They were armed with tasting sheets, readied palettes, and competitiveness as we sidled up to the bar/island to taste 8 flavors of Cupcake Martinis. Well, maybe they were just ready for a night out with the girls and a few cocktails. Either way, they all brought their A games and a desire to help with my Martini Market Research.
A few weeks earlier I had been struck with the idea of making grown-up cupcake-inspired treats, after making batch after batch of cupcakes to welcome my Second Grader and Kindergartner home from their respective first days of school. (As an aside, I have heard that the cupcake tradition has spread around town, and kids from other bus-stops, and even other schools, have asked their parents if they can be dropped off at our bus-stop on the last day of school - the other date that I break out the "Treat Greets." Actually, the cocktail part has since caught on too, and a patron at Brady's leaned in the other night and asked, "Are you The Cupcake Martini Lady?" Thanks, girls - that was cool!!)
I wasn't really sure WHAT I was going to do with the research data once I gathered it, but I knew it would be empirically fun no matter what. Plus, having a stocked liquor cabinet for weeks (or a week) after the event, was a nice reason in itself. So I began mixing and pouring the first flavor, the Chocolate Cupcake Martini once the first five women were gathered, and the tasting was on.
We were slaves to the order in which our ingredients came through the door (which felt like "Baileys, More Baileys, Something Else, Baileys, Baileys... [no complaints here!!), since I had asked each attendee to bring one bottle of liquor from a list provided on the Evite. The first couple were easy - the chocolate ones, so we started with those. I had made the "Secret Recipe-Base" ahead of time and just needed to add one or two ingredients to make each of the flavors. I used the Dutch Chocolate Vodka and Creme de Cocoa to make the Chocolate. Then as luck would have it, Peppermint Schnapps arrived next and Chamboard had come earlier, so we could all try the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate as well.
The reviews for these flavors predicted the unpredictability of the rest of the night's reviews. It was odd how people could feel so decidedly different about seemingly basic tastes. Most people liked, or at least didn't hate, the Chocolate Cupcake flavor. It was perhaps the most mainstream of the flavors. Comments like "Tastes like kicked-up Hornstra Chocolate Milk" and "I loved it and I'm a beer girl" were mostly representative of peoples' feelings about this one. Some commented that it was "creamy"; "good, but probably not good for the waist-line" and "one of my favorites". Only one or two spoke differently, saying it was "too milky" or "needs more chocolate" (Sorry - I guess the sugared cocoa powder on the rim wasn't enough for this chocoholic!!). Anyway, this was a straightforward flavor, with basic reactions. Nothing crazy.
You would think the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate would enjoy the same steadiness in their reviews. But that's where I was wrong. Actually, I thought the Raspberry one would be a little too unique, but only one taste-tester "Didn't like" it. Others said "Favorite", "Yum", "Amazing" and "I wanted to lick the fancy glass clean" (This was the only drink served in the mar-TEENY glasses, with rimmed chocolate syrup and chocolate chips at the bottom - maybe that was why its reviews were one of the best. We fancy ladies liked the fancy presentation. Probably not the reason, since we all, as moms are not influenced by how something looks, like we tell our children - right?? OK, so it was fancy on the inside too - and delicious.)
The Mint Chocolate Cupcake flavor, on the other hand, split the audience, and reminded lots of us of parking lot parties, Varsity Letterman jackets and paper bag moments. Apparently, Peppermint Schnapps was synonymous with suburban teenage mischief -- so I am told. Comments like "High School Flashback"; "Reminded me of college (Okay, maybe a late bloomer among the rest of us 15-year old booze-bags)" and "Schnappy Happy" were balanced off by "Delicious" and "Better than Raspberry" by some of our less alcoholically-reminiscent participants.
As more and more women arrived, bearing gifts like Godiva Liqueur, Hot Damn (an appropriately assigned beverage, Gimp!) and Vodkas of all persuasions (not to mention more Baileys!), the organization loosened up a bit, the pours increased a bit, and the night was in full swing. A brief, yet serious time-out for a pesky pine-nut foul, sidelined one of the night's all-stars, and taught us a real lesson in teamwork -- not to mention the importance of involving nurses, pharmacists and moms in any team dynamic. Having a bartender is always a good strategy too, and I was thankful to have a couple of those to keep the game on track!
The pine-nut player went home, but not without contributing to the win for the rest of the team -- her ingredient made the victorious recipe possible (No, not Baileys). The Boston Cream Martini was loved by all, hailed as "Dessert-like (Hmm, wasn't the party named "Drink Your Dessert"?? - very good!)" and "X-worthy".
Strawberry Shortcake was liked by some, but calling upon my medicine cabinet to treat the allergic reaction must have soured others, because time and again, it was referred to as drug-like (-- and not in a good way). "St. Joseph's Chewables," said one. "Amoxycilin" said another. "Nyquil (really??)" from yet another. Oh, and the Nyquil commenter threw in a "Yuck." Some of you were a bit more diplomatic, saying strawberry was not your "favorite taste" or that you were "not wild about it". I appreciate the diplomacy, but honestly can take the real comments -- I mean come on, I write a weekly blog about myself -- my skin must be pretty thick, not to mention self-loved.
Then there was Blueberry Muffin. Another embarrassed-reference about college schnapps-drinking -- that wasn't rule-breaking, girls!! Not very rebellious - funny though that this commentator couldn't REMEMBER if she drank it then, but assumed with a name like Schnapps, it had to be collegiate. A few of you thought it tasted like cereal - a compliment I think. And you really brought me back with your reference to "Boo-berry". Maybe I should rename the Chocolate one "Count Chocula-tini" to stick with that theme. Again these drinks were tasted later in the night, and the funny comments reflected that. Good stuff.
