http://gevmag.com/2013/04/28/shake-it-up/

http://www.prx.org/pieces/97295-218-bartenders-tell-all

I had done my best with the shrimp and had almost secured a mouthful of pasta salad when a woman asked me what I did for a living.

“I bartend,” I said between sips of white wine.

“Oh,” she said, her glass and plate in constant bobble. “You mean like a mixologist?”

“No, like a bartender.”

“Oh, so, sort of like a bar chef?”

“No, just like a bartender.”

She seemed displeased with my answer, but in my off hours I sometimes spend less time trying to make other people happy than I do during my paid time. Call me discerning.

Two of the most overused terms in modern bartending are the terms mixologist and bar chef. Ironically, they are used by people who don’t quite get the craft. Here’s my take on the two.

Bartending is not a science, it is an art. For argument’s sake, I say baking is a science and cooking is an art. If you don’t believe me try using a “dash” of baking powder next time you bake or a “pinch” of yeast and just see what happens or doesn’t happen. Baking requires precise measuring. Cooking, on the other hand, depends on interpretation and so does bartending. But don’t call it mixology.

Let us consider the martini. If bartending were a science then every martini would be the exactly the same (at least everyone using the same brand). Exact measurements of all the ingredients would yield exactly the same drink. It’s simple scientific method — a system of repeatable experiments that yield the same results. However, anyone who has ever drunk martinis will tell you, they are not all the same.

Tom’s martinis are different than mine, mine different from Bobby’s and so on. Furthermore, we bartenders are at the beck and call of our patrons. It’s not necessarily what we bartenders want, it is what we along with our patrons create together. Even the most scientifically inclined artist of all time, Leonardo da Vinci, was subject to his patrons’ whims, ergo his two different versions of the “Virgin of the Rocks.” One could say the first version “had a tad too much vermouth.” And if it happened to da Vinci, it can happen to any Tom, Dick or Harry who sets foot behind the bar, too.

So having made the point that bartending is more art than science by using cooking as a metaphor, how does one refute the term bar chef? Two words: Gordon Ramsay. Chefs are notoriously egocentric. The word “chef” means “chief” in French, and that should tell you all that you need to know. Chief of what? Chief of everything.

Imagine telling Ramsay that your drink isn’t cold enough or that your margarita is too tart or your mai tai is too, well, whatever. You will probably be barraged with enough F-bombs to make a porn producer blush. Chefs are not usually known for their interpersonal skills. If they were, then Ramsay would be out one show. Perhaps that is why many restaurants make a clear distinction between the front of the house — servers, bartenders, bussers, etc. — and the back of the house — cooks, sous-chefs, etc. Never the twain shall meet.

Recently, I had the good fortune to be interviewed by two food media insiders, Christopher Kimball of “America’s Test Kitchen” and Joel Riddell of “Dining Around.” Both indicated that they were less-than-enthralled by the current mixology/bar chef idea. Not the creative aspect of it — which both love — but the arrogance aspect. Both relayed stories of mixologist/bar chef types lecturing them on their drink selections or their ordering terminology. One told Kimball, who had sent his drink back, “That’s how you make a Manhattan.”

This, whether science or art, bartending or chefing, is still terrible customer service. But that kind of makes my point, doesn’t it? Once you lose sight of the customer it doesn’t really matter what you call yourself.

In my business, time is money, or in some cases, not money. Empty bar stools are bad enough, but ones filled with people not spending any money are worse. An empty seat can be filled, but one that is already occupied can just be dead space.

Such was the case this particular night. I watched one couple walk away because they couldn’t get seats. I watched another post-golf threesome leave because they couldn’t get seats; two more couples opted for tables as did a solo gentleman. Cocktail blockers are what I call them, people whose only reason for being there seems to be preventing other people from getting a seat. I did a quick calculation. At a loss of about $4 a head, I was down about $40 on what I could have made on that seat.

But then, no one ever said life was going to be fair.

“It’s just not fair,” the cocktail blocker said, shocking me to my core.

Had I said any of that out loud?

“What’s that?”

“My son is acting out,” she said.

