Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I spent 25 years of my life in the restaurant business, especially now that I’ve been out for five years. I worked at some great places. I worked with some great people. Some amazing chefs. And I had a great time. Most of the time. During my time in the business, I learned the ins and outs of a restaurant and a bar. I even took my knowledge and experience further by attending The Culinary Institute of America up in Hyde Park, NY. But that’s for another post. This post is to share some of my thoughts on the business, as well as some suggestions for how to act in a restaurant or bar. Heed my suggestions if you want, or don’t. It’s all good. But should you try a few of them out, you might just find that your experience was a little better. A little more special. A little more magical. And finally, for those of you who are reading this and are in the business or have been at some point, I hope that this post makes you smile, giggle, and nod your head in agreement.
My introduction to the restaurant business was at The Angus Barn back in the late 90s. It was at the tail end of the Dot Com bubble, but there were still plenty of high rollers throwing their money around. I applied for a bartending job with absolutely zero experience. I was positive there was no way in hell I would get the job. And guess what? They offered me a position as a bartender. Van’s philosophy was that they could teach anyone to be a server or a bartender. What they couldn’t teach was how to be a good person. So apparently back then I was a good person.
New bar staff at The Angus Barn start off working the service bars and bartending the parties that would rent out rooms at the restaurant. I knew going in that I was in way over my head. I was fresh from graduating Raleigh’s Bartending School, which meant I knew how to pour colored water into a glass and had the recipes for a bunch of drinks I would never make in my 25 years behind the bar. And you know what? I was right. I was in way over my head. I can remember the first few weeks were punishing. Back then, the restaurant didn’t take reservations on the weekends, so there would be a giant line waiting to get in the minute we opened. And within 10 minutes of seating the first wave of guests, my printer would start going. By the way, in the business we call the printer “the wheel,” so that’s what I’m going to call it from now on. So the guests would be seated, their drink orders would be taken and rung in, and then my wheel would start printing. And I kid you not, that thing would literally not stop for minutes. There were times I’d have three and four feet long sheets of drink orders, several side by side, staring at me as the angry servers who were double sat watched me fumble to make drinks. I had no idea how to build an order(s). I had no idea how to place them on the tickets so the servers knew what was what. I was a dumpster fire with a bottle. But slowly and surely, I started to get the hang of it. I might have even gotten a little confidence.
The customer bar at The Angus Barn is called The WIld Turkey lounge. It is upstairs and it is spectacular. You walk up the stairs to look straight at the bar, which is a big square. If memory serves, there are about ten chairs per side. Glasses hang from the shelves surrounding the top of the bar on all sides. It’s a cool looking bar. In the back left corner is a fireplace with sofas around it. All through the bar are little deuces and four tops for people to sit and enjoy their cocktails. It is here at The Wild Turkey where the bartenders make cash money. This is where they get tips. And this is where they all aspire to be. But this bar is not a right. It is a privilege. And each bartender has to wait until that privilege is extended to them. Sometimes that wait is longer than others. You see, there are only so many shifts in a week. And no one wants to give up their shifts. You just have to wait until someone leaves for another job. I got lucky. One or two bartenders who had significant shifts left after about six months, and I got called up to the bigs. And you think I was over my head in a service bar? Holy shit was I under-prepared for this move!
My first month or two in the Turkey were punishing. I apologize to anyone who I served at that time. I was constantly in the weeds, regardless of how full the bar was. There were always 2 bartenders behind the bar during busy times. One bartender would open the bar and stay until the restaurant was off the wait. The other bartender would come in later and close the bar. I’m pretty sure the rookies only got opening shift at the beginning. The bartender I worked with a lot, my mentor/teacher if you will, was a guy named Mark Gentry. I looked up to him because he was a complete badass behind that bar. He was fast and smooth and funny and chatty and always calm. When he and I worked together, he would always take one side of the bar and the cocktail wheel, and I’d get the other three sides. That doesn’t seem quite fair, however the cocktail wheel could be punishing because you were making drinks for the entire bar, versus me just making drinks for three sides of the actual bar. But regardless of how busy either one of us were, I was always drowning and he was always laughing with some of his guests. And I’d always come up to him in a panic asking for help and he would just turn me around, kick me in the ass, and say "get in there and do it! That’s how you learn." And he was right. That’s how you learn. And after a year-ish, I had moved up from hopeless to just plain terrible. I should also mention too that at that time in Angus Barn history, they had this ancient POS “computer” system called Remanco. Everything was rung in using PLUs. So a bud light had a three or four digit code. And so on for everything on every menu, and for extra mod that you would make for your order, etc etc. Gentry knew every code. He’d been there for ten years. I had to get out the freaking 3-ring binder to ring every drink. Can you imagine how long that would take? Luckily, very soon after getting to the Turkey, they changed to the Squirrel system, so everyone got to start from ground zero and the playing field was level. For a brief time.