Lemon Chiffon and Apple Spice were probably the least favorites - though a few of you listed Lemon in your top 3. Frankly, I think the fact that someone (and a couple barbacks) were placing fancy drinks dressed with fancy garnishes in front of everyone made most of you want to love them all, and I appreciate that. Or at least love the idea of loving them all. You all took your charge quite seriously, followed the rules, wrote your reactions and helped me on this very important task. Well done!
The tasting took less time than I expected - we had all moved on to beer and wine by 9:30. Or maybe the switch helped you focus and figure out your Secret Recipe Guesses. It was funny that some of you guessed eggs, tonic and gin (those were examples, listed in the directions for making your guesses! The night was getting fuzzy, I know...)
It was neck-and-neck, two of you guessing 3 out of the 6 ingredients. Then sudden death - another tie. Then a second sudden-death, and the bartender won out. Enjoy your pedicure, you earned it with a tough night of tasting, theorizing and tending!!
As 11 o'clock approached, most of the guests started leaving. This was too bad because my kids had finally stopped calling down the stairs from their beds ("Is so-and-so's Mom here?" And "So-and-so's?" "It's so unfair that you get to have a party on a school night!") and I was ready to retry the winning recipes just to make sure I got them right. A couple women stayed, we "cleaned", which is code word for "I get to stay later and have more drinks and I can explain it away to my husband as 'I helped clean'". Works for me, so the three of us rehashed the evening, laughed at the funny comments, hoped that pine-nut player was okay, and sat at a now-cleaned off island, drinking as the school-night became the school morning. All in the name of Market Research...
So how did our competition compare to H's day at Foxborough yesterday? Ours totally won out: he wasted a whole bottle of booze (not one of ours, don't worry!) on his marinade. That doesn't sound like appropriate market research. He also suffered through rain, traffic and not-so-friendly competition (Falcons fans don't sound so cool). The only obvious similarity was the school-night nature of the event. Which explains the snoring I hear emanating from the other room right now. Time for me to go have some Baileys!
The order in which the martinis were ranked by my expert panel:
1. Boston Cream
2. Chocolate
3. Chocolate Raspberry
4. Lemon Chiffon
5. Strawberry Shortcake
6. Mint Chocolate
7. Blueberry
8. Apple Spice
----Recipes to follow---
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Martinis as Sport
I sit here Sunday morning, a football widow for the day (He ["H"] FINALLY left after pacing around questioning the tardiness of his ride coming from one street over: "It's 8:02 - He said he'd be here by 8." "Why don't you grab your 3 cases of beer, seventeen pounds of raw meat and, I don't know - start WALKING!" I want to reply.) But I believe he is entitled to this day of no responsibilities; of reliving his youthful days of manly Sunday camaraderie gathered around a hibachi and a cooler; a day he has been planning, strategizing and justifying for what seems like weeks.
You would think he hasn't been out of the house for months, though, the way he joyfully roused himself at 6:30 to marinade steak tips, carve ice sculptures for a freshly-sanitized cooler (at least that's what I assume he did with the ice pick and all that pent-up anxiousness), and watch the Doppler radar over and over like a child tracking Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve ("You see, right there, kids -- it's breaking up! That gigantic blob of green rain will give way to blue skies at precisely 1:00 in Foxborough. Not sure about here in Scituate - you and Mom may be out of luck. Here, let's watch it again...")
Not that it matters whether it rains, snows or drops firebombs at the Patriots' stadium -- the men (okay, 'boys') are child-free, woman-free and carefree, and damn it, they are going to make the most of this 16-hour window of self-centeredness. They all left their money worries, honey-do lists and disciplining desires in rainy Scituate. Friendly Foxborough, on the other hand, holds only the worries of beer quantities, fantasy league trading opportunities and whether or not the Hiram Walker Promotions Girls' skimpy outfits will be covered up by rain gear (Probably not, since it never rains in Foxborough)
So here I sit, popping left-over cupcake martini garnishes, Snickers bars and Peppermint Patties (I asked you to hide them on me, H!!), to snap me out of my morning fog and provide some much-needed caffeine. You see, H and I have been playing the "Since you are going out this night, then I am going out that night" game for the two past weeks; and last night was my night - a late one. We've been jockeying for entitlement and excitement the only way we can these days - without the other.
That's the theme of our entertainment opportunities lately: Girls Nights Out and Guys Nights (or "days") Out. It may have started when he referred to my bartending work as "going out 2 nights a week" - you can imagine the "discussion" that ensued from that utterly absurd observation. Yet, the gauntlet had been thrown, and I, loving a passive aggressive competition as I do, held up my end. (So, yes, I sometimes now, without guilt, go out AFTER work. Yawn.)
Two weeks ago, H mentioned in passing, as if it was a given, that Sundays would inevitably be spent experiencing football - whether games were 'home' or 'away'. That was on a Wednesday, the day before his usual night out, Thursdays. The possible tenor of the next 4 football months flashed suddenly before my eyes: H out Thursday and Sunday, I work Friday and Saturday. I immediately claimed that next night as my own, justifying it as us both having a night out, without working. And we were off....!
Thursday: Girls Night Out. Fun time. So fun that I decided the following Thursday should be my fun too. But I spun this one a little differently: Market Research. Being a bartender, market research means lots of fun. Cupcake Martinis had been garnering a lot of Facebook time and personal attention lately - I decided to fully explore their potential with a home tasting party. And the Cupcake Martini Cocktail Tasting Party was born. Evites were sent...
H was fully onboard; even helped perfect (read: taste, offer critique, taste again, critique a little more, taste, taste, repeat) the Yellow Cupcake Martini Base with me. When the guest list expanded from 10 to 20 to 40 women, he grew a little wary of the idea of being totally and completely outnumbered by females and decided to reinstate his Thursday Night Out. I could handle it, he reasoned, by myself. He was right, and I entered full-blown party planning mode.
