The Three Amigos

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       One of the most rewarding aspects about sharing all the stories and shit storms I’ve weathered is how I’m able to refer to the most meticulous quarks and details of tending bar, slinging drinks, selling overpriced ribeyes, and knowing there are actually others out there who can genuinely appreciate where I’m coming from. They've been ‘there.’ This whole outlet of blogging is basically a griping secession for those on the inside more or less.

       Well, for those of you who have never had the displeasure of standing on the other side of the bar for a prolonged period, this week I’m going to shed some light on a couple of ‘insider’ drinks/shots. This is part of the Dark Side of the service industry you hope doesn't actually exist but still make a point to smile and ask how your bartender/server is doing today, solely to make a good first impression, just in case it does.

The Oklahoma

The Oklahoma predominantly goes to two very different, yet (throughout the course of the nite) connected demographics of clientele. One being the 40+ yr old, pin-stripped suit, advertising executive on a week long business trip away from his home, two kids, and dysfunctional, sham of a marriage. The other half of Oklahoma recipients are far too drunk for their own good, single women who travel in packs (who, more times than not, are brides maids accompanying the bachelorette party fitted with the standard $2.99 tiaras and plastic penis straws from Spencer Gifts).

The shot itself consists of cranberry juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, grapefruit juice, sour mix, (basically all the juices on your drink gun behind the bar), a shot of Sprite, and maybe a splash of grenadine for some color. Even without being a mixologist like myself, its quite evident that I mention no alcohol at all. That’s the idea behind this one.

        See, usually CEO Jr in the pinstriped suit is paying with the company AmEx. His main concern is banging one of these wicked hot USF Creative Writing undergrads. “A round of shots for me and my new friends!! is the most dialog you’ll have with him all night as a bartender. You may as well be serving him liquid asbestos for all he knows, but he’s kosher with that as long as he believes these girls downing another round gives him a better chance to cheat on his bitch of a wife and their farce of a marriage.

       The girls, on the other hand, have crossed that obnoxious drunk plane hours ago. The last thing they need is another Madori Sour, Malibu and Pineapple, or Cosmopolitan.

       So… two birds, one stone. Milk Mr. MoneyBags CEO jr while keeping the gold digging, house-wife-in-the-making, Alpha Delta Whatever alumni from getting even drunker and embarrassing herself more so than she’s already done. The lesson you learn; save you’re money next time your bartender offers to make you a Oklahoma.

Cement Mixer

This one is more of a fair warning than anything else. Granted, I may be bitter. I’m arguably miserable. I get this. Fair enough. As sour and ruthless as I may come off, I give you my word I’ve never exposed anyone to unfair (or unsanitary) justice but only to those who have asked or deserved it… and even * that * is once in a blue moon.

The Cement Mixer is simple science. Bailey’s and limejuice. Separate. The idea is that you’re to take a shot of Bailey’s, hold in your mouth as you take back a shot of limejuice. Most people doing a Cement Mixer believe they’ve simply been thrust upon the challenge of merely stomaching a grotesque shot, which is partly true. What they don’t realize is that Bailey’s and limejuice don’t mix.... literally.

As the limejuice mixes with the Bailey’s Irish Crème, it instantly curdles. Plain and simple. You have one of two options. One; instantly come to the realization you’ve been fucked with, swallow your pride in lieu of the concoction in your mouth, and spit the now curdled mess out as fast as possible as all on lookers point and laugh. Two; pull a Grady Little circa 2003 and abort just a little bit too late, against your own will. See, once that lethal combination of liquids gets together, it’s donezo. Doesn’t matter if they mix in your shot glass, your mouth, or you stomach… it’s a hot mess that is NOT getting digested. If you insist on being a tough guy, hard ass, and end up downing this one as its curdles in your stomach, set the egg timer… because you don’t have long. You may think you’re okay, not 100% but doing well enough for the most part…just like Pedro… but its already too late, you’re fate is set. That shit is coming back up, like it or not. Ask Jess, my date to Spring Fling my junior year of high school. (J-Ray, all jokes aside, still need $26 for the dry-cleaning bill)

The New Jersey Turnpike

You know your one friend who HAS to one-up every story you tell, your coworker who volunteers the fact he lives life on the ‘most awesome, uber extreme, totally epic’ level at all times, or that guy who must make it clear he ‘doesn’t give a fuck’ to everyone, in every room, he ever walks in to? Well for you, my friends, I present you with the New Jersey Turnpike.