After I left the Angus Barn, I didn’t get back behind the bar for a few years. My next few jobs were on the floor. And I was just as pathetic on the floor as I was behind the bar. In 2003, I moved out to Aspen and got a bartending job at The St. Regis. I was super rusty at first, but things came back pretty quickly. Looking back, I’d have to say that those two years bartending at The St. Regis took me out of rookie status and put me pretty firmly in the competent, if not relatively alright status of bartender. I was a far cry from what I would end up. But if you looked hard enough, you might see some potential.
After leaving Aspen, I went to Hyde Park to attend culinary school. And you want to talk about the wrong person in the wrong place? That was me. I had been cooking for all of six months. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know why the hell I was there. And I sucked! Man was I terrible. There is a famous author who wrote a book about his experience at the CIA. In that book he talks about this one chef who would absolutely yell, scream, and destroy students. He was the biggest hard ass at the school. At the time of this author’s experience, this chef named Turgeon, was running one of the tourist restaurants at the school. The students who were just about to graduate would have to do a tour in this restaurant before they graduated and they all dreaded it because they’d have to face Chef Turgeon. Fast forward to when I was attending, and chef Turgeon had decided he was going to start teaching the newbies in Skills One. He felt the students who came through his restaurant back in the day had all sucked, so he wanted to mold us while we were still moldable. And let me tell you, he lived up to every bit of his reputation. At the beginning of each class, chef would have us gather around as he prepared the dish that we would be cooking that day. He’d describe the techniques needed. He’d show us how he wanted the dish plated. And then he’d assign everyone a time to present. And we had to be ready at that exact time with a hot and perfectly constructed dish. Guess what friends? When my time came to present, and this happened multiple times, I’d place my plate in front of him. He pick things apart with his fork, a disgusted look on his face. He’d then cautiously take a small bite, get up with my plate in his hand, walk over to a trash can, and throw the entire plate in the garbage as hard as he could. “God damn it Harmon! Did you listen to a fucking word I said?” The class was staring. “Sorry chef. I’ll do better tomorrow."
At the end of Skills One, when chef and I were discussing my future he told me, “You know Harmon, I just don’t think you’re spending your money wisely.” And I wasn’t. I knew it. I’ve got no place in the kitchen. Cooks and chefs are a whole other level of bad ass. And I would never be on that level. So I packed up and left the CIA, never to cook in a restaurant kitchen again. (You’re welcome!)
Upon returning to my beloved Raleigh, I got a job at Bloomsbury Bistro working with the amazing Chef John Toler. You want to talk about an amazing chef? And I’ve worked with some great ones. Walter Royal. Ashley Christensen. Andrea Reusing. Scott James. Marshall Smith. But Chef Toler was the man. And his restaurant, Bloomsbury Bistro, in Five Points was hopping. It was a fine dining, neighborhood bistro. Small staff. We pooled tips. We worked as a tight unit. All of us were great friends. We’d go drinking after every shift. I worked there for six years. I was terrible at first, because I had never really been a true server, especially not a fine dining server. There were steps of service I wasn’t used to. There characteristics and behaviors that I’d have to learn and hone. But I got the hang of it. In fact, I got pretty damn good at it. I got to the point where I began to think my days behind the bar were over. But then I began helping out the incredibly talented Norm Norris, THE bad ass bartender at Bloomsbury, and the allure of the bar came back to me.
