Don’t Drink Before Reading This
We clock in when you clock off
A lot has changed in the bar and kitchen industry since immortalized in Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential”, the New York chef’s stories of working the circuit throughout the 1990s.
Standards, both health and professional, are better and less hedonistic fun is had. Cocaine has a much looser grip on shift decision-making, it’s harder to find post-work drinking spots, and from my experience at least, workplace sexism is on the decline.
I have worked in bars for near five years, nowhere near the experience of many within the industry but I have done my fair share of long days, ‘glassie shifts’, food running and closes. It is an industry full of wonderful people, great stories and late nights.
And like a rollercoaster, the job has its peaks and troughs. One moment you’re on an unstoppable high, pouring one, two, three pints at a time — the fastest bar slinger in the west. The next, you’ve never been more stressed having been wrung out by a bar six persons deep that never seems to shrink.
But the same old tricks and traditions of the trade still remain. Most bartenders nowadays share the same hatreds of a typical shift — the anti-social hours, certain customers and all the madness that it contains. While loving those exact aspects all the same.
The pack-like tendencies of bartenders, for the better, remain intact. If you’re overly rude to one of our own, no doubt we’ll share and encourage that immediate hatred hidden away within the dark corners of the back-bar wash room — describing the incident and person, I hope, in a similar way to how an elite military squadron would do in their line of work.
And don’t think we’re being petty or being hyperbolic, it’s still astonishing to me how rude (albeit in the minority) people can be to a another person whose only crime is trying to be as fast and fair as one can be, slinging drinks in a busy bar, with a never ending soundtrack of clicking fingers from impatient customers.
The pack-like tendencies of bartenders, for the better, remain intact.
But for all of us in the trade now, and those that have gone before, there is arguably nothing better, no moment sweeter, than that of your first sip of beer after a long shift, or your first drag of a cigarette.
After hours stood on your feet, clocking in mile after mile prowling the floor, the sweet relief of that first cold, crisp beer is as close to perfection as I think you can get.
It’s the largest arts and culture festival in the world, and the annual Edinburgh Fringe Festival doesn’t just leave the performers and comedians exhausted and bleary-eyed. For the almost-thousand strong hospitality and bar staff, the Fringe is a month of long nights, hard shifts and good times.
I’ve pulled pints in London, Sydney and now Edinburgh and working as a bartender at the Fringe Festival, there is something so healthy about feeling so unhealthy. Sleep deprived, over-worked and living off a round-the-clock diet of caffeine, cigarettes and alcohol — working at one of the world’s largest festivals is not for the faint of heart.
When the festival rolls around every August, it is known for bringing madness and late-nights along with it. The near-month long celebration of art, comedy and excessive drinking turns the city of Edinburgh into a hotspot for the weird and wonderful.
But it is not the performers themselves who make up the bulk of the Fringe workforce. It is the hundreds of bartenders who instead of being able to crack a joke or break into song, are tasked with ensuring that your cold pint of Tennents is served efficiently, properly and with a smile — forced or unforced.
We don’t try and make you laugh or cry, although a terribly poured Guinness may make you do either (or both) of those things. Instead, our aim is to provide, to serve — day after day, night after night, pint after pint.
During the Fringe, as the rest of the world clocks in for the day, we finally clock off.
Operating and lurking within the back corridors set apart from the Fringe’s main attractions, the age-old profession of bartending gets hooked on steroids during the Scottish capital’s busiest month as late-night closes instead become 5am clock-offs and the after-work rush lasts for the whole shift.
During the Fringe, as the rest of the world clocks in for the day, we finally clock off. Unlike the large majority, whose festival begins in the mid-evening to go on into the night, the bartenders of the Fringe can only clock off, can only enjoy the madness of festival, once everyone else’s fun has finished.
Our fun begins at 5am, whereby a cold pint can finally be enjoyed in the peace of the early morning. Bleary eyed and exhausted there is nothing comparable to that first sip.
Along with thousands of visitors for us to serve, the festival also brings with it new perks, friends and a unique bartending experience. You are the frontline, the first port of call for thirsty festival goers, getting to provide joy that is unparalleled — a drink.
In the thick of it, you are part of the fabric of the city for that crazy month in August, an intrinsic and important cog in the Edinburgh machine.
Almost every bar and every bartender will have the same drawbacks, the same personal pet peeves. The things that make us scream behind our smiles. Every bartender will have a few, that however hard we’ve tried, we cannot seem to ever not get pissed off at.
For me, in no order and not limited to, it is as follows.
The Carlsberg (or Fosters, Coors and any of the similar beers the bartenders, admittedly snobbishly, hate) does not taste weird. It is not flat. It has not gone off. That is what Carlsberg always tastes like. That weird, watery taste of Denmark’s worst export after Christian Poulsen is a hallmark of the beer. It tastes bad because it is.
If it is your first time ordering a Guinness, you are excused from this. But if not, please don’t hide the Guinness order away, like months old dirty laundry. Don’t give us an order of two pints, a gin and tonic, a small and medium wine then, oh… and a Guinness please. Be proud of it, put it first and make our job just that bit easier by letting it settle while we go about making the rest of your order.
The majority of bartenders I’ve had the pleasure to work with have been quick, whip smart and solid at their job. I’ve also worked with a small number who weren’t suited for the role and had little interest in the industry.
Every single one of them though has been human, trying to do their job to a decent standard and earn their wage. Unless you’ve been met with a storm of rudeness from a rogue dickhead bartender (they’re a dying breed), please don’t treat us like pieces of dirt.
Often it’s impossible for us to tell who was next in line, we may be out of stock, or if we’re understaffed and getting smashed, your table may not be spotless.
I’ve had the pleasure of serving hundreds upon hundreds of sound customers, some of whom have become friends — but that one in a hundred who looks at bar staff like dirt and who acts on that misconception can really ruin your shift and your day.
However insofar as the above is true, the overwhelming positive aspects of the industry ensure that the majority of bartenders will clock in and clock off smiling.
For me, in no order and not limited to, it is as follows.
Backs against the wall, stuck in a confined space with orders raining down on you, your bar staff quickly become friends and you pull together in no dissimilar fashion to an Olympic rowing team — although it is pints you are treading and not water.
The intensity of the weekend rushes, initially balked at, can lift you into a Zen like state where you feel unstoppable. Tables to be cleaned, drinks to be poured, complaints to address — no problem. For you are stuck in 6th gear, unable to slow down as you Brian Flanagan-esque smash through order after order.
You get paid to work on your feet, with your friends, serving often cool and interesting people — performing the age old profession of pleasure giving, drink serving, bartending. And after a long shift, you can smile. For you have earned your keep in a high-octane environment that can be ruthless.
If you can sling drinks while the bar is row-after-row deep, properly and efficiently, hour-upon-hour and with a smile on your face — I really believe that you can do anything.
So to all those fellow bartenders, all of those in hospitality up and down the country and around the world, keep serving — and to all of those who serve, we salute you.
This story is published in Writers on the Run. If you’re interested in submitting your travel stories please visit our submission guidelines.