The following week, tasting sheets had been printed out, pitchers were labeled and ready for eight flavors of cupcake martinis, and women were arriving promptly at 7:30, bottles of booze, cocktail shakers and appetizers in hand. Our excitement was comparative to the football excitement of Sunday morning maleness. Yet our competition was a lot more participative - we would not be watching the plays from bleacher seats; we would be actively involved in our own competitive match. And there were prizes at stake here too: a pedicure to the MVP who guesses the secret recipe; not to mention the pride and honor of a solid win.
The ladies filed in to their respective spots around the kitchen island and planned their strategies ("I am going to drink all the chocolate ones first." "Well I am going to work backwards and start with the fruity ones first.") They eyed each other, 2-ounce mar-TEENY glasses in hand, readying themselves for the challenge bestowed upon them. Who would fare the best in this fierce competition of drinking, deducing and driving home???? It almost sounds like a day at Foxborough. Stay tuned for instant replays from both these events -- as soon as I throw away this Snickers bag.
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Coming up next: Tasting Take-aways & Fan Favorites
You would think he hasn't been out of the house for months, though, the way he joyfully roused himself at 6:30 to marinade steak tips, carve ice sculptures for a freshly-sanitized cooler (at least that's what I assume he did with the ice pick and all that pent-up anxiousness), and watch the Doppler radar over and over like a child tracking Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve ("You see, right there, kids -- it's breaking up! That gigantic blob of green rain will give way to blue skies at precisely 1:00 in Foxborough. Not sure about here in Scituate - you and Mom may be out of luck. Here, let's watch it again...")
Not that it matters whether it rains, snows or drops firebombs at the Patriots' stadium -- the men (okay, 'boys') are child-free, woman-free and carefree, and damn it, they are going to make the most of this 16-hour window of self-centeredness. They all left their money worries, honey-do lists and disciplining desires in rainy Scituate. Friendly Foxborough, on the other hand, holds only the worries of beer quantities, fantasy league trading opportunities and whether or not the Hiram Walker Promotions Girls' skimpy outfits will be covered up by rain gear (Probably not, since it never rains in Foxborough)
So here I sit, popping left-over cupcake martini garnishes, Snickers bars and Peppermint Patties (I asked you to hide them on me, H!!), to snap me out of my morning fog and provide some much-needed caffeine. You see, H and I have been playing the "Since you are going out this night, then I am going out that night" game for the two past weeks; and last night was my night - a late one. We've been jockeying for entitlement and excitement the only way we can these days - without the other.
That's the theme of our entertainment opportunities lately: Girls Nights Out and Guys Nights (or "days") Out. It may have started when he referred to my bartending work as "going out 2 nights a week" - you can imagine the "discussion" that ensued from that utterly absurd observation. Yet, the gauntlet had been thrown, and I, loving a passive aggressive competition as I do, held up my end. (So, yes, I sometimes now, without guilt, go out AFTER work. Yawn.)
Two weeks ago, H mentioned in passing, as if it was a given, that Sundays would inevitably be spent experiencing football - whether games were 'home' or 'away'. That was on a Wednesday, the day before his usual night out, Thursdays. The possible tenor of the next 4 football months flashed suddenly before my eyes: H out Thursday and Sunday, I work Friday and Saturday. I immediately claimed that next night as my own, justifying it as us both having a night out, without working. And we were off....!
Thursday: Girls Night Out. Fun time. So fun that I decided the following Thursday should be my fun too. But I spun this one a little differently: Market Research. Being a bartender, market research means lots of fun. Cupcake Martinis had been garnering a lot of Facebook time and personal attention lately - I decided to fully explore their potential with a home tasting party. And the Cupcake Martini Cocktail Tasting Party was born. Evites were sent...
H was fully onboard; even helped perfect (read: taste, offer critique, taste again, critique a little more, taste, taste, repeat) the Yellow Cupcake Martini Base with me. When the guest list expanded from 10 to 20 to 40 women, he grew a little wary of the idea of being totally and completely outnumbered by females and decided to reinstate his Thursday Night Out. I could handle it, he reasoned, by myself. He was right, and I entered full-blown party planning mode.
The following week, tasting sheets had been printed out, pitchers were labeled and ready for eight flavors of cupcake martinis, and women were arriving promptly at 7:30, bottles of booze, cocktail shakers and appetizers in hand. Our excitement was comparative to the football excitement of Sunday morning maleness. Yet our competition was a lot more participative - we would not be watching the plays from bleacher seats; we would be actively involved in our own competitive match. And there were prizes at stake here too: a pedicure to the MVP who guesses the secret recipe; not to mention the pride and honor of a solid win.
The ladies filed in to their respective spots around the kitchen island and planned their strategies ("I am going to drink all the chocolate ones first." "Well I am going to work backwards and start with the fruity ones first.") They eyed each other, 2-ounce mar-TEENY glasses in hand, readying themselves for the challenge bestowed upon them. Who would fare the best in this fierce competition of drinking, deducing and driving home???? It almost sounds like a day at Foxborough. Stay tuned for instant replays from both these events -- as soon as I throw away this Snickers bag.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming up next: Tasting Take-aways & Fan Favorites
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
What's Different About This Place?
It was a somewhat slow weekend at Brady's. And even though it wasn't all that eventful, it was a pretty enjoyable two nights (well, as enjoyable as working instead of playing can be on Fridays and Saturdays), and at first I couldn't pinpoint why.
Then it struck me: No Karen. Karen is the "bartender" I replaced. She was demoted to waitress, sent away to table service - in the eyes of many, a less glamorous restaurant job than bartending. I don't really think there's much difference - you are either captive audience to your demanding clientele or you are not. At a bar, customers expect immediate service, pithy conversation, and mindreading (A bartender should know when to "interrupt" to describe drink specials and take dinner orders, since she is standing within ten feet of you at all times. A waitress has the ability to simply walk over to your table and be granted your full attention. Most of the time tables are anxiously awaiting your arrival, and are happy to be "interrupted.")
