There comes a point in one’s Hospitality career where one must make a decision – veer left or veer right. Get the hell out of the Service Industry or concede that you’re well on your way to becoming “Lifer.” You’re not going to be doing “much else” besides slinging drinks and serving slop to alkies, social imbibers, and the dregs of humanity – or so the social elite (my parents, unfortunately) keep telling me.
Although I hold down a corporate day job now-a-days, and have taken a couple of bartending hiatuses over the years, I recognized a long, long time ago, that I’d be in the bar business forever. It’s my passion. It’s what I crave. It’s what runs through my blood. Sitting at a desk in a monkey outfit, soaking in nauseating fluorescent lighting, and cursing out some executive on the other end of the planet via some massive conference call (after first making sure he’s on mute) does not inspire the soul. Pitching gussied up PowerPoint presentations, fixing elaborate Project Plan dependencies, and incessantly troubleshooting catastrophic network connectivity problems makes also makes me want to blow chunks. Bartending, on the other hand, is nothing short of a nightly endorphin rush, rife with surprise, laughter, danger, awe and instant gratification.
I just kind of fell into it. At the time, I was’t planning on working in a restaurant. They just happen to the be the first establishment that hired me. I needed Summer cash for buying crap like Lik-A-Stiks, Baby Ruth bars ($.50 at the time) and cheap .$.50 soda cans. There was a five-and-dime around my way that also sold cap guns and explosive, pull-string caps (liberal wankers succeeded banning that shit in Bloombergistan). My needs were simple.
Fast forward to 2012. I sometimes feel like Mr. Hedly (of Living Color fame) with “four-tin jobs, man.” In all those years, I’ve held down every bar/restaurant gig imaginable. I’ve been the dishwasher, the porter, the cold-side prep boy, and the butcher. The butcher gig was pretty bitchin’. Along with learning the fine art of filleting perfectly proportioned and marbled loins/strips, I’d gnaw on scraps of Prime Rib and Filet Mignon all shift long. I then graduated to various positions on the cooking line – fry guy, expediter, grill man, etc. Then came the requisite Front of House years server, manager and finally, bartender in various venues in and around New York.
It’s gotten to the point that I have a newbie routine. When I get hired at a new bar, they typically have mass training or introduction. I stand up, raise my south paw, and sheepishly proclaim “Hi, I’m Freddy… and I’m a lifer” That’s usually followed by some light comedy, a big grin, a brief bio, and some thrilled to be here blurb (which is entirely true). As are my job hunting processes, my Bartender’s Anonymous speech is nearly down to a science.
I may be a lifer, but I’ve still got some aspirations. I’ve done ok financially. I own my own house, party it up here and there, indulge in the odd holiday, and dabble in investments. My dream, however, has always been and continues to be to open up my own bar. Not surprised, ay? Lots of ex servers and bartenders go down that road. And why not? It’s what they know best. I’ve seen numerous venues both prosper and fail. In doing so, I’ve accumulated massive wealth in the form of extensive experience and broad industry knowledge. I’ll put it all to good use one of these days.
In any case, boys and girls, today’s lesson: the Service Industry is not to different than the mafia. Once you’re in, you’re always in. For those who stay a while, it becomes part of you fabric – your raison d’etre. Oh you may go dabble in other waters, but you always come home. Just ask our boy Hoy Wong (above) of The Algonquin fame. 90 years old, still ticking like a fine watch, and still slinging Martinis and still claims to be intoxicated by, and tapping the odd piece of ass… That’s how lifers get down.