Fast forward to 2013. I began working at Midtown Grille in North Hills. By this point in my career, I was a true pro. I had a confidence and a swagger. I still had a lot to learn, but I knew I could do my job very well. And I did. Very well. And towards the end of my career at Midtown, I considered myself one of the elite in the area. We all knew each other. We all knew what kingdom each other reigned over. And we all respected each other’s skills. And not only was I bartending at Midtown, but for the second half of my time there (five years), I was running the beverage program. I was the buyer, so all the wine reps came to see me. I made up the cocktail list, when I had to. Most of the time I gave that chore to my other bartender who was more than eager to write it. I ordered all the beer. I ordered and picked up all the liquor. And once a month, I took six or seven hours of my day to count every single bottle of alcohol in the restaurant. I also had the pleasure of maintaining the wine list, changing it up when I changed the wines-by-the-glass or when I had more than just a couple vintage changes. I also had to educate the staff on the new wines or anything by-the-bottle that they didn’t know. And whenever chef got itchy to do a wine dinner, I would have to find the vintner or the winery that would be in town and see if they wanted to do a wine dinner with us. It was a mammoth job. Hell, the wine program alone took a majority of that time. And more than once, I told my other bartenders that the absolute best way to start hating bartending was to start managing a bar. If bartending was what they loved, then they should stay at that level. Once you had to run the bar, all the fun was permanently gone.
On more than one occasion I would find myself butting heads with a manager of Midtown at the time. A wonderful man and good friend named Max Trujillo. A former bartender himself, he and I had different visions for the bar. He wanted a high end cocktail bar. I wanted something exactly like Landmark in downtown Raleigh. Max wanted the 10-ingredient cocktail that looked amazing and tasted like nothing the guest had ever had before. And took 10 minutes to make. Per drink. When it was slow. And the bar was empty. I wanted the Landmark. A bar where industry people went to drink. And had a great time. And the bartenders were top level pros. Masters of their craft. They could make you whatever you wanted. But they didn’t have a need for a specialty cocktail list. Just order what you want! Forget all that foo-foo shit. Of course, Max was the boss, so he got what he wanted. And during my entire time at Midtown, we had a specialty cocktail list. When I was running the bar and pawning off the responsibility of writing the new list, I’d tell my bartender not to make it complicated. No more than three or four ingredients. And I didn’t want to have 25 bottles of bitters lying around. And I didn’t want to have to cut a fuck-ton of garnishes each day. And I’ll be damned if I wanted to make all the freaking blah-blah-blah simple syrups. My reasoning was that when we were in the shit, and we could get ourselves in some serious weeds, I didn’t want to burn minutes on a single cocktail when I could be banging out entire tickets. They never listened. The drinks were always difficult. My thing with these specialty cocktails is that they are so damn good, so well prepared, that they last exactly 5 minutes and then you’re done. And you’re out $15-$20 bucks. Not to mention the 25 minutes you had to wait to get the drink. I appreciate the art and skill of these drinks. And I acknowledge their place and their importance. I just didn’t think they belonged in a neighborhood restaurant that predominantly served regulars.
There’s a special kind of crazy you need to have to be a bartender. It’s exhilarating. But it will kick the living shit out of you. And it's really hard on your body. Bartenders, especially ones that work in restaurants, are the kings and queens of the kingdom. The only person higher than them is the chef, well, and the managers, but we all know they don’t count! You see, the bartender and the chef are the only two who are making things in the restaurant. Servers have to ring things in to get things from the bar or the kitchen. And unlike servers who might have 20-30 covers a night, the bartender often times will serve a drink to most of the people who were in the restaurant, either directly or through the server. Chefs are the real bad asses in this, and many other categories, because they are the only ones that serve every single guest on any night. Busy night with 250 covers, the servers have 25-35 of those covers, bartenders probably get 60-75% of that count in some capacity, but that poor kitchen has to bust their ass for every single person. Each night. Every night.
Bartenders have to be expert multi-taskers, especially ones working in restaurants and ones who are working shifts by themselves behind the bar. Not only are they responsible for all of their bar guests, often times they have to take care of tables in the bar, or perhaps rails or other places where guests might gather. On top of the bar guests, the bartender has to cover the wheel, making all the drinks for the people eating in the dining room(s). And on those perfect storm-type nights, when there’s a private event, the bartender will have to cover everything. Meanwhile they’re also responsible for making change for the servers, making cappuccinos and lattes for those asshole guests who think they’re in a Starbucks, changing blown kegs, etc. Oh, and let’s not forget that the bartender also has to wash their own glassware, which will pile up into impossibly-high stacks as the busy night goes on. There is no busier, more hectic, more exhilarating kind of crazy than when you are absolutely buried behind the bar, and the push hasn’t even really gotten going yet, and there’s no one to help. That’s when you find out what kind of bartender you are. That’s when you decide if this is what you really want to do. It’s not for everyone. And there aren’t many who can do, really do it, well.