Also, if anyone is left in the restaurant at all, not just sitting at your bar, the bartender must stay. On the other hand, a waitress is able to leave as soon as her several tables have vacated. She simply counts her money, runs a quick report and heads next door to a still-happening bar to have a drink and decompress with the other servers. While they are going over the night's high-notes and pitfalls ("Can you BELIEVE that old guy ate his entire order of short ribs and then declared there wasn't enough meat on them and refused to pay?!?"), the bartender is left cleaning and re-cleaning stemware and speed racks just to bide time until the lingering couple in the corner or boisterous birthday party upstairs decides to finally call it a night -- because, you never know, they may just order one more Keoke Coffee or Sambuca shooter.
So bartenders work later, are expected to make both perfect drinks and perfect jokes, and often miss out on after-work socializing. Still, some - like Karen - found prestige in being a bartender over a waitress. That extra $2 an hour probably wasn't the reason as much as the fact that she thought better of herself than everyone else that worked there, no matter how unfounded that was.
She came to work late, would always selectively fill orders that were "easy" -- a glass of wine or soda before an order for 3 different martinis -- and there was the drug thing too. (She left half way through her shift to have a good cry, probably brought on by the triple dose of percocet she admitted to taking before arriving to work, you guessed it, late. By the time a waitress stepped behind the bar to take over (let's hope her rate went up for those three remaining hours), the service printer tape had reached the floor with more than 15 tables of martini, mojito, and mixed drink orders. Oddly - or not - Karen had read most of them before declaring herself unfit - and left a few sodas and bottles of wine (unpoured) on the service bar for pick-up.
So imagine the awkwardness when the demoted bartender-now-waitress, must rely upon her replacement (me) to make her drinks and enable her to successfully serve her tables. No words are uttered, no eye contact -- she actually lays in wait for me to leave the bar to grab extra ice or liquor, and descends on the unsuspecting barback to make her tables' cocktails. (Yes, my barback should actually be getting the ice and store-room booze, but the occasional heavy lifting and a quick run around the bar keep me sane, and P90X-worthy.)
And then I arrive back to a perspiring 21-year old, poring over the Bartenders Bible, in order to make a Kamikaze, while Karen glares at him to hustle. Hustle - Ha! As if she has any idea what that means. One night a glass of Pinot Noir sat at the service bar for 45 minutes, while she actually came back and forth for other drinks (and even made up a few that she didn't send in, demanding to know where they went, and then ran - as much as Karen would ever run - to the owner to report me for sabotaging her tables. Yes, that sounds exactly what a 36-year old mother of three who keeps this job in order to send her kids to swimming lessons and baseball tryouts, would do. Sabotage.). When I broke the "who's going to talk to the other first" contest (I said I wouldn't sabotage; I didn't say I was always mature), and asked her what the deal was with the wine, she looked blankly at it, at the ceiling, at it, at her order book, shrugged, and walked away to "serve" her other tables.
I may be a little smug about my position over hers - but only because she had been so rude, unhelpful and downright accusatory since I started. So when I experience a weekend without her on the floor, where I don't see her sour spaced-out face every 10 minutes for 5 straight hours, and don't have to chase her around for her tip-out at the end of her night (another reason I would NEVER leave while she still has tables), it is a welcome change. And even though there weren't any funny stories to report, no intoxicated patrons to shut off, and no break-ups or hook-ups in front of me, it was a decent weekend. Too bad it won't last.
Then it struck me: No Karen. Karen is the "bartender" I replaced. She was demoted to waitress, sent away to table service - in the eyes of many, a less glamorous restaurant job than bartending. I don't really think there's much difference - you are either captive audience to your demanding clientele or you are not. At a bar, customers expect immediate service, pithy conversation, and mindreading (A bartender should know when to "interrupt" to describe drink specials and take dinner orders, since she is standing within ten feet of you at all times. A waitress has the ability to simply walk over to your table and be granted your full attention. Most of the time tables are anxiously awaiting your arrival, and are happy to be "interrupted.")
Also, if anyone is left in the restaurant at all, not just sitting at your bar, the bartender must stay. On the other hand, a waitress is able to leave as soon as her several tables have vacated. She simply counts her money, runs a quick report and heads next door to a still-happening bar to have a drink and decompress with the other servers. While they are going over the night's high-notes and pitfalls ("Can you BELIEVE that old guy ate his entire order of short ribs and then declared there wasn't enough meat on them and refused to pay?!?"), the bartender is left cleaning and re-cleaning stemware and speed racks just to bide time until the lingering couple in the corner or boisterous birthday party upstairs decides to finally call it a night -- because, you never know, they may just order one more Keoke Coffee or Sambuca shooter.
So bartenders work later, are expected to make both perfect drinks and perfect jokes, and often miss out on after-work socializing. Still, some - like Karen - found prestige in being a bartender over a waitress. That extra $2 an hour probably wasn't the reason as much as the fact that she thought better of herself than everyone else that worked there, no matter how unfounded that was.
She came to work late, would always selectively fill orders that were "easy" -- a glass of wine or soda before an order for 3 different martinis -- and there was the drug thing too. (She left half way through her shift to have a good cry, probably brought on by the triple dose of percocet she admitted to taking before arriving to work, you guessed it, late. By the time a waitress stepped behind the bar to take over (let's hope her rate went up for those three remaining hours), the service printer tape had reached the floor with more than 15 tables of martini, mojito, and mixed drink orders. Oddly - or not - Karen had read most of them before declaring herself unfit - and left a few sodas and bottles of wine (unpoured) on the service bar for pick-up.
