(A couple of weeks ago we told a story about being in the weeds while making fresh-squeezed OJ.  That got me thinking about all the difficult shifts that happen on this job.  This is another of them . . . ).

My bartending work in Harvard Square began at 22 JFK Street, at place called Jake’s.   Jake’s was run by a New York City restaurant group that had once owned the famous  Tavern on the Green.

Jake’s was a trip . . . a very loosely-run operation despite the impressive corporate credentials.

For example, at Jake’s small downstairs bar we’d never see Paul, our theoretical “night restaurant manager.”

At least not until closing time.

Then he’d pull up a stool and pound down drinks for free, and when we were done with clean-up, it was understood that we’d join him. We’d all sit there after hours while Paul just kept waving for more and more drinks for everyone.  One bartender was stuck pouring, but even that designated person was now drinking as well.

Nothing was ever rung-in  — which we felt was on his shoulders, not ours.

But today’s story is about something that happened during a shift at Jake’s — one of the strangest working experiences I’ve had.

It was raining buckets outside that night — a torrential non-stop rain.  Ordinarily you figure once you’ve made it inside you’ve found shelter.

Not at Jake’s.  There’s a high-water table in Harvard Square and the bar part of the operation was on the lower level.  I’m sure they had a sump-pump installed to keep out rising water, but this particular night it wasn’t working well enough.  During the shift we began to notice that the floor under the bar mats was getting wet.

At first we thought we might had spilled something, but now there was a definite layer of water under collecting under the mats.

In less than half an hour, there was a good inch of water — and we were sloshing back and forth as we hustled out the drinks.

Where is Paul?  Someone has to make a decision here!

The floor behind the bar was apparently the lowest part of the basement because that’s where the water was the deepest, but now pools of water were beginning to appear in other shallow areas of our downstairs club.

There were stairs leading down to the bar from the street-level restaurant, and at the very bottom of the stairs there was a pool of water that quickly turned into a small lake.

It was amazing to watch people walk down the stairs only to find that small lake waiting. We’d watch them stop for a second, think it over . . . and then every single one of them would just step into the large pool of water and splash their way to a drier spot.

Some of them would look at us behind the bar, as if to say:  “What the hell is going on here?”  Then after that short pause, they’d just wade on through.  (Gotta love the Cambridge clientele — nothing stops them.)

One guy jumped into the middle of the pool with both feet, laughing as the water splashed everywhere.  Then he stepped back up onto the last step, and jumped into the pool again.  He did it a third time, and by now customers already there began applauding and cheering . . . even though some of them had their own feet in water where they sat.

It was kind of fun, but behind the bar the tide kept rising.  Now the water level was up to our ankles.

“Do you think this is really safe?” I asked my fellow bartender as we sloshed back and forth in ankle-deep water, “There’s a lot of electrical equipment back here!”

But Paul was still nowhere to be found, so we just kept serving people.

I remembered a movie where some guy tosses a plugged-in electric radio into the bath tub where an unfortunate naked female is taking a bubble bath.  In the movie, she dies — she’s electrocuted.

“Are you sure you two are OK back there?” a woman at the bar asked.

Now the water was over the bottoms of our pant legs.  The entire floor behind the bar was under four inches of water.

“I’ll quit if you will,” my co-bartender said as he waded past me, headed for the other end of the bar.

Now Paul finally did show up, and we asked him what to do.

“I’ve got a call into New York,” he said in a desperate voice, “But I haven’t heard back from them yet!”

He was completely frazzled by this sudden responsibility.  He went to the end, and put an empty high-ball glass on the bar top.  That was his usual signal to hook him up with a stiff double of scotch.  No ice, no mixer . . . he always tossed it down straight when drinking on the job.

“What about the electrical equipment?” I asked Paul as he gulped the scotch, “We’re ankle-deep here!”

“You’re standing on rubber mats!” he said, and ran back to the office.  He was gone before I could point out that those rubber mats were actually below the electricity-conducting water.

And the customers during all this?

I swear . . . like that guy who had jumped back and forth into the small lake, for some reason the customers were having a better time than usual.  Everyone was in an outrageously festive mood.  They were talking more, laughing louder, and tossing drinks down like it was some kind of holiday.

“I just heard from corporate,” Paul said on a second return to the bar.  “They say to stay open . . . just let them know if the water gets any higher!”

Any higher?  We were already in over ankle-deep . . . how high did it have to get?  Up to our knees?  Waist level?  (Maybe we could wade though carrying the drinks held high.)

