How Bartending Saved My Relationship With My Father
Growing up, dinner was always simple: meat, vegetables, rice, sometimes soup, and alcohol.
It was for my father. He’s not a big drinker, but he is a consistent drinker.
My father doesn’t drink a lot in one session, in fact, he’s particularly strict on that. That helps him to balance out the drinking he does every other day.
As a half Japanese, my father co-owned an authentic Japanese restaurant which requires him to do a lot networking with customers and clients. Hence alchohol is a big part of his lifestyle and Sake is his preferred drink.
Having passion and knowledge of the drinks one offers others — especially the Japanese — is a big deal, so he was always bringing back different kinds of alcohol and researching about them.
On the other hand, I didn’t enjoy alcohol as much as he did.
I was fifteen when I had my first drink. It was a Guinness, fresh from the tap. I loved the creaminess of the foam and the smoothness of the stout but I didn’t care for the taste.
While I lacked interest in alcohol, I loved the stories my father shared about certain Sakes and how they got their names. They were my equivalent of childhood classics.
My father has a special affinity with Sakes. So while other children were told fairy tales like Cinderella and classics like The Lion King, I listened to the tales of different Sakes.
One of the most memorable stories was about a Sake that is only served in Japan during the first bloom of cherry blossoms each year.
As my father told me the story, his eyes lit up and he inched closer. I loved how he smiled when he shared stories like these. He extended both palms until the distance between them was slightly smaller than a regular can, and said:
“About this size. This Sake was stored in a petite white fluorescent bottle. Its design is simple and minimal. There are beautiful cherry blossoms painted right behind the label. The pink, white and brown details on the cherry blossoms are very delicate. The entire bottle was a sight to see.”
His voice was soft but yet filled with such excitement. I could almost see the bottle in my mind, gleaming under a soft spotlight.
“Because of its miniature size, every sip has to be cherished! This is a drink for you to be enjoyed slowly, not take random shots of. Every sip touches the tongue with a hint of sweetness, and warms your body gently as it slides down your throat.
And when you breathe in from the nose, the fragrance of the Sake wakes you up like a gentle breeze. To the Japanese, drinking this during the blooming of cherry blossoms symbolises a new toast to a new year.
That’s why these Sakes were made and preserved for one whole year, from the ending of the cherry blossoms season to the next beginning.”
He smiled and looked at me. He knew I was in awe. I could only nod my head in agreement and wondered how that Sake tasted like.
I didn’t understand much about Sake, to be honest. But in my eyes, no one else in the world could share with such zeal about what looked like water to me in a small glass bottle.
And in telling such passionate and masterful stories, my father became my childhood hero.
As I grew older, I used to joke that his Sake collection was his real son.
He housed the precious Sakes in a three tier custom-made shelf, with a beautiful dark brown oak as the frame. A huge panel of clear glass slid across the front, featuring at least 30 exotic bottles from different parts of Japan.
There were the hard water Sakes from Hyogo, the fine-lined Sakes from Iwate, Sakes from the ‘Kingdom of local sake’, Niigata and other equally intricate ones.
Amongst the vast collection, one bottle stood out.
It was a gorgeous tint of sky blue and fairly large in size. The silver cap had intricate engravings on it and one could just imagine what flavour was hidden inside of that bottle.
I used to take it out of the shelf all the time to admire it and never once thought to be prudent handling it.
It turned out that what I thought would make a pretty water bottle was actually a 600-dollar Sake.
When I turned 17, I entered Polytechnic and my father took up more projects. Our conversations became shorter and there were times when we didn’t even speak to one another.
My father constantly returned home late after drinking with his clients, and whenever he wasn’t out entertaining, he would spend time researching and scouting new alcohol.
I was a selfish kid then. I knew it was part of his job, but I resented my father for not taking the initiative to find time for me, or check on my progress in school.
I needed something to blame, and alcohol was the most obvious culprit.
In my anger, I stopped talking to my father and decided to find a part time job just to get out of the house.
After scrolling past the sea of “$8/hr Give Out Flyer” job listings, I stumbled on a post that caught my attention:
A bar was looking for a part-time bartender.
It sounds ironic that I took the bartender job. But upon further thought, it was inevitable, really.
The pull to find out for myself the power of alcohol was too irresistible.
I naively assumed working at a bar would be almost hedonistic — an endless flow of free drinks,being flashy shaking cocktails into the night with girls looking on in admiration, breaking up fights among the rowdy crowd…
How wrong I was.
The bar I worked at was very well-managed and attracted a good crowd. The customers that I served on a daily basis were like my father; they came to unwind and have a good time with people they care about.
Aside for the occasional person who have had too much to drink, they were not the typical drunk crowd.
I loved it when I was able to serve regulars their usual before they even asked for it. Their smiles represented a special bond of understanding and appreciation.
Bartending taught me how to be family, to both my colleagues and customers. To take pride in what we do but serve humbly unto others. These are important values that I still use today.
But most importantly, I came to see alcohol in a different light. They’re tools for communication, a way of bonding.
That’s when I realised, alcohol didn’t rob my father away.
That night, I went home with a bottle of Sake.
Holding that gorgeous sky blue tinted bottle that I had always dreamt of opening, I twisted the engraved silver cap and poured my father a drink.
There was a different mood in the air that night. I became the one sharing stories on bartending, meeting customers and how some people decided on their drinks for the night.
There and then, I saw it again. The eyes that lit up with excitement, from hearing his son’s adventure and stories. As we both opened up for the first time in two years, my father mouthed the words I would never forget:
“Between alcohol and a man, there are many many stories. Some are good, some are bad. How they drink are sequels to the beginning of their stories. But why they start drinking are the stories that changes lives.
The choice of alcohol a man drinks holds a story that’s deeper than his mug. Don’t forget it.”
See, alcohol isn’t so bad, is it?
