The trial shift — ale be as quick as I can

With hindsight being a bitch, putting two months bar work experience on my CV was perhaps neither accurate nor sensible. I did work in my University college bar over a period of two months, but the number of shifts I actually did could probably be counted on two hands. Needless to say, I wasn’t the most finely trained barman when I turned up for my trial shift at a very well to do pub (with high expectations in customer service and staff performance) in Kentish Town. Now, my life sciences PhD trump card was of no use at all — unless, of course, Cancer Research UK had paid me to spend four years researching the amount of foam (called ‘head’ in the industry) necessary to top the perfect beer, or to understand the slurring of drunken adversaries (although, I’m not suggesting that I, myself, have not been the drunken adversary yelling at an innocent barman; I understand). Unfortunately, with the bigger picture in mind, Cancer Research UK did not pay me for these things. Thus, I was left on a steep learning curve in a trial shift that proved to be an incredibly sweaty (I’m a little balmy at the best of times) and stressful hour. Despite this, with the, almost constant, guidance of a very kind and patient colleague, the gradient of the learning curve was somewhat reduced — I felt eternally indebted to this man, but that’s another story for another time.

As an inexperienced barman, certainly on a trial shift, it feels like time travels far slower (that is to say a second feels like 10 seconds) behind the bar (although the shifts themselves don’t get any shorter). The time to take an order, nervously pour a gin and tonic (‘don’t forget the ice and the lime, or the cucumber if it’s Hendricks’), take it to the customer (without spilling any or slipping on the inconspicuous ice cubes), and then find the bastard thing (‘tonic dash’) within the maze of a till, amongst ‘Aspall’ and ‘pig cheek’, feels like it takes a lifetime. Coincidentally, one feels incredibly responsible for wasting the punter’s time. Looking back, perhaps that unnecessary feeling of responsibility is simply a reflection of my own oversensitivity and neurosis — I don’t remember a time when I was particularly irritated by a barman taking more than 30 seconds to serve a drink I had ordered on the other side of the bar. Indeed, things change for me behind the bar, as I manically try to overanalyse people’s reactions and feelings, while not completely focusing on the task in hand (that is, serving; more haste, less speed springs to mind if you watch me from a far), worried about passing time during my preparation of a magnificently over-the-top Bloody Mary, as the customer looks over fondly, albeit jealously, at his group of friends huddled by the fire with their drinks prepared efficiently (sans sweat, by a better barman, I should add), slowly forgetting that he is part of the party. “Here’s your drink sir, and so sorry for your wait and that your friends finished their drinks and left without you…”

The simplest tasks became virtually impossible for me on my ominous trial shift — I even forgot the beautiful virtue of politeness. Too busy trying to minimise people’s waiting time, things just came out of my mouth without me even thinking. When asked for whom was the cappuccino I had requested, I responded, within earshot of both the customer and my manager, “for the old lady at the bar”. The shame and horror as my eyes met those of the old lady, sitting quietly at the bar, and the air of the pub fell silent in disgust. In a vain attempt to recover any shred of self-respect, I muttered, “the lady in the scarf”, but everyone knew what I had said. “That horrible little shit just called that lovely lady old”. The guilt wasn’t helped by my manager making a comment about it later on in the shift, although, to her credit she said it with a wink and a smile. Almost coincident with my embarrassment subsiding after my faux pas, my trial shift came to an end with a “you’ll be fine” from a colleague, and my manager sent me home to ponder my sins. And ponder I did.

My initial thoughts as I cycled home to debrief my brother on my evening’s torment were that I wasn’t cut out for a career in bar-tending — that much was already evident, but all I needed was something to fill the days before the summer. A problem was that I didn’t get the immediate impression that I would be very good at the job, let alone be satisfied by it. Perhaps a consequence of my baptism by fire, my initial experiences were rather stressful. In my mind, judging from my incompetence and the occasion of blatant rudeness I figured I’d be off out again handing out more bland CVs the following day. Perhaps for the best, I came to terms with the impending disappointment.

To my surprise, I received a call from the manager a week or so later asking if I was still interested in the job — apparently I stood out over and above the other candidates thanks to my outstanding customer service (God knows how bigoted the other candidates must have been to out perform my agist prejudices). A split second reaction, despite my prior worries about my inability, taking into account my ever decreasing funds and ever increasing motivation to stay in bed, I accepted the offer. Suddenly all my fears became very real. Fuck it. It’s an opportunity to learn something new — not only how to deal with customers but also how to deal with new layers and levels of management — there are few finer lessons to learn than how to deal with one’s superiors. Further to that, it’s an opportunity to actually do something, to get some money and to meet a whole range of new people; drunk or not.

It was decided. My fate sealed. What follows is a ramble of my experiences in the world behind the bar, and the occasional night away from that torment.