I have a newfound respect for bartenders. Don’t get me wrong — I’ve never had anything but love for someone who fixes me alcoholic beverages, but I never realized just how hard tending a bar actually was until I did it myself.
Recently, I was a guest bartender at Whisky River to raise money for Mike Minter’s “I Am A Foot Soldier Camp” (where I will coach dance and mentor young girls). It sounds weird serving alcohol for kids, but it’s much more profitable than a lemonade stand.
But the thing is, you see, that was the first time I’ve ever gone behind the bar — I even had to ask what the different settings were on the fountain gun in order to pour a water. About the only thing I did have down was opening beer bottles, and I managed to figure out what’s in a Red Bull and vodka.
My first customer ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, and I immediately had to turn to an experienced bartender and ask what’s in it. As he rattled off many ingredients, I stood there staring, with the same dumbfounded look on my face that I used to have in math class. Speaking of which, between counting pours and ringing up tabs, bartenders have to throw math into the mixology.
“I’ll just make it,” he said. I am sure the busy bartenders working that night — Turbo, Mr. January, Locke, Christina, Billy and Jordan — were glad I was only playing bartender for three hours. I was more annoying than that drunk guy who hollers at bartenders over the bar.
I tried to make Soco and Lime shots, but as I poured it, a piece of ice fell into the shot glass. Apparently, I suck at bartending.
Some friends came in and asked me not only to make them a shot, but make one up. So, I went to the produce section of the bar and threw all 12 fruit flavors of vodka into a pourer. I called it “The Fruitcake,” but they insisted on naming it after me — same thing I suppose.
Cason-Point: Tip your bartenders.
This article appears in Jul 20-26, 2010.
