The hits keep on coming. Fellow bartender, @ordonorulez dm’ed me this morning, saying “No more feces touch for you!” Yeah, I guess not. We had a guest chef sort of thing last night…Ish. Abra Berens from Granor Farm in Three Oaks, MI. She just came out with a new cookbook, Pulp: A Practical Guide to Cooking with Fruit. Our chef, Zarah Khan, put up some inspired dishes. It was a rollicking good time and it felt good to be super busy on a weeknight.

Two old regulars came in I hadn’t seen in a while. Both veering toward the indecisive side. They sat and talked and talked about one of our old cocktails, trying to get me to play the dreaded guest guessing game. Yes, that’s right. For those of you who aren’t in the front of the house, guests like to play this little game called “Guess what I’m thinking.” Unfortunately, my ESP was on the fritz last night (it only works during a full moon).

The common lines go something like this: “I had this great drink the last time I was here, can you make it for me?” Or, “I had this amazing Italian wine here two years ago, I don’t see it on the menu, do you know what it is?” Sorry, but I’m going to need more information. These two, quite sweet, kept throwing these fireballs of doom at me while I spent most of the night in the weeds, kicking myself for putting certain drinks on the menu.

“The drink was Mexican inspired,” he said. Nope, that could be a lot of drinks. Anything with tequila or mezcal which we use a shit ton of. “The drink was green.” Ok, I mean, that whittles it down a tad, but no, sorry. There’s only five or six colors a drink can be and most are brown, green or a pinkish hue.

Ah, but we did figure it out. The cocktail was called Huskan Raider. A crazy mezcal and roasted tomatillo cocktail that took fire. I told the people at the bar that tomatillos were out of season until the end of next summer. Such is life.

The cool part came when I made them a Nobody’s Fool, first asking, “Did you drink Strawberry Quik as a kid?” “Yes,” they both said. “Why?” “Try this.” I whipped it up, placed it down. He took one sip, and the real magic happened. A huge smile beamed across his face. “Holy shit,” he said. “That’s good.” Ugh, I’m a people pleaser. Hard to admit.

Cooks are oblivious to the struggle. Can you imagine going in to a restaurant with an open kitchen, sitting at the counter, and harassing the people behind the line in such a manner? “Hey, I had this dish here last year, can you make it for me?” Just in case any back of the house people read this blog, working in the front isn’t just taking orders and putting them into the computer system. You have to talk to people, people who think you possess magical powers. At the restaurant, I’ve been asked, “When was this restaurant built? Who was the architect? Who did the floors here?” What the fuck? If supernatural powers were bestowed upon me do you think I’d be working here? I’d certainly work at a carnival guessing people’s weights or own a psychic corner store.

My favorite of all time is when people want to hear my life story. It starts with “Where are you from?” and proceeds to “What brought you to L.A.?” and so on. Oh god. I always see it coming. It feels like I’m being direct examined on the stand. “I’m from Vermont. I came for the weather.”

The real story of course, is more tragic and depressing. Do you really want to know more about my life? Ok, fucker. Yes, I’m middle aged and still work nights in a bar when I’d rather be hanging with my family like a normal person. I actually love restaurants but they’re destroying my body and I get nothing in return. No retirement, pension, or matched 401k like any other “normal” job out there. I can be axed anytime and I depend solely on people’s good graces and packed seats for my income. Yearly raises? Hahahahahahaha! Little things like the weather and basketball playoffs can screw me. Do you want more? Because I can keep going, dude. By the time I’m done, you’ll cry for me.

Anyway, Denise and I made the custard recipe straight out of Pulp. Confession: I’m a custard fiend. I grew up on Jello pudding pops. I can eat my weight in creme brûlée. Nothing is safe, not even the fake ass chia pudding. For whatever insane reason, I’ve had it on the brain and wanted to put it in a cocktail.

We both made it at the beginning of the night, and by 9 o’clock it was fully chilled. Fuck yeah. As a man, it’s difficult to do pastry oriented stuff. I don’t know why. It’s not the measurements, I think it’s the patience involved. Why can’t I just cram all the ingredients together, forget about it, then come back later?

At any rate, this happened.

Wacko Sauce

2 oz. Vanilla Custard

2 oz. Soda Water

2 oz. Old Grand Dad Bonded

1 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice

.5 oz. Orange Sherbet

.5 oz. St. Agrestis Amaro

Four Muddled Blackberries

Yeah, you read that right. Squirt the 2 ounces of vanilla custard into the bottom of a Collin’s glass. Put some ice into the glass 3/4 of the way up. Shake the rest of the ingredients and double strain into the glass then top off with the 2 ounces of soda water. Garnish with a mint sprig if you’re inclined. Yes, this is actually delicious. Really yummy. You can either drink it straight from the bottom and tasted everything separately or stir it up. Your choice.