So imagine the awkwardness when the demoted bartender-now-waitress, must rely upon her replacement (me) to make her drinks and enable her to successfully serve her tables. No words are uttered, no eye contact -- she actually lays in wait for me to leave the bar to grab extra ice or liquor, and descends on the unsuspecting barback to make her tables' cocktails. (Yes, my barback should actually be getting the ice and store-room booze, but the occasional heavy lifting and a quick run around the bar keep me sane, and P90X-worthy.)
And then I arrive back to a perspiring 21-year old, poring over the Bartenders Bible, in order to make a Kamikaze, while Karen glares at him to hustle. Hustle - Ha! As if she has any idea what that means. One night a glass of Pinot Noir sat at the service bar for 45 minutes, while she actually came back and forth for other drinks (and even made up a few that she didn't send in, demanding to know where they went, and then ran - as much as Karen would ever run - to the owner to report me for sabotaging her tables. Yes, that sounds exactly what a 36-year old mother of three who keeps this job in order to send her kids to swimming lessons and baseball tryouts, would do. Sabotage.). When I broke the "who's going to talk to the other first" contest (I said I wouldn't sabotage; I didn't say I was always mature), and asked her what the deal was with the wine, she looked blankly at it, at the ceiling, at it, at her order book, shrugged, and walked away to "serve" her other tables.
I may be a little smug about my position over hers - but only because she had been so rude, unhelpful and downright accusatory since I started. So when I experience a weekend without her on the floor, where I don't see her sour spaced-out face every 10 minutes for 5 straight hours, and don't have to chase her around for her tip-out at the end of her night (another reason I would NEVER leave while she still has tables), it is a welcome change. And even though there weren't any funny stories to report, no intoxicated patrons to shut off, and no break-ups or hook-ups in front of me, it was a decent weekend. Too bad it won't last.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Missing Out?? Hardly.
I have settled comfortably in to being the regular weekend bartender at Brady's. True, I miss my own Friday and Saturday-night fun, like Friday afternoon "playgroups" that sound like they are organized (or at least named) for kids' fun, when really they are a great way to get us moms together at the earliest possible weekend-welcoming time to drink wine by the magnum-full, throw some chicken nuggets at the jousting kids (I don't care WHAT you do with those light sabers - just do it AWAY FROM US MOMS!!) and celebrate the impending two days of double parenting we are about to embark upon.
Those afternoons lasted well into the evenings, made possible by the emblazoning firepit, the husbands that joined to legitimize our passive parenting ("Does anyone mind if I start another Spongebob Marathon?"), and the fact that our kids wanted the fun to last as long as the adults.
Moms would come armed with Bacardi (no-carb rum and diet coke please!), wine, appetizers and children's pajamas. We would stretch it as late as we could, dismissing meltdowns and using our famous empty-threat:"If you scream one more time, that's it, WE ARE LEAVING!!" But mostly our mantra was: "If I don't see you (or the 14 other kids we threw in the basement with you in front of ICarly) then we can stay for another twenty minutes." Twenty minutes always meant an hour; and we convinced ourselves that the empty threats worked...
But there are no more "kids'" fun Fridays for me. Sometimes Thursday becomes the new Friday. It's not as late, it doesn't draw as many husbands, and we don't excuse as many meltdowns, BUT it does the trick when in need of socializing, wine-tasting and something to occupy the kids. Right, the kids. Hey, as long as you can get through Friday with a little wine headache, then Thursdays work just fine.
I think anyone who works in the hospitality business, is pretty open to finding their weekend-grade enjoyment whenever they can get it, and not limiting themselves to the normally-sanctioned "fun nights". That way, the unexpected Tuesday night booze cruise or Sunday afternoon beach parties satisfy the desire to let loose and are sometimes even more appreciated.
Besides, if I didn't bartend on the nights when most people find it acceptable to let loose, drink wine by the magnum-full and let their inhibitions run free, then I wouldn't have experienced all of the weird, obscene and embarrassing that I have at Brady's over the last few months.
The couple that broke up two feet from me, while sitting at the bar (well, she dumped him and he begged her back for two excruciating, more-inebriating-by-the-minute and mortifying hours) would never have broken up on a Tuesday night, I decided. She needed the audience, not to mention the wine, to push her through this awful exchange. If she dumped him in the comfort - and quiet - of her own home or his - the result would not have been the same. A bar made it more of a show for her, and she could detach more easily, like she often did when turning to a new woman, saying "He's cute, right? He will find someone new! Are YOU single?" Cringe...
The sixty-year old, sophisticated, put-together socialite, never would have had three glasses of a wine on a Monday, and ended up telling me about her handsome-trucker boyfriend that made her feel so wild and crazy, that she left her husband for him, forsaking her penthouse life for a one bedroom apartment and planning her new life around his visits. Then on the next visit, he told her to get tested for "something" he found out he has, and ended up giving to both the woman and her estranged husband. Something tells me that type of conversation only happens on a Saturday night, with your best girlfriend and an understanding bartender.
So yes, playgroups and "normal" adult fun can happen on any night now for me. But embarrassing life lessons, approval-seeking ex-girlfriends, and all kinds of other weekend-worthy situations will stay confined to the standard "busiest nights" of the weeks. And I will be there to listen (or pretend not to --).
Those afternoons lasted well into the evenings, made possible by the emblazoning firepit, the husbands that joined to legitimize our passive parenting ("Does anyone mind if I start another Spongebob Marathon?"), and the fact that our kids wanted the fun to last as long as the adults.
Moms would come armed with Bacardi (no-carb rum and diet coke please!), wine, appetizers and children's pajamas. We would stretch it as late as we could, dismissing meltdowns and using our famous empty-threat:"If you scream one more time, that's it, WE ARE LEAVING!!" But mostly our mantra was: "If I don't see you (or the 14 other kids we threw in the basement with you in front of ICarly) then we can stay for another twenty minutes." Twenty minutes always meant an hour; and we convinced ourselves that the empty threats worked...
