Everyone Loves Vermouth

As soon as a woman walks into the bar, Vermouth grabs a mixing glass and shaker and makes the woman a shot.  If there’s a group of women, she makes them all shots, usually Kamikazes (vodka, triple sec and sour mix, although I prefer to make them with bar lime because the bar’s soda guns have mold growing in them).  

This is an incredibly quick way to make friends with women at the bar.  It is also an adept way to outsell your partner bartender, if you were crafty like that. 

There are a lot of reasons no one wants to be outsold – most of the women Lady Chatterley hires are quite competitive – but the most important reason is the two-thirds rule.  “You must sell at least two-thirds of what your partner sells.” If one bartender grossly outsells her partner, she takes home two-thirds of the tips.  And, at a place with no shift pay, where the only money we take home comes from our tip jar, it is a pretty scary rule.   

A lot of the more competitive – aka bitchier – bartenders will try to two-thirds the “new girls.” 

“You can totally tell when someone is trying to two-thirds you,” Erica told me when we were working together one Saturday night.  “Sandy tried to two-thirds me the first time we worked together – she was literally pushing me out of the way to get to customers.  I had to be like, ‘by the way bitch, I’ve been bartending in this city for over two years, you can’t pull that shit with me.’  After that, she was fine.”

After the fourth time a group of women walked into the bar and Vermouth poured them all shots and then took all of their drink orders, I thought, okay, I’ve got to start being pushy. 

I pre-made a full mixing glass of a tasty shot I nicknamed the “Tropical Storm.”  It is vodka, triple sec and a splash of pineapple  juice, which I like to use because it comes out of a can, not the soda gun.   The next time a group of women came in, I quickly said, “I’ve got them,” greeted the ladies, poured their shots and took every single drink order. 

When the bar slowed down, I decided to try to make friends with Vermouth.  Other bartenders love her.  Carol told me that she and Vermouth had made up this whole lesbian love story, and convinced a group of construction workers that Vermouth was in love with Carol, but that Carol wasn’t certain about her feelings because Carol also had a boyfriend.  Then Vermouth and Carol made out in front of them for fifty bucks. 

Erica had also mentioned Vermouth.  “I love that girl,” she said.  “Vermouth is crazy as shit, but awesome to work with.”

I wanted to figure out if Vermouth was actually trying to two-thirds me, so I told her a story about another bartender named Lina to get her reaction.  It happened on a night when there were four of us working – Lina and Vanessa were partners.  It was Lina’s third night, but she still seemed lost.  She couldn’t remember where anything was, she kept forgetting the prices of draft beer, and her hands shook as she counted her money.  Vanessa, a gorgeous Russian brunette who has been working at the bar for over a year, outsold Lina in a massive way.  She didn’t just two-thirds her, she decimated her.  Vanessa’s sales were over $1200 – Lina’s were under $400.  But Vanessa, who is not known for being nice, didn’t take the money.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Vanessa said, “Because I could get in trouble for not doing it.  But I’m not going to.  I know what it’s like to be the new girl.” 

When I finished the story, Vermouth shook her head.  “Vanessa should have two-thirds-ed her.  I got in trouble once for not two-thirds-ing someone.”

So there, I thought, I was right about you.    

“What did you think of Lina?” Vermouth asked, raising an eyebrow.  

“She seemed like a nice girl,” I replied, “but really lost, like she’d never bartended before.”

“I really like Lina,” Vermouth said.  “I trained her.  She used to be a dominatrix, and I used to be a dominatrix, so we kind of bonded over that.”

Vermouth is fine-featured, delicate-looking, with soft short brown hair and a young face.  She’s only 21. “Really?”  I asked, “You used to be a dominatrix?”

Vermouth shrugged, “yeah, but it was a while ago.”  A while ago like last year? 

I guess that is something that can happen when your parents name you after a liqueur. 