Bartending isn’t about making drinks. That part's easy. You could teach a monkey how to make a drink. “You make the best martinis!” And I’m thinking to myself, “Yep. I’m a real pro at shaking vodka and ice in a tin until my hand freezes! Mad skills!” No, drink making, while important, isn’t something I consider to be the mark of a real pro. And you better not ever call me a “mixologist!” What a load of shit! Whoever came up with that word? I’m pretty sure the real pros would much rather be called bartenders than mixologists. It’s like someone calling themselves a “foodie.” There’s no better way to show yourself as a pretentious snob who probably knows very little about truly amazing food than to refer to yourself as a “foodie.” I think anyone who really appreciates expertly-prepared cuisine would just as soon leave the trendy cliches to the amateurs and unassumingly enjoy their meal and their experience. But I digress. In my opinion, a truly gifted, expert-level bartender is someone who truly tends the bar. They are aware of everything that is going on. They are in control of everything that is happening. They are actually steering the course of the night, without anyone knowing it, through the music, or the herding of guests, or the steering of conversations. There are a ton of factors to monitor and control and the bartender is on top of all of them. They can make each guest feel like the only ones at the bar. They know everyone’s name. They know everyone’s drink. They know everyone’s gossip. They are able to do a seemingly impossible number of tasks at the same time and never look that busy. And this one’s important- they can hear every word spoken at their bar, regardless of where they are or who they’re talking to. They also know they’re on stage. They’re giving a performance. Everyone is watching. Everyone wants to know what they’re making. So they make their movements count. They don’t flounder. They don’t hesitate. They’re on stage baby! And let me tell you, it’s a thing of beauty. It’s something to admire. To the laymen, it just looks like someone who is really fast, totally on point, and has their shit together. To those of who have done it. or at least for me when I sit at the bar, it’s just fun to watch. The way they’ve set up their bar. They way they grab their bottles. They way they build their tickets. Just the whole show. And the really good ones are doing this while they’re asking about my kids and getting the drink order from the guests behind me and finishing a joke he’s telling to the regulars at the end of the bar.
One other thing to mention about bartenders, or at least the ones that have been doing it for a while: they are the last people you ever want to sit with and do some serious, heavy drinking. Not only are the pros masters of their craft, but they are stone cold consumers of their craft. After all, you would expect a chef to taste the food he’s preparing. You would expect a chef to spend time on his menu and for them to constantly be trying new things to get inspiration and ideas. Same goes for bartenders. Only the real reason is probably that some/most of us are/were serious degenerates with serious drinking problems. Chefs might tell you they’re the true drinkers in the restaurant, but I say fear the bartender. A true bartender will probably drink you completely under the bar.
There is another part of the restaurant business that people outside don’t know about. The server nightmare. I know now that these nightmares are not isolated to restaurant workers. They manifest themselves in whatever industry you’re in. I’ve had coding nightmares, which suck. And I’m currently having the occasional delivery nightmare, which also sucks. In those I usually get sidetracked somehow only to realize the sun is setting and I still have 125 stops to make. Whatever. I can testify that the server nightmares are the worst, and they don’t go away. Five years out of the business and I still have server nightmares regularly. These nightmares take any number of forms, but it always revolves around not know where things are, or getting bus after bus after bus of tourists who descend on the restaurant and you’re the only one working. A common theme for me is having a crazy-big table, like a 100-top o something and I’ve numbered out the positions and I’ve taken the order and when I get back from ringing up the order, everyone as switched seats. Something absurd like that. Most seasoned servers and bartenders will tell you they’ve had them and might still do. And most of us will tell you that we’ve learned how to wake up and stop the dream. Every time I have one, I’ll get to the point where I step in and say, “Alright! That’s it! Show’s over!” And I’ll wake up. Server nightmares suck.
