If
you look up the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority Police it says
they’re New York’s Proudest. But that’s bullshit. Bartenders are New
York’s proudest motherfuckers.
Whenever
a bartender doesn’t know how to make a drink, this is what he says:
“It’s been a long time since I’ve made one of those.” And he doesn’t ask
you how to make it. He waits for you to tell him, or to order something
else. And as you’re telling him, he pretends to remember.
Last
night I drank with Jim, in Midtown, at the bar of a restaurant I think
I’d been to many years ago, with Aimee. The food back then was
terrible—overpriced, butter-saturated. This time the drinks, at least,
were fine. Jimmy ordered a negroni and since I’d been drinking scotch at
a work party all afternoon, I ordered a Rob Roy.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve made one of those,” the bartender said uncertainly.
“It’s scotch—”
“Scotch, triple sec...”
“No,” I said. “Scotch, sweet vermouth.”
“Right! Right.”
“And a dash of bitters.”