But the decision had been made, so we just kept serving.  I was thinking of an old WW II movie about soldiers being sacrificed — it was titled “They Were Expendable.”

Someone must have finally gotten the sump-pump working properly, because after a couple of hours the water stopped rising.

A while later it was actually going down . . . except behind the bar.  The club’s main floor was still slippery and wet, but the only real water out there was the large pool at the bottom of the stairs.

“How’s it going?” Paul asked the next time he passed by.

We were still bartending ankle deep, but I could tell by his renewed confidence that there’d be no chance we’d close now.

Finally the water level dipped below the bar mats.
Me and my partner’s shoes and socks were water-logged at this point.  Our pant legs were still uncomfortably soaked, but at least we were no longer in danger of electrocution.  We kept serving drinks . . . and now we had an entirely different problem.

When rubber bar mats are wet, they become slippery as hell.  Even though we emptied more than one box of Kosher salt on the mats, we were still skidding dangerously here and there.

But we kept serving drinks.

At closing time, Paul took his usual late-night seat at the bar.  I could tell by his big smile that corporate must have congratulated him for weathering the storm.  He was beaming with the pride of a job well done.

A week later, I was called into the office.

Paul and the GM were there.  I sat in the chair opposite their desks, and they thanked me for working under adverse conditions.

“Corporate wants to compensate you,” the GM said, “They’re going to give each of you a shoe allowance . . . here’s twenty-five dollars toward buying new shoes.”  And he handed me a signed restaurant-group check.

I wanted to say:  “What about my socks?  What about my pants?  How about your ridiculous working conditions?”

I was wondering if I’d still be able to sue them.  The flooding would have been better forgotten if they’d just done nothing . . . the $25 seemed a little like an insult.

But in a sick restaurant way, the whole incident seemed like something to look back and laugh about.  Even while it was happening, it was hard not to the humor  — the flooding, Paul, the outrageous corporate decision-making . . . and now a “shoe-allowance.”

Besides, we had made outrageous money that night.  The customers were all in such a pumped-up mood that they’d been throwing us tips by the fist-full.

So I just said, “Thanks,” — and filed the whole experience under “weird bar memories.”

Before becoming a bartender, I took time off from my college years to travel as the road manager of a local rock band.  The band was called “Wool” — Neil Diamond was our producer.  Here’s a story from those days . . .

This was supposed to be an easy gig.

We were playing that night in Watertown, NY — where the band’s leader, Ed Wool, and his lead singer Claudia both lived.

The job was so close it was almost like taking the night off . . . we knew we’d be home early, right after the show.

As it turned out, I was lucky to make it back in one piece.

Once the sound check was over, I didn’t have much to do while the band performed.  I wandered around the nightclub, still checking the sound but mostly just drinking and having a good time along with the crowd.

There were two really hot girls at the club that caught my eye.  Some of the band’s popularity extended down to me, and to be frank, in those days I took advantage of it.

I was having a great time, talking and dancing with one of the girls . . . but when she went to the ladies room, one of the guys from the crowd came up to me.

“You know that’s Sam MacDonough’s girl?” he asked pointedly.

It was weird.  The guy seemed nervous to even be telling me this.  It was as though he was worried about just talking to someone on the wrong side of Sam.

“You’d better hope he doesn’t find out,” the guy continued,  “ . . . He’ll fucking kill you.”

Watertown is a small town, and this sounded like something you’d hear in a small town.  How could I respond to such a warning out of the blue?  I laughed out loud, of course.  You know young men . . . they never want to show fear.

“I don’t think so,” I said boldly.

“I’m taking karate,” I said.

Now that was true . . . I was studying karate, and I was training under a hard-core sensei.

Masataka Muramatsu taught old-school Goju-Ryu.  We were breaking boards and smashing bricks in his class.  At the end of my Kata, Tensho, Masataka would break a wooden pine board over my forehead, just to demonstrate how tough we were.

In the middle of winter, as we finished each class dripping in sweat, we would run barefoot through the snow outside, wearing only our open karate uniforms.

Those uniforms were often splattered with blood.  We were tough.

“I’m really not worried,” I told the guy, even though I’d actually only been studying with Masataka for about a year.

The fact is, as everyone in martial arts knows — until all the moves become absolutely engrained — you’re not going to fight as well at the beginning as when you knew nothing!