If she was immune to the fact that nearly 20 people had come and gone, unable to sit, while she enjoyed her one glass of house wine, two plates of bread and innumerable water refills, I was reasonably sure she wouldn’t notice my indifference.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, involving myself in the other minutiae

that makes up most of my job: glass washing, order taking, cashiering, direction giving, change making and occasionally psychoanalyzing.

“I just don’t know what is wrong with him,” she continued.

“Well?” I said, rustling up whatever professionalism I could and putting the lost $40 on the back burner.

“I think he’s been drinking.”

Now, I do have some experience in such matters.

“What makes you think that?”

“He’s not doing very well in school.”

“What grade is he in?’

“He’s a sophomore “… no, a junior “… no, he’s a sophomore.”

“According to the dictionary, ‘sophomoric’ means, ‘conceited and overconfident of knowledge but poorly informed and immature,’ so there’s that,” I said.

She simply stared at me.

“Anyhow,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“What have you tried?”

“You know, everything.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything.”

I got the feeling that particulars were going to be out of the question.

“He just does whatever he wants to do. Just like my ex.”

“Hmmm,” I said, realizing that this was all slippery slope.

“I never know where he is or what he is doing.”

“Your ex?”

“No, my son.”

I really have to start paying more attention.

“Where is he now?”

“He moved in with his girlfriend.”

“Your son?”

“No, my ex.”

“No, I mean where is your son tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your ex has him?”

“No, it’s my weekend.”

Obviousness reared its head in the ensuing awkward silence.

“I have to make a call,” she said finally.

I don’t know the substance of that call, but judging from the quickness of her exit, it was going to be good for one son and for one mother — and not too bad for a bartender and five more seated guests either. Reminding me that bartending is often much more than simply mixing drinks.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I offer these thoughts:

• Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, it doesn’t matter; if your kids don’t come first, then you don’t deserve a celebration on either.

• “Neurotics complain of their illness, but they make the most of it, and when it comes to taking it away from them they will defend it like a lioness her young,” wrote Sigmund Freud. Odd choice the lioness; one wonders what Freud, himself, might make of that.

• “If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves,” wrote Freud’s protégé cum rival, Carl Jung.

• Transference is a phenomenon characterized by the unconscious redirection of feelings from one person to another, and it was embraced by both Freud and Jung.

• Mother is a title that is given; Mom is one that is earned.

“Did you make this margarita?”

“Yes.”

“Did you to use 100 percent blue agave tequila?”

“I made it with Cuervo Gold, just like you asked.”

“Cuervo is blue agave,” he said.

“If you say so.”

“It says so right on the bottle.”

I show him the bottle, which reads, “made with blue agave.”

“See? I want the good stuff for Mexican Independence Day,” he said before walking way.

It’s unavoidable. Something like this happens practically every year. Today is Cinco de Mayo, and when it comes to Mexican traditions, we North Americans can be woefully ignorant of our continental brothers and their traditions.

First things first, Cinco de Mayo is a celebration of the Battle of Puebla and not Mexican Independence Day. The battle was won by a Texan-led Mexican army against the imperialist forces of the French near the town of Puebla in Mexico on May 5, 1862. The battle kicked off the three-year French intervention in Mexican politics, which involved a Hapsburg Austrian Prince name Maximilian I, Napoleon III, the American Monroe Doctrine, the U.S. Civil War and the transitional nature of Mexican politics. Cinco de Mayo has never been a national holiday in Mexico — it is more of a voluntary one — and is celebrated most widely in the United States. You can thank the beer and tequila marketers for that.

Speaking of which, Jose Cuervo is the most popular brand of tequila in the world and, at almost a 20 percent share, in the global market. It is nearly twice the size of its next closest rival, Sauza. Cuervo claims to be the first “legal” producer of tequila in the world, beginning in 1795: an arguable fact, to say the least.

Certainly they are the largest exporter of tequila to the States. However, Cuervo Especial, the flagship product (commonly called Cuervo Gold) is not a 100 percent blue agave tequila. That is why it reads “made with.” Cuervo Gold is a “mixto” or 51 percent blue agave and 49 percent something else. That something else can include caramel coloring, natural oak or oak extract, glycerin and sugar syrup. Those in the know suggest those types of things contribute in part to hangovers.