For this one, the set up is usually the same more times than not. “Brah, yo… Brah… Dude, make me anything. Yo, I can take * anything *, I don’t give a fuck. Pour it ina fuckin’ glass and I’ll fuckin’ drink it. I don’t give a fuck Brah. Do it. Do it.” With that said, my services are at your command.

There’s usually two or three damp, filthy, beige-esque bar towels lying in the corners of any bar you go to. Next time you go, look for them. They’re there. We use those to lop up spilled drinks, over pours, condensation, etc. Needless to say, a lot of booze touches those towels. Why would we ever let that go to waste? We’re in a recession dammit! Would you believe there’s enough booze soaked into one of those little towels that if, hypothetically, I were to ring one out into a shaker, run the reminisce over some ice, and throw a splash of Triple Sec in there, it very well may taste like some gnarly shot you’ve never had before?

Good thing you don’t give a fuck, tough guy…

Hey St Valentine, Tomorrow, under the flag pole after G period, We Fight….

    One of the first things I said in my last post was how much I’ve appreciated everyone’s feedback on all of my postings and because of such positive encouragement, I’m going to post on a much more structured regiment. The idea was to post on a weekly basis. 18 days later… here I am. I hate to be the bearer if bad news, so brace yourself, but I’m lazy. I’d hoped you’d be able to deduce this yourself based off the fact that every post I’ve ever published has never come before 3am, yet we still find ourselves in this unfortunate situation. For that, I am sorry boy and girls. I’ll get better…tomorrow…or the next day…

    I’ve told you before the nites I absolutely *dread* tending bar more than any other are New Year’s, St. Patty’s Day, Gasparilla ect. Granted its great money, but its amateur hour and its not worth the mental torment I’m put through.

    Every guy thinks that because his great-grandfather’s neighbor’s cousin’s milkman was ‘straight off the boat from Dublin,’ he’s got pure Irish blood runnin’ through dem vains. Every girl remembers the glory days with her sorority sisters at the Delta Blowa Dudea house when she could simultaneously pound straight Popov vodka from an ice luge while ambidextrously beating off two Sigma Datea Rapea fraternity brothers. For some reason unbeknownst to me, the vast majority of the people who come out on these drinking holidays think they’re still able to drink like they could 10-15 years ago… regardless to the fact that a ‘nite out’ any other day of the year consists of jalapeño poppers and splitting a round of 2-for-1 house Merlot with the gals from accounting. The point being; tending bar is tiresome on a regular basis… obnoxious doesn’t even begin to describe how fatiguing it is on said holidays when Amateur Hour is in effect and light weights (if you will) drink exponentially more than they ever need to.

    I can officially put Valentine’s Day, or even the eve of Valentine’s Day, in the same category as all the other obnoxious holidays which open up Amateur Hour…but for a different reason. It’s difficult to iterate why for one specific reason. Lemmie describe my nite and maybe you can begin to understand where I’m coming from.
I had flat out forgotten Valentine’s Day was tomorrow until around 6 o’clock tonite…when it all hit me in a wave… like the ‘perfect storm’ starting to develop.

(Editor’s note: rest of post will be published tomorrow… not due to laziness this time, but rather fatigue. I’m a self proclaimed night owl, but it’s far too late even for this degenerate burnout right now. You’ve got my word… and if not, next drink’s on me…)