BARTENDERS I HAVE KNOWN
It has often been said that bartenders are the greatest psychologists. The mixers of drinks, pourers of wine and beer and polishers of glasses listen to citizens around the world as those human subjects celebrate in their conquests or slide further into depression at their failures. Some of the best characters in the movies and on television have been bartenders. Of that number my favorite was the egoistic washed up relief pitcher of the Boston Red Sox, Sam Malone of Cheers. I can’t forget Woody also of Cheers, Sasha of Casablanca, and Lloyd of The Shining. Even the cartoon character Moe of the Simpsons is memorable. I remember a bartenders better than I remember coaches I coached against or wives to whom I’ve been married.
In my first few years of coaching I was employed by schools in small towns and in those days members of the educational community were discouraged from frequenting businesses that offered such refreshments. The first memorable bartender that I knew was Tom McGivern of the Black Hawk Brewery. Every Wednesday night the legendary Davenport Bank basketball team crushed another cocky group of young ex high school players at a Lutheran Church gym in west Davenport, Iowa. Afterward we stopped at the Brewery a block or two from the gym. Tom was a sports nut, a walking encyclopedia of worthless information of darn near any sport at most levels of competition. I’m pretty certain that a few of my teammates stayed up nights going through Atlas of sports trivia to prepare for our night of beer, sports talk, and laughter. Tom loved to bet on damn near anything and as the night progressed that was a major topic of conversation. He was a confirmed bachelor and he constantly harassed us married men about being let out of the cage one night a week. The bar itself was not exactly a palatial establishment, but Tom was a king and ruled with a velvet glove.
The Circle Tap is my all-time favorite bar and I salute its owner and afternoon bartender Jerry Kelly as one of the nicest gentlemen I have known. Jerry would listen to any of the regulars and the few strangers who stopped in and rarely interjected his own opinions. No one was a stranger for long. Every Wednesday night an amateur disc jockey took over the front window looking out onto Locust Street. The bar was a beer drinker’s bar and was always packed. During the off season for the basketball team we’d hit it early for burgers and fries or ribs. St Patrick’s Day festivities were especially raucous and the street in front was painted with a huge green four-leaf clover. Jerry’s gone but the Circle still is going strong forty years later.
I lived in Mt Pleasant, MI for 23 years but I never frequented any bar on a regular basis. Hunter’s Ale House, The Bird, The Cabin and Freddie’s were regular stops but none of the mixologists were notable. I can attribute that to aging; I rarely sat at the bar preferring tables or booths for comfort.
Since moving to Europe I have bonded with several members of the profession. I have spent quite a bit of time the last few months visiting Spain and have become friends with Lucas, owner of the Lemon Bar in Barcelona. We met on a July evening when I was desperately lost, searching for my hotel. Frustrated, I opted for a seat outside a tapas bar (one of hundreds in the city). I had just accosted a young thief who tried to steal my suitcase as I sat hopelessly reading my phone for the magic which would lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of the missing hotel (it’s amazing how language barriers are crossed when profane threats are screamed). Lucas delivered the most beautiful large frosted glass of Estrella imaginable. I asked if they were still serving and after he stopped laughing at my lack of knowledge of Spanish eating habits, he brought a menu (which of course I could not read). I pointed at one of the tapas offerings and soon a platter of 29 (I counted them) fried herring (minus the head and guts) arrived. Never had I eaten one, let alone over two dozen, but they were delicious. After gorging myself, I inquired about the location of the invisible hotel. He said nothing but pointed straight across the street. Every time I’m in Barcelona I stop. We hug and talk in broken English like friends of twenty years.
In the village of Quillan, my former home, one bartender stood out above all the rest. For the multitude of patrons that regularly were subjected to Michel’s varying moods a variety of opinions could be recorded from great to ‘who the hell does he think he is?’ Personally I loved the guy. He was my all-time favorite curmudgeon. He grumped around all day snarling about anything and everything, but he never screwed up an order and he never served anyone out of turn. When anything was needed he was always prompt in delivering and he was generous with allowing use of the Palace for get-togethers. When on occasion he would be alone with a customer, he allowed his real self to emerge. One night we had a great discussion of Harrison Ford movies…his knowledge was remarkable. And though he was not a large person, he allowed no behavior that crossed the line; one day I saw him throw four young guys out. They left without argument.
The first person I met in Marseillan was Julian of the Boulevard Bar. Knowing little of my new home I assumed that the gate for the village was Marseillan Plage. I got off the train in an isolated, desolate area surrounding a decrepit boarded up building I assumed was on the edge of the village. After trudging around wetlands for almost two hours it was clear that the Marseillan I sought was six kilometers inland from the station. However, it was good for a laugh from several locals gathered as I related my cross country stroll to Julian, the proprietor of the Bar. He since has become a friend and I have become a regular.
The last bartender really is not a member of that fraternity, but I must include him. Paul of the team with his wife Val run the stylish restaurant Quatre Saisons in Axat. He is a sommelier much more than a bartender but he is included on my list because of his penchant for bringing a bottle of champaign to our table at the end of service for the night and engaging in lively discussion about any topic imaginable. He is especially comfortable when the subject of fine wines is introduced, but I try too keep him from politics. Boris and Trump are subjects that start a tirade which might last until morning.
If you frequent the kind of places in which I have been spotted, you no doubt have stories involving your favorite or least favorite server of the suds. Your sample is probably based on fewer stops of the moving van than my life has produced.