But there are no more "kids'" fun Fridays for me. Sometimes Thursday becomes the new Friday. It's not as late, it doesn't draw as many husbands, and we don't excuse as many meltdowns, BUT it does the trick when in need of socializing, wine-tasting and something to occupy the kids. Right, the kids. Hey, as long as you can get through Friday with a little wine headache, then Thursdays work just fine.
I think anyone who works in the hospitality business, is pretty open to finding their weekend-grade enjoyment whenever they can get it, and not limiting themselves to the normally-sanctioned "fun nights". That way, the unexpected Tuesday night booze cruise or Sunday afternoon beach parties satisfy the desire to let loose and are sometimes even more appreciated.
Besides, if I didn't bartend on the nights when most people find it acceptable to let loose, drink wine by the magnum-full and let their inhibitions run free, then I wouldn't have experienced all of the weird, obscene and embarrassing that I have at Brady's over the last few months.
The couple that broke up two feet from me, while sitting at the bar (well, she dumped him and he begged her back for two excruciating, more-inebriating-by-the-minute and mortifying hours) would never have broken up on a Tuesday night, I decided. She needed the audience, not to mention the wine, to push her through this awful exchange. If she dumped him in the comfort - and quiet - of her own home or his - the result would not have been the same. A bar made it more of a show for her, and she could detach more easily, like she often did when turning to a new woman, saying "He's cute, right? He will find someone new! Are YOU single?" Cringe...
The sixty-year old, sophisticated, put-together socialite, never would have had three glasses of a wine on a Monday, and ended up telling me about her handsome-trucker boyfriend that made her feel so wild and crazy, that she left her husband for him, forsaking her penthouse life for a one bedroom apartment and planning her new life around his visits. Then on the next visit, he told her to get tested for "something" he found out he has, and ended up giving to both the woman and her estranged husband. Something tells me that type of conversation only happens on a Saturday night, with your best girlfriend and an understanding bartender.
So yes, playgroups and "normal" adult fun can happen on any night now for me. But embarrassing life lessons, approval-seeking ex-girlfriends, and all kinds of other weekend-worthy situations will stay confined to the standard "busiest nights" of the weeks. And I will be there to listen (or pretend not to --).
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Out With the Young; In With the New
So the interview at Brady's ran smoothly, and Jason hired me on the spot to start the next night. As I was leaving, he casually mentioned Karen, the "usual bartender" that wasn't working out - though the only problem was that she didn't know it yet.
"But don't you worry about that. I will take care of it," he assured me.
"Great," I thought - getting trained by the person I am replacing. I am sure that will go just as smoothly as this interview. Right.
I arrive punctuallyat 4 p.m. the next day and am greeted with hopeful high-fives by the wait staff. Apparently Karen was not only not cutting it from the owner's point of view, but even the floor staff didn't like her. They didn't even know me yet or my aptitude behind the bar, but they were already positive that I would work out better than Karen. Now I really can't wait to meet her.
Karen walks in, looks at me not like the protective mama bear that I thought she would be, when realizing that her job may possibly be on the line. Instead she immediately huffs, blows her red-highlighted bangs out of her eyes, looks at me sideways and says "I can't believe Jason is doing this to me." Hi - nice to meet you, too. No wonder the reputation.
Then she goes on to half-heartedly walk me through the rigors of opening the bar for the night, all the while making it clear that she does not want to be doing this on "her busiest night." Apparently she has no idea that this will be her last "busiest night" (Saturday) and the one whom she is barely interested in wasting her breath talking to, nevermind showing the computer system to or where the extra olives are stocked, is getting her new position further secured by the hour (Not only does every waitress thank me for actually making drinks that are ordered -- guess that's not Karen's priority; but dishwashers, customers and the owner's wife all seem to be giddy with the expectation that 'The Bitch' will soon be gone.)
Don't get me wrong - Karen is a perfectly nice person -- to the customer she tries to upsell a Patron margarita to (Wait - isn't that like adding 50-year old Scotch to Pepsi??? How needless is that?) But her doe-like eyes and low cut blouse work on the young couple, and she seems to be confident in her handiness now. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I am beside her, managing the service bar fine while also catering to sit-down customers. Oh, and did I mention I came to work sober and drug-free? Yes, that is another reason Karen is on the outs -- she cut her finger while cutting fruit one night, and came to work the next day strung out on Percocet for the pain. I guess she was staring at each individual mint leaf while making a psychedelic mojito and was asked to step aside so one of the waitresses could finish it. Way to go, Karen.
So she must have an inkling that I am there to replace her. Yet, part of me feels badly for her. A patron asks her what her day job is. She replies "I'm 23. My day job is sleeping and going to the beach." Makes me want to scoff, "Kids today..." But I hold in my chuckle and back her up when she gets "in the weeds" opening a bottle of wine at the same moment a couple sits down at the bar and expects service. You take it easy, Karen - you must be sun-stroked...
The night ends perfectly well -- only because I bite my tongue all night and don't tell her what is to become of her, bad attitude and ineptitude and all. I rest assured that the next time I walk into that bar, I won't be met by a bitchy, all-to-overconfident bartender-has-been; but instead by a new wave of high-fives and waitress gratitude. I leave, without saying a word, thanking her for showing me the ropes, and not at all outwardly pissed that she shares none of the two hundred dollars of tips with me ($175 of which would not have even been possible without my rum-runner rescues and Karen-unusual patron politeness).
The last I hear is "Um, Jason, I need to talk to you" She thinks she is going to give him, the owner of the establishment that enables her daytime laziness, a piece of her mind about bringing in ANOTHER bartender to help HER of all people. No, not helping, replacing you. See you next week, or NOT...
"But don't you worry about that. I will take care of it," he assured me.