Tequila is defined by Mexican law, and as such can only be produced in the state of Jalisco and limited regions in the states of Guanajuato, Michoacán, Nayarit,and Tamaulipas. Furthermore, Mexico is granted the international right to the word “tequila” by various trade agreements. The regulations regarding tequila are rather long and arduous reading, the end result being that tequila must be made from at least 51 percent blue agave (agave tequilana). The best tequilas however, are 100 percent blue agave, and are so labeled.

Tequila aficionados disregard mixto tequilas completely (see websites like the Tequila Whisperer, run by Mill Valley’s Michael Lipman).

However, the liquor companies know that a little knowledge can be a powerful thing, especially when a large component of their consumers wear their sunglasses indoors at night and couldn’t care less about Mexican history. In fact, they count on very little knowledge.

To wit I offer these thoughts:

• Sept. 16 is Mexico’s actual Independence Day and marks the beginning of first war of Mexican Independence (from Spain) followed by the First Mexican Empire, which was followed by the First Mexican Republic, which was followed by the Second Mexican Empire, which was followed by the Second Mexican Republic, which was followed by, well, you get the picture.

• Maximilian von Gotzen-Itúrbide is the current Hapsburg pretender (emperor in exile) to the Mexican throne. He lives in Australia, perhaps because Austria has banned many Hapsburgs from entering their native country since 1919. Not very popular those Hapsburgs, however, it is possible to friend “Maximilian II” on Facebook. Just FYI.

• Happy Easter! Today is also Orthodox Easter, which probably gets lost because Mexico has the second-largest population of Catholics in the world. More than Spain and Austria, the original Hapsburg dominions (and Italy, too) put together. Thank you again, Hapsburgs.

“I want to get those ladies a drink,” said a voice in the crowd.

“Spring fever” they call it, and it manifests itself in many ways. I turned to another woman sitting alone at the bar.

“Can I get you something?”

“What do you suggest?” she asked.

“What do you like?”

“What do you?”

I looked fully at her for the first time. Some might say she was a “woman of certain age,” but then age is subjective. A 50-year-old man is a 20-year-old’s codger, and a 70-year-old’s young stud. Subjectivity is funny that way.

“How about wine?” I asked, attempting to move things along.

“Maybe.”

Maybe?

“Perhaps a cocktail?”

Perhaps?

When everything is a question then there are really no answers. Meanwhile, life and its answers swirled all around us.

The two woman by the front door now were sitting with men who had been complete strangers only moments before. People chatted with other people. Two men argued the merits of the sports teams battling it out silently on the TV overhead. Bars are indeed social settings; let no one tell you differently.

Two

more “maybes” and another “perhaps” and I finally cut to the chase.

“You know, sooner or later you are going to have to make a choice.”

She looked at me for a second. Situations like this can go in many directions. The well-adjusted can laugh at themselves and their behavior; the less well-adjusted cannot.

She laughed.

“I know,” she said. “I do that.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“I put my decisions in other people’s hands.”

“Why?”

“So that the outcome is on them and not on me.”

“How has that worked out for you?”

“Not very well considering that I am sitting here alone, at a bar on Friday night, at my age.”

She paused.

“I’m sorry,” she said, noticing my discomfort. “It’s just that I don’t go out to bars much.”

“Neither do I,” I said, smiling.

She smiled back.

“I’m just not into the whole pick-up scene.”

“Bars are what you make of them.”

“I just can’t compete,” she said. “You know, with girls like that,” gesturing at the two women at the front table.

“Who says you have to?” said a man sitting next to her.

On closer inspection, he, too, could be called “of a certain age.”

“Well, they are the ones getting all the attention,” she said, ignoring the fact that both of us were talking to her.

“Again, so what,” he said “It’s like buying a house; you don’t need a dozen buyers, all you need is one.”

She smiled at him slightly differently than she had smiled at me.

“Look at me,” he said. “I haven’t been to a bar in a long time, and now I’m sitting here talking to a beautiful woman.”

I moved on to more pressing things, but not before marveling at the fact that two people who never go to bars can meet each other in a bar and connect.

Later, instead of giving him her number, she asked for his. Taking charge and proving perhaps, that French fabulist Jean de la Fontaine was right when he said, “A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.”

I brushed back my hair, straightened my tie and smoothed out my vest. What restaurant uniforms lack in originality, they make up for in presentability.

