The best description I ever heard of bartending was in The PDT book (or maybe it was the original Death & Co.). Imagine this: You’re a short order cook, you take no orders from the server but directly from the customer (guest, whatever) and they, get this, can order almost whatever they want. In addition, you have to remember what they order and give it to them fairly quickly while also holding a conversation with the people in front of you. You must have a revolving encyclopedia of around a hundred classic cocktails inside your head, along with the ingredients on the menu (allergies are more rampant than ever) if you’re working in a restaurant bar, and then there are the people who tell you to riff, to go and give them something off the top of your head while you’re already in the weeds.

Couple this with how disgusting it is to work behind a bar. Last night Angel let a full water bottle slip out of his hand and it exploded behind me onto the tiled floor like a torpedo, leaving the bar floor under the mats slick, shards of jagged glass shrapnel everywhere. Before that happened, we were pontificating on just how long a pair of new shoes lasts behind the bar. Usually about two weeks. The combination of syrups, citrus, spilled food, cleaning products, and booze creates a viscous black grime that destroys even the hardiest pair of footwear. I’ve got a pair of Crocs I’ll wear from time to time, but those require a weekly deep scrubbing due to the pitted surface of the rubber. There’s no real solution save buying a cheapo pair at Target for $20.

I’m not complaining. It’s the best job in the restaurant. When you’re in the well, you’re at the command center. You must thrive in chaos or drown. Since I used to be a cook, it reminds me of those days, the tickets, the adrenalin, the stress when the wave comes at you. Yes, there are times when I wonder what the hell happened but I’ve been in those terrible office jobs under the creepy, soulless fluorescent lighting, side by side with other automatons, and I know it’s not for me. Will I be 60 years old, still shaking cocktails, waking up the next morning feeling like I got run over by a train? I have no clue. Until the wheels fall off, that’s the expression that best describes it. Acceptance is the first entry into delusion. No?

We have these two great regulars that come in, Jesse and Laura. Huge fans of the beloved cocktail. They love us, and the feeling is mutual. We seemed to have ensorcelled them with our seasonal bar program. They think everywhere else sucks and we’re the best. I’ve got to say, that’s a damn good feeling to hear that kind of praise. I made a post yesterday about a total failure of a cocktail idea and it lurked in my brain like a parasitic incubus, syphoning my life force.

The seasonal menu is always in flux and when ingredients get low or the season changes, the pressure is on, a constant battle like the neverending struggle of good versus evil. Time was running out on the Shrinking Violet and I needed another goddam gin cocktail on the menu, something simple.

Luckily, I seem to do better when I see the edge (except when I don’t) In a flash, this idea came to me. I ran to the walk in and grabbed a couple of razzies, busted this one out, took a snapshot, and then handed it over to Laura.

Now, Laura and Jesse are not only great regulars but they actually taste a lot of our new cocktail ideas for us. Reason being, they will be completely honest about whether or not it’s good or a steaming pile of hot dogshit. They have this whole procedure. First they eyeball it together. Then Laura smells it and puts it under Jesse’s nose so he can smell it. Then comes the tasting. She tried it last night and her eyes lit up so I knew I hit this one out of the park. I know it’s really good when she hands it to Jesse so he can taste it and then he starts to drink it and doesn’t want to hand it back. This happened, I was happy, and inside my shriveled, battered rib cage, my heart did a little river dance.

Yes, it requires muddling. If you know me, you know I fucking hate muddling but shit man, sometimes you just gotta muddle. It is an unfortunate but great way to incorporate flavors.

This one is fucking cool. Long lasting flavor. It takes you on a ride and the oro blanco numbs the tongue ever so slightly. It’s tart, bright, salty, goddam delicious…And it’s not a tiki drink. Damn. The old timer’s still got some blood pumping in his veins.

River Dance

2 oz. Gin (London Dry)

3/4 oz. Oro Blanco Sherbet

1/2 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

1/4 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice

1/4 oz. Manzanilla Sherry

4 Muddled Raspberries (Fresh)

Muddle berries, combine all ingredients, shake, double strain into a Maldon salted glass with a BFR. Quaff.