"Great," I thought - getting trained by the person I am replacing. I am sure that will go just as smoothly as this interview. Right.
I arrive punctuallyat 4 p.m. the next day and am greeted with hopeful high-fives by the wait staff. Apparently Karen was not only not cutting it from the owner's point of view, but even the floor staff didn't like her. They didn't even know me yet or my aptitude behind the bar, but they were already positive that I would work out better than Karen. Now I really can't wait to meet her.
Karen walks in, looks at me not like the protective mama bear that I thought she would be, when realizing that her job may possibly be on the line. Instead she immediately huffs, blows her red-highlighted bangs out of her eyes, looks at me sideways and says "I can't believe Jason is doing this to me." Hi - nice to meet you, too. No wonder the reputation.
Then she goes on to half-heartedly walk me through the rigors of opening the bar for the night, all the while making it clear that she does not want to be doing this on "her busiest night." Apparently she has no idea that this will be her last "busiest night" (Saturday) and the one whom she is barely interested in wasting her breath talking to, nevermind showing the computer system to or where the extra olives are stocked, is getting her new position further secured by the hour (Not only does every waitress thank me for actually making drinks that are ordered -- guess that's not Karen's priority; but dishwashers, customers and the owner's wife all seem to be giddy with the expectation that 'The Bitch' will soon be gone.)
Don't get me wrong - Karen is a perfectly nice person -- to the customer she tries to upsell a Patron margarita to (Wait - isn't that like adding 50-year old Scotch to Pepsi??? How needless is that?) But her doe-like eyes and low cut blouse work on the young couple, and she seems to be confident in her handiness now. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I am beside her, managing the service bar fine while also catering to sit-down customers. Oh, and did I mention I came to work sober and drug-free? Yes, that is another reason Karen is on the outs -- she cut her finger while cutting fruit one night, and came to work the next day strung out on Percocet for the pain. I guess she was staring at each individual mint leaf while making a psychedelic mojito and was asked to step aside so one of the waitresses could finish it. Way to go, Karen.
So she must have an inkling that I am there to replace her. Yet, part of me feels badly for her. A patron asks her what her day job is. She replies "I'm 23. My day job is sleeping and going to the beach." Makes me want to scoff, "Kids today..." But I hold in my chuckle and back her up when she gets "in the weeds" opening a bottle of wine at the same moment a couple sits down at the bar and expects service. You take it easy, Karen - you must be sun-stroked...
The night ends perfectly well -- only because I bite my tongue all night and don't tell her what is to become of her, bad attitude and ineptitude and all. I rest assured that the next time I walk into that bar, I won't be met by a bitchy, all-to-overconfident bartender-has-been; but instead by a new wave of high-fives and waitress gratitude. I leave, without saying a word, thanking her for showing me the ropes, and not at all outwardly pissed that she shares none of the two hundred dollars of tips with me ($175 of which would not have even been possible without my rum-runner rescues and Karen-unusual patron politeness).
The last I hear is "Um, Jason, I need to talk to you" She thinks she is going to give him, the owner of the establishment that enables her daytime laziness, a piece of her mind about bringing in ANOTHER bartender to help HER of all people. No, not helping, replacing you. See you next week, or NOT...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Back Behind the Bar
I had been intermittently answering CraigsList ads and dropping my resumes at all the hip bars around the region (well, as hip as they could be 25 miles outside of the city), when I got the call from Brady's, an upscale restaurant on the beach that was looking for a new bartender.
I thought to myself "Great. A nice place, with nice food, must have a nice clientele, and be nicely managed." In the past I had worked at a nothing-fancy Italian place that was so mismanaged by the owner's daughter that I was often there more than an hour past closing, catering to her and her advantage-taking "friends", as they smoked like chimneys and helped themselves to the Patron and Belvedere, when paying customers were treated poorly for expecting to eat a full dinner at 8 o'clock and charged $10 a martini for the $12 a bottle Skye house vodka. Deservedly so, this place went out of business before its second year anniversary, and thankfully I did not have to be subjected to the nepotistic annoyances anymore.
Most of me was thrilled to be away from that place - the catty waitresses, the mouse traps that were seemingly everywhere behind the bar, the disgusting 'Biggest-Loser contestant-fat' owner that would spill off the bar stool every time he changed direction to stare at my rear end (I saw you - there were mirrors everywhere!), and the miserable manager who later revealed she was pregnant, as if that were the reason and excuse for her mistreatment of people, especially "tall pretty blond bartenders that remind her of how thin she is never going to be again" -- oh, so that's why you are so rude to me? All is forgiven!
But I WAS out of a job, and though I tried to dial down my spending (and re-focus on my freelance writing and marketing "day jobs"), it was clear that I would need to find a new drinking hole to work. I hadn't had the best of the luck in the past. Non-impressive Italian Restaurant was just one example in the list of many past experiences. There was also "Insane-Owner Pub" where Dirk would chase wait-staff around kitchen, shouting German obscenities and wielding onions. Yet, he hired me on the spot, to bartend, because he liked the way my hair would "sparkle on his stainless steel bar". How could I not know he was insane??? Well, maybe that one was my shortcoming.
And before that, there was "Nicely-run, but snobbily-patronized Country Club." There, I dressed in golf shirts and made Old-Fashioned (the only thing worse, from the mixer's point of view, than making a Mojito) by the bucket-full for geezerly polite men and their impolite, tiger-lady counterparts. While the men talked sports and stared at my legs in an almost excusably-unfocused way (You dropped your monocle, Mr. Fickmeyer!), the self-important, insecure women would constantly question my methods as well as my pedigree ("Did you shake my White Russian or box it?"; "Did you go to college?").