I stepped up to the bar, picked up a half-empty glass and set down a cocktail napkin. Habit is a hard thing to break. I sighed a long sigh before someone intruded upon my melancholy.

“Hey,” said a man in a yacht club shirt in a manner most unsuited to pleasant discourse.

“Yeah,” I said, not really flexing much conversational muscle myself.

“Where’s the manager?” he asked in a tone guaranteed to raise some ire.

“I have no idea,” I responded, hoping to end a conversation I had not invited.

“Well, you better go get him!”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t care for your attitude.”

“And I don’t care very much for yours, either,” I answered, my tone mirroring his.

“Look,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I am getting tired of your mouthiness.”

A threshold crossed, indeed. Common law defines assault as “an intentional act by one person that creates an apprehension in another of imminent harmful or offensive contact.” Furthermore, battery is defined as any unlawful touching of the “person” of another. Suffice it to say, I probably had a case for both.

I have seen this sort of thing many times in my work. I have seen waitresses pinched, bouncers punched and managers slapped. Sometimes, the poorly behaved person is aware that his actions are criminal and sometimes still sees nothing wrong with it. I heard of a woman who slapped the back of a hostess hard enough to leave a mark because the woman believed a table was given to someone else before her.

Oddly enough, the woman had the audacity to tell the manager on duty, “I am very wealthy, and I am never coming back here to spend any of my money.” In response, the manager told her, “Maybe you don’t understand; you are never allowed to come back here. Ever.”

Mr. Yacht Club probably didn’t really grasp the situation either. I looked at him for a second and then calmly looked at his hand gripping my upper biceps.

“I am going to count to three, and you are going to let go of my arm,” I said clearly. “Or else …”

“You just lost your job,” he said, his voice rising an octave. “Just wait till I talk to the manager about you.

“One …”

He squeezed my arm just a little.

“Two …”

Before I could get to three the manager arrived.

“Sir, what are you doing?”

“This guy,” he said, holding up my arm, “is rude and disrespectful.”

The manager shook his head in a way that indicates something hard to understand.

“I don’t care for your employee’s attitude and I want something done about it,” said Mr. Club, pleased with his perceived power over someone else. “Immediately.”

The manager looked at him for a long moment.

“Sir,” the manager said carefully, “he doesn’t work here.”

That’s when Mr. Yacht Club realized my tie and vest were of a different color than any of the actual employees. And that I was on the wrong side of the bar.

I looked at him, he looked at me, then he looked at his hand gripping my arm. Suffice it to say, he was the one who left — rather abruptly.

According to the California Penal Code, battery is “any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another, punishable by a fine not exceeding $2,000, or by imprisonment in a county jail not exceeding six months, or by both that fine and imprisonment.”

Just a few things some people might want to consider before grabbing anyone’s arm — or slapping her on the back — employee or not.

I handed the smartly attired business woman the check for her evening’s enjoyment. Perfect evenings often produce perfect endings. In my business, it is not so much about the journey but the destination that matters.

The lady had enjoyed her food, her drinks and dare I say it, her bartender as well. She had laughed at my jokes, made a few of her own, and together we had what could only be referred to as a “great time.” My expectation of a favorable reward for services rendered was a foregone conclusion.

In my industry, you are expected to take home at least 8 percent of your sales in tips. In fact, that is the starting point for the tax preparers. But sometimes people say, “Isn’t 15 percent a standard tip? What happens to the rest?”

People often assume that waiters or bartenders keep every cent they are given as a tip, which is typically not true. The busboys get a percentage, the maître d’ gets a percentage, maybe the hostesses and the wine steward get a cut, the dishwasher and sometimes even the cooks get some. If you are a bartender, you will usually have to split what is leftover with the other bartenders.

So out of that $10 you gave me, I might take home about $4. Mind you, I am not complaining, just explaining, because if anyone knows the equation, it’s me, and I have chosen to accept it for the past 25 years. Such is the nature of responsibility.

It is also true that if someone actually stiffs a waiter or bartender, not only does the bartender or server not make any money on the transaction, but they still have to pay all the other people, because those “tip outs” are based on sales, not tips. So it will actually cost them money to wait on that person. Double ouch, if you ask me.

