the need for alcohol triumphed and she blinked for another bar.)

OT returns without a word and the freeze continues. My friend Y says she knows her 2 year old son is "ruining something" when he's out of sight and quiet. I look over and OT is eating arugula with her hands. As an aside, our menu is traditional. We don't serve arugula on the cob. She should be using a fork and the rest of the bar knows it. You can sense the shift in sympathy and judgment from OT to the bartender. The regulars are ready for her to leave and they expect me to expedite it.

Fortunately she asks for another drink. "Sorry, OT, we're out of Bailey's. Would you like a glass of wine?" I know she'll decline. When she's on a coke, vodka and Bailey's bender she refuses to downshift. She considers, computing how many glasses of wine she'd have to drink to compensate for the loss of 80 proof vodka cut with 34 proof liqueur. "No thanks, I'll just settle and move on." Nice as can be.

Overheard

"Hey, man!" Customer passing DL in the Alley
"How's it going?" DL, slapping customer on the back
Who's that?" Bill
"I have no idea." DL, wishing the narrow room didn't force such intimate encounters

Jealousy Factor

My customers leave to go home and call their Mexican surgeons.

martinis

They fascinate me. I've only had two in my life. Both in one sitting at Blondie's years before moving here. I'd drink them consistently if they were made with bourbon and water. Alas. But I love looking at them and love making them.

The Day Bartender mixes a little more than the glass will hold and leaves the extra in a shot glass on ice. But the day shifts are typically easier paced and the customers better behaved. There's also inventory and house profits to consider. The main reason I rarely give the customer the excess is I want to keep my hand on the throttle. The drink needs to be treated as the potentially crippling drug it is.

The recipe calls for the strongest cocktail in any reputable bar: alcohol plus alcohol plus a tiny amount of water from the melted ice prior to straining...served in a bird bath. These glasses have grown over the decades. Watch Double Indemnity and see how martinis used to/should be served: in tiny, maybe 3 ounce glasses.

And, maybe I want to keep the line moving. In certain cases I want to turn that seat over, get some new blood in here. If the customer is a regular and I know how they drink, tip and linger I might pass on the excess. Strangers lose but they can always come back and change that.

Notes:

• "Hey, kid. You never make a single f-cking martini." Phil Matzuka training the Day Bartender at the bar in the whore house in the Haight in 1957. You do the math.
• The moratorium on shaken mojitos is under reconsideration. Hesitation from a trusted customer the reason.
• Chris at Solstice recommends pouring from the tin, not the glass. The customers can't see any overpour and metal on glass breaks less than glass on glass.
• There's no such thing as a fourth martini.

co-workers

At the beginning of each shift we get along. The girls and I kiss, kiss, both cheeks. The straight Hispanics and I do our house high-five: sideways slap and reverse against the backs of hand. The gay Hispanics (shock horror! gays in the restaurant industry?! don't tell mother!) prefer a simple handshake. And the gringos, with boring predictability, have individual greetings from shakes to maudlin hugs to stern nods.

line cook 415 wrote beautifully about shift relations. But the front of the room is different. We're children in front of company. Although we don't have to hold hands all the time we can't swear or kick or throw the stuffed pony down the stairs.

So when I'm in the weeds and DL asks if the wines are ordered on the tray as they are on the slip (as they are in every wine bar, and have been at ours since I started working) I don't scream. I grit my teeth, shake my head, yes, and turn away. When J dervishes up to the bridge and frantically states he's going to claim one of my tables because they've just ordered bread, I don't swear. Just force, "I'm sure it'll work out," with a thin smile and turn away. When D and E interrupt staging a 6 part order to ask for water, instead of screaming, Get your own f-ing water! I swivel and turn the handle.

Usually around 15 minutes before closing the drinks are out. The food is out. And we're chatting with customers. Restocking bottles. Cleaning. And we're happy to see each other again. We might rehash events to clarify and ensure there aren't hard feelings. But mostly we're relieved the rush is over, the money's been made and we're about to turn off the lights. We're nice again. The difference between the back of the house and us is that we start swearing now, after the battle, and it's usually self-directed: "Sorry I was such an asshole. 7 were being dicks." "No, it's cool, man. I just over-f-cking-reacted." Swearing now because we can and swearing to relieve the pressure.

With such an obvious and persistent pattern you'd think we'd try to change the dynamic. Stress begets stress and ease begets ease. Why then don't we just promise to be easy with each other? I'm working on it.

updates:

• I think I'm done shaking mojitos. Let the soda do its job.
• If you're not from Boston, speaking loudly in what you think is a Boston accent using the words car, park and yard, is not funny. Ever.

The Dread

I like my job. The technical side of bartending fascinates me. The mixology, making strong spirits potable always stops me in the midst of the din of a busy restaurant and makes me smile. Martinis, Manhattans and Negronis are mildly intricate but quick to make and beautiful to look at.

Beyond the alchemy almost every shift brings a few moments of joy, real comedy or at least gallows humor. I like my regulars and coworkers. I love the new GM. The room is excellent. And the commute is tolerable. Why then do I hate going to work?

15:00 to 16:45 are routinely the worst minutes of my day. I loathe and thus procrastinate brushing my teeth, shaving and finally the shower. Once dressed I fret about dry cleaning, collar stays, the 1 California schedule. Upon leaving the apartment the angst shifts to my relationship with A. Did I wash my dishes? Did I make the bed? Is my desk clear?

And then the bus filled with early teenagers shrieking over their card games and texts. My route passes a few parks and I look with abject jealousy at the homeless lounging in the grass.

This anxiety is the cost of being on time. Most days I step behind the bar precisely at 17:00. Till counted, tie tied, apron knotted. And instantly the angst lifts.

Intro blog posts

are best kept short. I'll write about my bar, my friends' bars, regulars, tourists, business travelers, servers, cooks, busboys, managers, owners, cab drivers, professional drinkers, rookie drinkers, alcoholics, coke addicts, speed freaks and a beautiful girl from New Orleans who drank two glasses of wine with her mother, bussed her own glasses, over-tipped and left with a smile. I think everyone was relieved when the door closed behind her. Too distracting.