At the beginning, instead of reacting instinctively, you’ll probably fight stiffly . . . thinking about what you’re doing, rather than just fighting.  It’s a basic rule — don’t go looking for trouble just because you think you know karate, especially when starting out.  Don’t test this stuff in the real world until you’ve actually mastered it.

But I didn’t let any of this good advice stop me.

“He’ll have his hands full,” I said boldly to the guy, “This Sam . . . whatever his name is.”

But as the night went on, I saw other people looking at me a little funny.  It seemed like a lot of people in the crowd were thinking the same thing as the one who warned me.  They were probably asking themselves:  “Who is this fool hustling Sam MacDonough’s girl?”

“Exactly who is Sam MacDonough?” I asked the bartender after a while.

The bartender shook his head before answering.

“I don’t know what you’ve got in mind,” the bartender said, “But I’d wouldn’t be hitting on that girl, if I were you.”

According to the bartender, Sam MacDonough was a local tough guy who had killed two men in a bar fight.

Apparently the two men tried to ambush Sam one night as he walked out of another club.  One of the men hit Sam over the head from behind with a crowbar . . . but that was just the beginning of the fight.

Sam shook his head a bit — took the crowbar away from them, and then he killed them both.  He later escaped any charges because it was self-defense.

I walked away from the bar with my head spinning a little.  The barman’s words put a whole new light on things.

“You’re not afraid of Sam, are you?” the girl asked when I wanted to know if she was in fact his girlfriend.  “He can’t tell me what to do!” she said, “ . . . Come on, let’s dance!”

Now I was dancing while looking over both shoulders . . . but I was too proud to back down.

Beside, Sam wasn’t even there.

I drove this girl home in the band van, and she invited me upstairs.  She was one hot, foxy babe, and her hands were all over me as we tongue-kissed at her front door.

I looked over my shoulder once more, and went upstairs with her.

I will tell you, if you’re going to die, this was almost worth it.

This girl loved to ball.  And it seemed there wasn’t anything she wasn’t ready, willing, and able to do.  When I say she got down . . . I mean all the way.

Anyway, it was time for me to head home, and with the fun part over I began thinking about her boyfriend again.  I was thinking that she and I caused such a buzz at the club, word must have gotten back to him.

I was thinking that maybe he knew I’d gone home with her.  Maybe he’d followed me.  Maybe he was waiting somewhere for a chance to beat the living shit of me.

Maybe he wanted to kill me.

I pictured myself being run off the road on the deserted stretch of Route 81 that I had to take home.  (In that image, I saw Sam driving an old pick-up truck.)

I decided to stop at the Blue Moon Diner on the outskirts of Watertown just to calm my nerves, and think things over.  It was probably something like five o-clock in the morning.

I stuck my head in the door first, and looked around.  The diner was mostly empty.  Someone had given me a rough description of Sam MacDonough . . . and it didn’t look like he was here.

But I was sitting at the counter eating scrabbled eggs and ham when two new guys walked into the place.

One of them fit Sam’s description perfectly — he was a thick-necked, barrel-chested guy with a military-style haircut, a crew cut on top and shaved close on the sides.  He was wearing a T-shirt.

The two of them gave me a vicious look as they slide into a booth at the end of the diner.

They kept glaring at me as I finished my breakfast.  They were leaned over opposite sides of the table, and they were talking in low voices as they watched me.  “That’s Sam MacDonough,” the counter man said, as though to warn a perfect stranger about nearby danger.

“I’m screwed here,” I thought, “I’m totally fucked!”

I figured I’d be better off if they came after me in the diner.  At least there’d be witnesses, and maybe someone would step up to help me.

The men’s room was right opposite the booth where they were sitting, so I walked down towards it, trying to show no fear.  I figured they’d have to get out of the booth just to stand up, and that would give me an extra split-second to react.

But they just sat there glaring, watching me ominously and whispering to each other as I stepped inside.

Now I figured they might jump me when I came out.  I had a plan to kick the men’s room door open when leaving, but to hold back on stepping out, hoping to get them to jump too early . . . maybe throw them off a little.  My mind was racing.

Still inside the men’s room, I tried to get myself ready to fight.  I threw punches and kicks in the air.  I grabbed hold of the sink and pulled on it as hard as I could, trying to get my muscles ready to respond.

There was one of those old linen towel dispensers in the men’s room . . . the kind that has a big roll of linen inside, and you turn the crank to roll out the fresh part.