I know this is getting long, so I’ll begin to wrap this puppy up. Here are some things to keep in mind for those of you who have never worked in a restaurant. Y’all are out to dinner. Perhaps a date. Perhaps a business dinner. Whatever the reason, whatever the occasion, you’re out in public. You’re around others who are doing the exact same thing. But you’re not alone. You’re not the only person in the restaurant. You’re not the only one your server is taking care of. You’re not the only one the chef is cooking for. It’s not your responsibility to know the exact guest count your server has at the moment, or how many tickets chef is working on. But it sure would be nice if you would casually, discreetly size up your environment to see how busy things were, how loud things were, to see how your server looked and acted when they greeted the table. Were they calm, composed? Or were they catching their breath? Looking around at other tables? Rushing? Pushy? Distracted? These are what we call social cues. They are good ways to tell the current state of things in your area. Use them. Help your server or bartender out. If they’re busy, don’t take up their time. Now's not the time for 20 questions. Now’s not the time for chit chat. Be concise. Get to point quickly. The weeds, the push, happens in waves. They’re going to be really busy until they’re not. Then they’re going to be really busy again. And you not picking up on cues and acting accordingly is only going to fuck the entire process up. It always amazes me the audacity people have or the complete lack of awareness they possess to think that it’s ok to ask a ton of questions or go on about whatever when it’s painfully obvious to everyone else that the server doesn’t have time. But they work for tips, so they’re financially obliged to sit there and listen to your bullshit while they watch their entire section drowning. Just wake up. Help them out. And if the server is the one engaging you, then by all means, dive into the banter. Remember, your server is in control of the flow of your meal. If they have time to talk, they will. Read your environment. Read your cues. And this is a BIG one. If you’re waiting at the bar, waiting to make eye contact with the bartender who is obviously busy, and you finally get their attention, you had BETTER have your ENTIRE drink order ready at that EXACT moment. You’ve ONE shot at this. The very second you look back at someone in your group, that bartender is gone and your chances of ever getting a drink have all but died. Again, read your environment. If it’s busy, act accordingly. And big tips is no guarantee that you’ll suddenly become their best friend and you’ll get your drinks first and all that other VIP shit. But I will tell you that we all remember every single person who tipped us big. Every single person. And a big tip will forgive a lot of behavior. At least for me and my bar, it wasn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. But it did mean I would excuse a lot more of your bullshit than I would the dude who just left me a dollar on a $15 bill.
The most powerful person in the front-of-house staff at any restaurant is the older male server or bartender. And by older I mean someone out of their 20s. Especially if they’re well groomed, articulate, and generally put together. The reason they’re the most powerful is that there isn’t any table, any demographic that can push them around. Most every table that comes in will feel comfortable with that guy and they’ll probably trust that they’ll be taken care of. The most vulnerable person is the young, attractive female. She is going to get pushed around by every one of her tables. The men are going to flirt. The women are going to be jealous. And she’s going to have to go out of her way to prove that she’s good at her job. This is the furthest thing from fair. This is absolute bullshit. But it’s true. I used to tell the new staff this, especially if they were new to the industry. Tables can smell fear. They smell it immediately. Tables can get away from the server very quickly. And once that happens, the dynamic changes. They start running you around and controlling things. Experienced servers know how to take control of the table from start. They can speed up or slow down the pace whenever they want to or need. They can calm the table down if they’re getting rowdy. They can pull back the reigns if the table tries to get loose. My tables never stood a chance when I was at my peak. They all had great times and felt they were well taken care of. And I handled them with the professionalism and confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing and isn’t going to be pushed around and isn’t going to take any shit.
I should wrap up. It was a fun 25 years. It was a fast 25 years. Towards the end, I was looking for a way out. And then came Covid. And on Tuesday March 17th, 2020, around lunch time, every single one of us lost our jobs. Many of us never came back. I’ve been asked if I miss it. I don’t. I’ve been asked if I’d ever do it again. Never. I’m going to make all three of my children work in a restaurant for some period of time. It teaches you a lot about dealing with the public. It teaches you not to be an asshole. To be patient and understanding when things get busy. It’s not for everyone. And thank god everyone doesn’t do it. But for all of you currently doing it, y’all are rock stars. Make that money. And please, please, get out when you’re still in your 20s, or else you’ll find yourself still in it in your 40s. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. But I’m here to say that the time goes by real quick. And the longer you’re in it, the longer you’re in it. And the more your body will hurt. And the more your knees will ache. It’s a young persons game, for the most part. Us old-timers should just sit back, spin our yarns and write meandering blog posts that make no sense and have no real point. That’s my cue! Cheers!
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