I set down the check and smiled. The woman smiled back. Perfect, until “…

“Are you interested in buying a house” she asked.

“No, not really,” I said, noting not only my immediate surroundings — the restaurant job I hold — but also the ridiculously expensive suburban surroundings that in turn surround it.

“OK,” she said, thankfully making no further comment on my perceived earning potential. “Can you sign this?”

“What is it?”

“It’s an affidavit for the IRS saying that we spoke about business. That way I have a record of this dinner as a business expense.”

“I’m not going to sign that.”

Now I am used to people using their business credit cards for what can only be considered questionable business expenses: dates with the mistress or drink outings with the golfing buddies. But they have never asked me to sign anything. I figure that is their responsibility, or their blame if it comes to that.

The last thing anyone anywhere wants is a reason for the IRS to contact them. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

She looked at me for a long second and then signed the check, leaving the tip box blank. So much for perfect endings.

With tomorrow being April 15, tax day, I submit these taxing thoughts:

• I still have to pay taxes on at least 8 percent of her bill.

• Corkage fees (opening wine the customer brings) are a sales taxable item, according to the State of California, as are “cake cutting” and “banquet” fees.

• The excise tax on liquor is $2.15 for a 750-milliliter bottle of 80 proof and $2.70 for 100 proof. This means that lowering the proof of your whiskey, not only increases the saleable volume but simultaneously lowers the tax on it. Something I believe Maker’s Mark might be aware of.

• The federal government collects nearly $10 billion annually from excise taxes on distilled spirits, beer and wine.

I unwound the constitute elements of my winter attire; scarf, coat, and gloves before donning the universal elements of my bartending uniform; tie, shirt and apron.  The extra five minutes of dressing and undressing was well worth the dryness of that crisp, clean, uniform.

One cup of coffee and a counted cash register bank later I stood behind the bar. When it rains around here the bars seem to gain a little extra atmosphere, damp clothes have a way of doing that. Put a lot of damp clothed people in a smallish room and, well, you probably get the picture.

I didn’t have much time to think about it because very quickly I was very busy. Damp clothed people apparently can be very thirsty. Half a dozen or so manhattans, two hot buttered rums, seven assorted red wines and a hot toddy later, and I had run the gamut of rainy weather drinks.

After making change for one woman I turned to face another woman standing in the area between brass rails that is usually reserved for cocktail service but is often utilized for a variety of other services such as change requests,Togoorders and the like.

I prepared for just such a request.

“Go to my car and get my bag,” said the lady holding out her keys.

“Beg your pardon?” I said while finishing up the two Scotch old fashioneds that I was already working on.

“Go to my car and get my bag,” she said again, adding a jiggling of her keys for emphasis.

“Uh, it’s pouring down rain,” I said not quite sure of exactly how to respond.

“I know,” she said. “I don’t want to get wet.”

I turned and took a drink order from two golf buddies before responding.

“Neither do I,” I said.

“I’m a customer here,” she said as if that in and of itself entitled her to whatever whim she fancied.

“I understand that, but I have a job to do here,”  I said making a circling motion with my hand surrounding the drinks that I was making. I also looked around the bar and surmised that a trip to the parking lot would probably take me at least 15 minutes including dressing and undressing time. Our bar was full, which meant that all of those customers would have to wait that extra 15 minutes before I could fulfill their needs. The needs that I was actually being paid to fill.

“I’m sorry, I said as politely as possible. “I don’t have time.”

She looked at me incredulously. “You’re a server,” she said. “You have to do what I say.”

Sometimes in the restaurant business people confuse the word server with the word servant. One is a person paid by an establishment to do a specific job; making drinks, serving food etc. The other is a person paid by someone to do what ever he or she wants them to do. The two words are not interchangeable.

Here are some things you can reasonably expect a server to do:

Tell you the specials.

Get you something to drink.

Take your food order.

Box up your leftover items.

Here are some things that servers often do as a courtesy:

Take pictures of you and your friends.

Sing you Happy Birthday.

Call you a taxicab.

Here are some things that a server probably won’t do for you*

Change your baby’s dirty diaper.

Warm up your car.

Loan you bridge toll, valet fees, or money for a cab.

Watch your kids while you go somewhere else for a drink.