It looked as though someone had worked over the towel dispenser with a baseball bat.

The metal on the front and both sides was badly dented, almost caved in . . . and the entire dispenser had been knocked so hard that the long bolts attaching its back to the wall were now fully exposed as it hung there at an angle.  The whole dispenser looked shaky.

“Not my problem,” I thought, and I reached up to grab the dispenser with both hands.  I was going to pull on it hard, just like I had on the sink.

But pulling on it just finished off what someone else had started.  The whole dispenser gave way . . . it went crashing to the floor . . . and those long securing bolts pulled out a good chunk of the plaster wall with it.

The whole thing hit the floor with this huge crashing noise.

“I’ve got other problems,” I told myself, and I turned to the men’s room door, leaving the dispenser and part of the wall on the floor.  Sam MacDonough and his buddy were waiting for me.

I kicked the door open as planned, holding back before sticking my head out.

They were both still sitting in the booth.

I walked back to my seat trying not to visibly shake.  I saw the one guy go into the men’s room, and when he came out he and Sam immediately began talking again in low voices, still watching me.

I paid the bill and walked out of the diner expecting to be jumped at any moment.

All the way home on Route 81, I was driving with one eye on the rear-view mirror.  There had been a pick-up truck in the diner’s parking lot, and I knew it had to be Sam’s.

It wasn’t until I was almost home that it hit me . . .

The two of them had a different look on their face when I came out of the men’s room.  The one guy had immediately gone into the bathroom and when he came out they both looked a little concerned about something.

I finally had to laugh out loud . . . finally relieved . . . suddenly understanding what must have happened.

Someone probably told them that I knew Karate — and they had no idea that the towel dispenser had been previously worked over with a club, or something.

When that guy went in, what he saw was a smashed metal dispenser with the living fuck beaten out of it, and a gaping hole in the wall where the bolts had pulled everything down along with it.

They must have thought that I’d done it . . . maybe with with a spinning karate kick.

(I had glared at them when I walked out of the men’s room, but it was only a return glare out of instinct . . . at the time I was scared shitless.)

But the destruction on the men’s room floor and the round hole in the wall must have made them think twice about jumping me . . .

By the time I thought of this I was almost home, but I was still laughing as I got out of the van.

Bartending should be fun — and it is fun, especially when there’s music in the background, a lively crowd, and those dollar bills keep piling up in in the tip jar.

It can also be hard work, a daunting challenge . . . and that’s just part of the fun.  

It’s like playing in the big game.  You want things to be busy, you want to be out on the field . . . you relish the battle.  You get to play hard, and win.

But sometimes, as the old saying goes . . .“Sometimes the bear gets you.”

Today’s post is about one of those times . . . a shift where I got my ass kicked.

Pride . . .

“Can you work for me this Sunday Brunch?” Sarah asked.

I hated the idea of getting up early Sunday morning after closing Christopher’s Saturday night, but Sarah was a sweetheart.  And she never asked for a day off.

“My mom is coming in from New York,” she said.

How could I say no?

“Sure,” I said without hesitating, “No problem.”

And honestly, I really believed it would be no problem.

Sarah was a good bartender, but she didn’t have the experience yet to work anything like a busy weekend night.  Once, when she did have to fill in . . . she struggled even in the slowest station.  So she worked two of the quieter nights during the week, and then was alone on the downstairs bar for Saturday and Sunday brunch.

“If Sarah works the brunch,” I thought, “How difficult can it be?”

You have to understand I was younger then, and perhaps a little cocky.  I’d been at Christopher’s for less than three months, but before that I tended bar in really busy places.

Once, at Cafferty’s in Brockton MA, the customers at the bar had risen to their feet —  not once, but three times to give me a standing ovation during an especially busy shift.

Cafferty’s had three bars, live bands, a capacity of 1000 customers — and I worked alone on the third, smaller bar called “The Pit.”  The work station in The Pit was a perfect three-foot-spin . . . everything you needed was only a half step away, and you could just stand in the middle, spin and turn with both arms and hands flailing away non-stop as you slung out the drinks.

I remember when those people at the bar stood up to applaud, and cheer, and laugh . . . I thought, “Damn, I AM good, aren’t I?”

What do they say about “PRIDE going before . . .

 

“The Fall . . . ”

“Sure,” I told Sarah back at Christopher’s, “Sure, I’ll cover the shift . . . no problem.”

