The machine keeps on rollin’. I had this thought last night while deep in the weeds. Deeeeeep in the weeds but somehow zen, I mean, you’re only in the weeds if you care. But the thought was that cocktails (and food) were this infinite world that would never end. For good and bad, it continues on. Maybe that’s the big reason it’s so fun. I also had this weird thought that good craft bartenders are just a cross between a short order cook, a drug dealer, and a witch/warlock. You’re whipping up potions, to order, of a powerful but legal drinkable depressant.

There are times I can’t get over how weird a profession bartending is. For one, it hasn’t really changed all that much since its inception. People come to a bar to unload their angst from the workday, meet up with a date, have a drink to forget the day, or sometimes to simply tie one on. There’s a myriad of reasons, but the whole concept will never change. There’s some dude or gal behind there and you sit down and you’re off. It’s up to you how it’ll all go down. Good, busy restaurant bars are my favorite and believe it or not, it’s been a long goddam time since I’ve actually been able to sit at a cool bar that also serves quality, chef driven food. Jo doesn’t like sitting at bars, she likes tables. I fucking hate tables, possibly because I hang on to some sort of strange, no nonsense loathing of waiters and their whole schtick. The further I can get from this type of experience, the better. At a bar I’m eye level with the person serving me and for the most part I can watch what they’re doing back there, especially if it’s a bar where they know what they’re doing. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling to see someone do my job better, and in a much more organized fashion which is usually the case.

The hard part isn’t the drink recipes, it’s executing all of them under time, tension, stress, and stupid questions while keeping it all clean. There was an older woman who came in last night who fired at me with a Tommy gun full of every damn question on the block. What is your birthday? How long has the restaurant been here? How long have you been working here? Do you have any children? I wanted to tell her it was none of her goddam business, that is all personal information. Someone needs to tell her that conversation isn’t hammering out one annoying question after another. Also, she was hard of hearing so I had to repeat myself over and over. This phenomena is so odd to me, these people who come into restaurants and want to know so much about a total strangers life. Is it because restaurant jobs are generally bizarre in the first place? Do these types go to FedEx or Vons and harangue the staff there about where they’re from and whether or not they live in Santa Monica? I’ve told people before “That’s my own personal business” which didn’t go over so well but just because I work somewhere doesn’t mean I have to share my intimate details with a person I’ll never see again. Maybe I’ll go fully over the the other side and just overshare and make some shit up. “Yeah, I was homeless before Rustic found me out on in Sunshine Alley in a pile of my own heroin needles and urine. They cleaned me up and put me back here, I’ve been loyal ever since.”

The older woman ordered a vodka and orange juice and I asked her if I could make her something with those ingredients that actually tasted good as the screwdriver is one of the flabbiest drinks ever created. She agreed and I did this:

2 oz. Vodka

1 oz. Fresh Orange Juice

.75 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

.5 oz. Simple Syrup

Yeah, I’m not busting down the door to the worlds 50 greatest bars here but it’s light years better than a common screwdriver, that’s all I’m saying.

Yes, the angst is real but also contrived for your enjoyment. It’s Saturday, and I’m ripe with grumpiness and fatigue. I went to bed at 12:30 and woke up at 7, I’m deep into my second cup of coffee, my son is watching Gecko’s Garage two feet to my left and eating fistfuls of blueberries. He’s singing “Wheels on the bus” at different octaves and intonations. Maybe he’ll be a singer but he’ll more likely be a gigalo. What? That’s the way the world is going. In the future men will have little to do with anything. We’ll just be wallflowers for the women who run everything and only need us for one biological item. The pleasure bots will be so much better than us at everything and will be trained to put the toilet seat down and listen to long stories about noting by simply inputting the right code. Still, I think some women and men will want the real thing every so often.

This new cocktail is another one named after a Jeopardy! reference, this time from the movie White Men Can’t Jump. The original from 1992, not the remake. One of the only movies I can think of with a negative ending. I distinctly remember coming out of the theater after seeing it and feeling quite strange after not experiencing a typical Hollywood happy finale.

Toward the end of the flick, Rosie Perez’s character is a contestant on Jeopardy! and answering questions from the category “Foods that start with the letter Q.” She hits the Daily Double, bets the farm, then this answer comes up: “According to legend, it was the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden.”

Daily Double

1 oz. Rye

1 oz. Oloroso Sherry

1 oz. Quince Punch

.5 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice

.5 oz. Lemon Sherbet

.25 oz. Quince Jam

It’s an easy one. I love me a good complicated drink spec but I love an easier one so much more.