At the end of the night, we sat in the cold basement doing our money, rapidly counting our tips, paper-clipping bills in groups of $100, totaling our sales.  Vermouth hadn’t two-thirds-ed me, but it was close.  We’d made pretty shitty tips, so I was relieved at least to be walking away with my half.  Vermouth didn’t mention it. 

Instead, she said nonchalantly, “By the way, when I total things up for customers, sometimes I round up to make it easier, so sometimes I’m over by a little bit.”

She took five minutes longer to do her money than I did, then handed me a couple bills in an amount that shall remain undisclosed, but was incredibly welcome.  “You’re awesome to work with,” I told her.

Vermouth just smiled.

Microwaved Turkey and Tiny Dancer on the Bar: A Dive-y Thanksgiving for All

Bartending on Thanksgiving was not as bad as I thought it would be, except that I was a little tired from getting up early to see the parade (I have wanted to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade since I saw Miracle on 34th Street - it was like a dream - I felt like I was 8.  I saw Kermit!!!).   The bar gave out free microwave turkey dinners, and customers actually came to enjoy the mushy goodness (I did not partake, due to a fear of what happens to plastic when you microwave it).  At its busiest, the bar had about 15 people, at its slowest, 5.  When there were 8 people in the bar, I comped everyone a round of Washington Apple shots for Thanksgiving (rye and sour apple topped with cranberry – tasty little guys).

I bet you’re wondering what kind of people go to a dive bar on Thanksgiving?  I was wondering what the cat would drag in too.  Customer profiles were as follows:

• Three regulars all in a row – “J”, “E” and “P” – who only know each other from being regulars at the dive bar.   I had gotten into a long conversation with “J” the first time I met him because we both write.  He got really drunk that time, and did not remember me, but was amazed and astounded that I remembered him and his interest in writing.  I had also gotten into a long conversation with “E” the first time we met because he claimed I was the only person he had ever met who pronounced his name properly right away and knew the scientific definition (his name means a particular type of atomic particle).  He was also really drunk the first time we met, so was also amazed and astounded that I remembered him.  I remembered “P” but not his name – as it turns out, “P” was by far the best tipper (although they were all fine), and so I will definitely remember “P” the next time I see him.  
• One solo 30-something Jack & soda drinker who looked really sad
• One very nice, solo 60-something gentleman with long curly grey hair worn in a half-up-half-down style, similar to:

          Although, obviously without the earring.

• A very infatuated couple.  The woman was blond and gorgeous and kept ordering herself shots of SoCo and lime and ordering her boyfriend PBRs. 
• A regular named “G” who is definitely gay and/or trans but keeps hitting on me.  His voice is exactly like Michael Jackson’s.  
• A group of three 20-somethings playing gin, and drinking PBRs and Maker’s Mark on the rocks. 
• A solo 20-something PBR drinking boy who ended up leaving with two 20-something cute-as-buttons hipster feministas.  
• A drunk doctor who has wanted to go home for Thanksgiving for the past three years, but hasn’t done so, despite the fact that he is from PHILIDELPHIA (it is a 2 hour drive, less than an hour flight).   I felt kind of sorry for him because he bought a round for the bar, but bought everyone well whiskey, which is where the quote of the night, as tweeted, came from (“J”:  “Can you get me a PBR to wash down that turpentine you just gave me?  What was that?” Me: “Whiskey.”  “J”: “Tasted like turp . . .”).  Needless to say, people didn’t exactly show the kind of gratitude he was hoping for.   
• An expat Ukranian photographer who looked like the oldest boy in Hanson, except with longer hair.  
• A very slow-drinking PBR-drinker. 

Toward the end of the night, there were only five customers in the bar for about two hours:  the slow PBR-drinker, the gin players, and the Ukranian, who kept insisting I should give him my phone number, and finally offered to get me Bon Jovi tickets.  I said if he brought me Bon Jovi tickets, he could have my phone number. 

There was nothing for me to do but throw on as much Gretchen Wilson and Shania Twain and Madonna and, of course, Bon Jovi, as possible and dance around.  One of the gin players, the only woman, got up on the bar and did shots with me.  

