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.