Soon, I went back to doing what I was being paid to do and the lady headed over to the hostess stand. The hostess soon looked at her dumbfounded, and soon after that the manager mimicked that very same look.

About an hour later another lady approached our far less busy bar.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked after waiting for me to conclude the transaction that I was already involved in.

“Sure,” I said.

“I don’t have an umbrella and it’s really raining. Is there anybody who could walk me to my car?”

I looked around at the much less crowded bar.

It was about 15 minutes before I returned, a little damp but no worse for wear and tear.

Sometimes, it’s when you ask for special consideration. And sometimes it’s how.

*All things that I’ve actually been asked to do while bartending.

I had done the easy part of my job, the delivery and construction parts and now came the harder part, the small talk. As we waited for the finale, a chocolate soufflé (ordered 15 minutes earlier), the ladies made my job that much easier, by engaging me in conversation.

“My son just graduated from law school,” said the wine drinker with the salt and pepper hair.

“He’s very smart,” said her companion in the chunky turquoise necklace.

So we discussed his smarts for a few minutes, as we did I reset their place settings and generally cleaned up their postprandial debris.

“He took the BAR recently and passed,” said salt and pepper as I took in cash from a departing server.

“Now he’s looking for a job, but it’s so hard out there,” said turquoise necklace.

I thought of all the applications that restaurants have been getting recently from out of work realtors, bond salespeople, and mortgage brokers. Not to mention the reams of applications from people who were once restaurant workers and are again reentering the business as a result of the current economy. It is certainly a whole different hiring world then it was just five years ago.

“He picks things up very quickly,” said salt and pepper.

“Yes, he’s very smart,” said turquoise necklace, again.

I was beginning to feel like I was being set up for something.

I delivered the steaming hot soufflé. As I broke open the top and poured in the chocolate sauce, it came as sure as I knew it would.

“Do you think he could get a job here?’ said salt and pepper.

“You know, as a bartender?”

“Does he have any experience?” I asked knowing full well that we were so heavily staffed that even the experienced bartenders that we already had were all looking for extra shifts. But then my job is to be conciliatory, not confrontational.

“No, but he went to law school,” she said with a decidedly condescending note.

“Well, maybe he should get a job as a lawyer,” I thought to myself.

What I actually said however was quite different.

“We tend to hire people with several years of experience,” I said politely as I refilled their coffee.

“It can’t be that hard,” she said in a far less friendly tone then she had started out with.

Well, so much for an enjoyable evening. Reality has a way of taking the fun out of things.

Recently a rival bar manager had stopped by to see me; we had worked together many years ago and remain good friends to this day.

“What is up with these people with no experience going into the busiest bar in town and asking for jobs?” she said after a shot of Don Julio.

“I only want to work weekend night,” she said mimicking one of them.

“Really?! Just the busiest nights of the week in the busiest bar in town? With no experience? Sure. Why not?” she continued waving her hands in the air. “We are all just a bunch of idiots anyhow,” she said sarcastically. Taking a sip of her tequila she added, “Idiots with jobs.”

Eventually as the night wound down and the last cuddly customers left, I joined her for a Don Julio myself. And together we came up with some simple things to consider if you are ungainfully employed and are looking for a “new revenue stream” i.e. a job in the bar business.

1) If you have no experience in the bar business, don’t go to the busiest place in town and ask for night shifts. Saying that you will work any shifts is much more likely to get you a job. As is applying at the slowest place in town. It just might work out better for you and for them. At the very least you can put down some experience for your next interview.

2) Demeaning the job you are applying for is a great way to have your resume end up in the wastebasket.

3) If it has been ten years since you last bar job take into consideration that nobody drinks the drinks that you remember. Eight hours of making hand muddled raspberry mojitos might make you reconsider things.

4) Also consider that in the small community of bars and bartenders many jobs are filled without applications or interviews, but by word of mouth, and existing friendships.

5) Don’t tell potential employers what you want from them. Putting down “I am willing to learn,” really means I want to be paid while you teach me a skill. Telling employers what you can do for them, even if it is not much, will be far better received. Remember it’s not all about you.

6) Good luck, because at the rate that restaurants are closing, you are going to competing for jobs with people who have been in the bar business for the past ten years.