Then, about half an hour before my shift ended, there was a rush of three shot&PBR-ordering hipsters –who were clearly from Williamsburg – two guys in plaid wearing Pilgrim hats and a girl wearing a feather headdress.   She insisted I wear the feather headdress and got up on the bar to dance to “Tiny Dancer.”  Hold me closer – I heart you hipster chick. 

The highlight of my evening actually came after I kicked everyone out.  I tried to tip out the cleaning guy – this lovely, 40-something-Hispanic man who is so mild-mannered and gentle and looks like this cherubic Hispanic actor whose name I can’t remember.   He was so sweet, and shook his head, and said, “I know you didn’t make very good money tonight.  You don’t need to give me anything.  Really, I’m happy to help you.”  He was so sweet.  I felt like he had given me something. 

I am working on Thanksgiving . . .

Shit.

Tom

I’ve been getting a lot of warnings about Tom lately.   Lady Chatterley and Tom own the bar together.  Tom is his real name.  Tom needs no disguise – he is already infamous, and nothing I could say about him on this blog could do anything but improve his infamy.

One of the reasons Tom is infamous is that he has owned numerous bars all over town.  He also hired Lil, who went on to buy and run the now famous Coyote Ugly Saloon. 

The other bartenders generally do not like Tom, except for Adelina, and that is only because she does whatever she wants and has been working  at the bar forever.   Adelina is even allowed to drink Patron.

But, for other bartenders, it is a different story.  Apparently, if Tom comes in during your shift, your shift is fucked. 

“It’s over,” Carol, one of my favourite bartenders, told me, “Like, you’re done.  The rest of your shift is going to suck.”

Apparently Tom walks around yelling belligerently and ordering round after round of shots.  He’ll buy the whole bar a round, then yell some more.  When he sees a customer with a pitcher of beer, he’ll go up to the customer, take the pitcher from their hands, and chug the whole thing.  This means that pretty much every customer who ordered a pitcher will come up and ask for a new one, assuming they don’t just leave the bar.

Ellen told me that he calls her all the time when she’s working.  He’ll call her if a customer comes in and then walks out again.  “Like, why did that customer come in and walk out – why didn’t they stay?” she rolled her eyes.  “Because they just came in to ask for directions.”

Another new girl, Josie, told me that Tom called her one shift, screamed at her for something she didn’t do, and then told she would get an extra $5 for every girl she got on the bar that night. She got 6 girls on the bar, and took an extra $30 home.  “I hope he remembers telling me that,” she told me, “I think he was drunk.”    

“I actually cut him off the last time he was here,” Carol said. 

“What did he do?”

She shrugged, “At first he pretended like it was a big joke, and got really loud and started saying shit like ‘Oh, the bartender thinks I’m too drunk.  Oh, the bartender’s cutting me off.’ Then he came back behind the bar and asked me for a shot of Maker’s.”  She shook her head.  “And I was like, ‘seriously Tom, take a break, have a glass of water, wait 20 minutes, then I’ll pour you a shot.’  That’s when he lost it.” She laughed, and imitated his low voice, “He was like, don’t fucking do this, Carol, don’t fucking do this. Get me a fucking shot.”

Carol held her ground.  “Then he stormed out of the bar,” she said, laughing. “And you know, now he’s a lot nicer to me on the phone.  I kind of think it might have been a test.”

I am really not looking forward to meeting Tom. 

The Rules . . .

There are certain rules at the bar.  When I was first trained – an experience so traumatic I don’t think I can write about it yet – Adalina, the brash blond bombshell who trained me, handed me a surprisingly thick manual.  It started with a four page list of DO’S AND DON’TS in big, bold block caps.

For example:

DON’T get too drunk (And: YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DRINK PATRON UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!)  

DO pay attention to the women – they tip better.

DON’T turn the volume down, even if someone asks.  It’s a party, not a café!

And my favourite:  Remember, the customers are ALWAYS WRONG! 

