The Machine: This high-speed technician is a wonder to behold. Without a wasted motion, she can assemble fifteen drinks in less time than it takes to dig the wadded up bills out of your pocket. Not much for conversation and you may feel a little uncomfortable sitting across the bar (what if one of her valves gets stuck and she explodes?), but you won’t be waiting for a drink.
The Mercenary: She’s interested in one thing. If you tip well, she’ll make you feel like a prince. Average tippers get average service. Bad tippers get just what they deserve.
The Bar Goddess: She towers behind the bar like Athena atop Mt. Olympus. Competent, but behind that competence lies contempt. No matter what you order, you get the feeling you’re being judged. Light beer? You’re a sissy. Guinness? You’re a poser. Shot of bourbon? You fucking lush. Jager? Trendy fucker! She can barely conceal her sneer.
The Professional: This gal sees bartending as an art form. She has a collection of cocktail guides, and she’s read them all. She understands that a perfect drink is one of the closest things to heaven we’ll find on this pathetic slab of rock. Beware: May be a Bar Goddess in disguise.
The Veteran: This chick got into the business back when they used tree bark for coasters. Don’t get on her bad side, because the Veteran never forgets bad behavior. She favors regulars, can be grumpy, provides calm and competent service, and doesn’t rattle under pressure.
The Bimbo: This bar-room beauty plays the sex card. Managers love this type because she draws lonely men and lonely men tend to drink a lot of booze. She screws up half her orders and is slower than Grandma Moses pulling a dump truck, but she’s got nice tits! In case you didn’t get the memo, tits have replaced actual bartending skills in the qualifications category.
Your Best Friend: Heavy with the pour, quick with the comp, the pressures of the job have yet to break her spirit. Enjoy while you can, this bartender usually lasts for about three years.
The Plastic Smile: Young and robotic. Behind the forced smile you sense that the manager is holding a gun to the head of the Plastic Smile’s only child. This sort is usually created by aggressive management and possesses a powerful fetish for drink coasters.
The Tarbender: We go to bars and tell the bartender our troubles. Meet the opposite, the Tarbender. She tell you all of her troubles: She hates her job, she hates her boss, she hates her customers. Why oh why did she end up at this stinking shithole? Surrounded by assholes?
The Rookie: You will know her by the deer-in-the-headlights stare. Any drink without the ingredients in the name will send her scrambling for her Mr. Boston’s. She will soon cease to be a rookie and turn into one of the above.
One more thing:
The Absolut Vodka people really did give me a free case just for mentioning their product in my column – even though I referred to their product as “rotgut.” That’s what it has come down to, friends, there is so much desire for recognition and publicity – even bad publicity – that some people will gladly accept a kick in the ass like that. Back in the days, there would be a quiet contract placed on my life, and some dude with a vowel at the end of all three of his names would make Swiss cheese out of me. How times have changed….