When the golf season was over, I left in pursuit of my writing. And you can bet that Ms. Deline was floored when I nonchalantly offered over my shoulder, after dropping off her perfectly mixed Sex on the Beach (funny that she would order that because I knew she and Mr. Deline were 1) not having any sex on any bed, nevermind a beach; and 2) Mr. Deline was known all around the Club for sexing a young cocktail waitress that did NOT go to college):
"This is my last drink delivery, Mrs. Deline. I am going back to --"
"..school?" she finished, apparently assuming that because I schlep drinks, I must be uneducated.
"No," I reply. "I don't think I want to get my PhD. I have everything else leading up to that."
Her eyes bulged; I could tell she was immediately rethinking all the comments she's made to me and about me - and plenty she thought were over my head at that time, and now trying to remember how much of a fool she had been. I smiled genuinely, and said "If you ever need any help re-strategizing your realty business with the recent market downturn, I've got lots of experience and ideas for you. Enjoy your drink."
Those were three of the better places I've bartended. So, you can understand my reluctance to go back to the male-dominated, female-subjugated, ogling, smelly world of schlepping beers... BUT, I do like a nice pair of Manolo Blahniks, a yearly vacation with my husband, and a weekly Girls Night Out. For all these things, plus raising three kids with all the activities and expenses that go along with it, I need to subsidize my day jobs with a night job from time to time...
So I called back Brady's Restaurant; overlooking the fact that the day I added a photo (see above - a very flattering photo; however it looks nothing like me!) to my resume and send it along through the anonymous CraigsList address, was the HOUR that Jason called to schedule an interview. But I was hopeful -- and going on broke with the downturn in companies' marketing budgets (Did I deserve that after my smug response to Mrs. Deline... maybe.) -- so I call him back. How bad could a "nice place" be???, I wondered. Besides, once on the phone with him, Jason sounds gay. I am immediately reassured, and agree to meet him tomorrow.
I thought to myself "Great. A nice place, with nice food, must have a nice clientele, and be nicely managed." In the past I had worked at a nothing-fancy Italian place that was so mismanaged by the owner's daughter that I was often there more than an hour past closing, catering to her and her advantage-taking "friends", as they smoked like chimneys and helped themselves to the Patron and Belvedere, when paying customers were treated poorly for expecting to eat a full dinner at 8 o'clock and charged $10 a martini for the $12 a bottle Skye house vodka. Deservedly so, this place went out of business before its second year anniversary, and thankfully I did not have to be subjected to the nepotistic annoyances anymore.
Most of me was thrilled to be away from that place - the catty waitresses, the mouse traps that were seemingly everywhere behind the bar, the disgusting 'Biggest-Loser contestant-fat' owner that would spill off the bar stool every time he changed direction to stare at my rear end (I saw you - there were mirrors everywhere!), and the miserable manager who later revealed she was pregnant, as if that were the reason and excuse for her mistreatment of people, especially "tall pretty blond bartenders that remind her of how thin she is never going to be again" -- oh, so that's why you are so rude to me? All is forgiven!
But I WAS out of a job, and though I tried to dial down my spending (and re-focus on my freelance writing and marketing "day jobs"), it was clear that I would need to find a new drinking hole to work. I hadn't had the best of the luck in the past. Non-impressive Italian Restaurant was just one example in the list of many past experiences. There was also "Insane-Owner Pub" where Dirk would chase wait-staff around kitchen, shouting German obscenities and wielding onions. Yet, he hired me on the spot, to bartend, because he liked the way my hair would "sparkle on his stainless steel bar". How could I not know he was insane??? Well, maybe that one was my shortcoming.
And before that, there was "Nicely-run, but snobbily-patronized Country Club." There, I dressed in golf shirts and made Old-Fashioned (the only thing worse, from the mixer's point of view, than making a Mojito) by the bucket-full for geezerly polite men and their impolite, tiger-lady counterparts. While the men talked sports and stared at my legs in an almost excusably-unfocused way (You dropped your monocle, Mr. Fickmeyer!), the self-important, insecure women would constantly question my methods as well as my pedigree ("Did you shake my White Russian or box it?"; "Did you go to college?").
When the golf season was over, I left in pursuit of my writing. And you can bet that Ms. Deline was floored when I nonchalantly offered over my shoulder, after dropping off her perfectly mixed Sex on the Beach (funny that she would order that because I knew she and Mr. Deline were 1) not having any sex on any bed, nevermind a beach; and 2) Mr. Deline was known all around the Club for sexing a young cocktail waitress that did NOT go to college):
"This is my last drink delivery, Mrs. Deline. I am going back to --"
"..school?" she finished, apparently assuming that because I schlep drinks, I must be uneducated.
"No," I reply. "I don't think I want to get my PhD. I have everything else leading up to that."
Her eyes bulged; I could tell she was immediately rethinking all the comments she's made to me and about me - and plenty she thought were over my head at that time, and now trying to remember how much of a fool she had been. I smiled genuinely, and said "If you ever need any help re-strategizing your realty business with the recent market downturn, I've got lots of experience and ideas for you. Enjoy your drink."
Those were three of the better places I've bartended. So, you can understand my reluctance to go back to the male-dominated, female-subjugated, ogling, smelly world of schlepping beers... BUT, I do like a nice pair of Manolo Blahniks, a yearly vacation with my husband, and a weekly Girls Night Out. For all these things, plus raising three kids with all the activities and expenses that go along with it, I need to subsidize my day jobs with a night job from time to time...
So I called back Brady's Restaurant; overlooking the fact that the day I added a photo (see above - a very flattering photo; however it looks nothing like me!) to my resume and send it along through the anonymous CraigsList address, was the HOUR that Jason called to schedule an interview. But I was hopeful -- and going on broke with the downturn in companies' marketing budgets (Did I deserve that after my smug response to Mrs. Deline... maybe.) -- so I call him back. How bad could a "nice place" be???, I wondered. Besides, once on the phone with him, Jason sounds gay. I am immediately reassured, and agree to meet him tomorrow.
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