Bartender/Equity Trader Drinks Customers Under Table . . .

My parents are really unhappy about the whole bartending thing.  I should have just lied to them.  I’m too goddamn honest.  Since working at the dive bar, I’ve starting saying goddamn a lot.  I have a bit of a complex about it, because I’m not sure I always use the word properly, but it still feels really good.  Like, amazing.  You should try it – just try it – think of something ridiculous and say goddamn.  Like, those pretzels were so goddamn good, I might just have another.  Or, in the negative sense, I just spilled the goddamn vodka all over the goddamn bar.  I love it.  It makes me feel like I’m in Arkansas or something. 

Anyway, I digress.  My parents think bartending is below me.  I kind of had a chip on my shoulder about that too (a goddamn chip), until I realized that I am not uncommon.  I mean, we’re in a recession.  Lots of people are taking jobs they never thought they would take (for examples that are far worse than bartending, tune in to some of the new goddamn reality TV shows).   

One of the first bartenders I worked with, Julia, used to be an equity trader for UBS.  We bonded a little because she used to wear a suit every day to work too.  Her job was more fun than mine though - she got to take clients out partying to encourage them to invest, which she said was good training for bartending since now she can drink most of the customers under the table.   

I asked her if she liked working here, and she pulled me aside to a place where the customers couldn’t hear us. 

“Honey, I’m from Long Island,” she said. “Before I worked here, I didn’t even know places like this existed.” 

She left her job at UBS when the recession hit and the bank offered voluntary layoffs.  She didn’t have to leave, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore.  “I mean, I can still make pretty good money day trading my portfolio,” she told me, “It’s enough to pay my rent, but I still need a steady cash flow.”  Right.  Okay. 

I wish I had a portfolio.  Goddamn it. 

I thought telling my parents about Julia would help, but I think it only made things worse. 

“That is so depressing,” my mom said.  “Bright young professional women and you’re wasting away at that bar.”

Wasting away/managing portfolio/solving issue of needing steady cash flow.  Oh, and learning to use goddamn it correctly in a sentence.  

So now I'm working at a dive bar . . .

I kind of always wanted to bartend.  Bartenders always look so together, unless they are really drunk, and then it just looks they are having fun.   I think that’s why bartenders get hit on so much. 

But with the exception of making a few classy cocktails at dinner parties, it seemed unlikely.  My life just didn’t look like it was heading in the bartending direction.  I spent my late teens and early twenties completing two degrees – neither of which was even remotely related to bartending or hospitality, unless becoming a member of a profession of alcoholics counts.  I got a serious job, and then another serious job.  I wore a suit to work. 

Now I’m in my mid-twenties (and clinging to them).   And somehow the last crazy year of my life has led me to become a bartender at a dive bar in New York City.   A really dive-y dive bar.  Like, the kind of dive bar where women get free shots for dancing on the bar and the juke box only plays country music and Elvis and old men sit for hours – hours – drinking the same goddamn beer, probably a PBR.  The kind of dive bar where a PBR is $2. 

The dive bar where I work only hires young, relatively attractive women (or wild looking women) to bartend.  No experience necessary, especially if you have big breasts.  Sometimes the customers ask to see a bartender’s breasts, at which point she can decide whether to kick them out, make them buy her a shot, or accept a tip and flash at will (technically against the rules, yet a widely accepted practice).

Before I started, the owner who interviewed me – let’s call her Lady Chatterley for reasons that will remain undisclosed for now – gave me some free drink tickets and told me to bring friends and check the place out.  I took my friend KM, an engineer doing his PhD at Columbia, who had been to the bar before.  He told me that I could not, under any circumstances, work there – didn’t I know about the breast flashing policy? 

But the bartender, Elle, was nice to me and gave us free shots, and she looked so together, and confident, and like she was having a nice time, sipping her beer, chatting with the eight customers who were in the bar (I was the only woman).  I texted Lady Chatterley and told her I was in. 

The rest is a long story that is getting longer with every shift.