I was right about one thing; it wasn’t easy getting up that Sunday morning.  I was tired, hung-over, and my ass was dragging but I made it back to Christopher’s on time.

As I worked on the set-up, my feet were back underneath me, and now I was feeling in complete control.  Christopher’s might be packed on weekend nights, standing room only —  but I knew the brunch was at a much slower pace.

The doors were about to open when the first inkling of trouble appeared.  Someone from the kitchen set a large box full of oranges on the bar top.

“There you go,” he said.  And he walked away.

The box was about the size of a beer case.  It was overflowing with oranges.

“The juicer is in the back closet,” one of the waitresses said as she walked by.

A box of oranges?  The juicer?

Now it came back to me . . . when Sarah asked me to work the shift, she’d said something like:  “The fresh-squeezed orange juice can be a pain-in-the-ass . . . but other than that, it’s kind of slow at the bar.”

The only thing I’d heard was, “It’s kind of slow at the bar.”  The pain-in-the-ass part had gone in one ear, and out the other.  I’d been too cocky to really listen.  I’d been too confident to ask any questions.  And now I was about to pay, big time.

A box full of oranges?  A juicer?  Are you kidding me?

(I’m sure with their brunch as busy as it is now, Christopher’s uses jugs of fresh-squeezed juice from Odwalla, or some other fine “fresh-squeezed” company.  But this was when Christopher’s brunch was just starting out . . . and yes, the bartender was expected to hand-prepare each glass of juice.

Sarah must have made up a quart, maybe two quarts, maybe a gallon of juice ahead of time . . . just to get a jump on things.  But I hadn’t asked, she hadn’t said anything, and now the doors were opening!)

“Two fresh-squeezed OJ!” one of the waitresses shouted immediately . . . and the nightmare began.

(Do you know how long it takes to hold half an orange down on a spinning juicer — one after the other — until you have just one glass of fresh-squeezed OJ?)

“Two more fresh-squeezed juice!” another waitresses yelled as she approached the bar.

The box of oranges was sitting on the beer cooler, the cutting board and knife were beside it.  I stood with a sliced half-orange in one hand, holding it down . . . and with the other hand I was cutting the next orange.  I felt like Lucy in the chocolate factory (see the video at the end of this post.)   I couldn’t keep up.  I was falling behind!

“Four fresh-squeezed!” a waitress shouted.  I was getting buried!!  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to dig myself out.

My hands were smeared with fresh juice and pulp. I felt my shirt sticking to my back.

“Two more fresh OJ!” another waitress called out.

I was bent over the juicer, unable to get to my customers at the bar.  I was all alone on the deck a sinking ship, and the water continued to rise.  I was going down!!!

“Five fresh-squeeze juice!” another waitresses shouted, and this time I didn’t even bother to look up.  I just kept my head down, trying to make more of that freaking fresh OJ.

So much for being a hot-shit bartender.

Needless to say there were no standing ovations for the bartender that brunch.  Some customers watched with a look of pity as they saw their barman completely in the weeds.

It’s a lesson that’s not easy to forget.  Being fast behind the bar isn’t just about raw speed.  It isn’t only about multi-tasking, knowing the next step, or economy of motion.

It’s also being aware what to expect . . . and setting up properly.

When the brunch was over, one of the waitresses came up to the bar to give me her tip-out.

As she handed me the folded bills, she casually said:  “Sarah will be back next week, right?”

I’m sure it wasn’t done on purpose, but her words were like salt thrown on a fresh wound.

“She’d better be,” I said.  My hands were still sticky, but I gave my best attempt at a good-natured smile.  “ . . . For everyone’s sake, I sure hope so.”

(Click the image below to see Lucille Ball “In the weeds.”)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NPzLBSBzPI

Last week’s video showed how to use a traditional “four count” to pour an exact shot.  Apparently in Ireland, they have their own count.  This just in from our good friend and fellow barman on the emerald island, Diarmaid D:

 

1 (gulp) – 2 (gulp) – 3 (gulp) – 4 = an Irish shot.

(And of course, it’s not my counting method . . . Johnny La La taught me how to free-pour at The Lark Tavern many years ago.  I’m sure he would have approved of this variation.)

Diarmaid (pronouced “deer-mid” — a traditional Irish name) was a member of Johnny D’s staff back in the mid-nineties.  He and his lovely lady, Sarah, will be flying in from Ireland to Boston for a return visit next week.  We can’t wait to tip a pint of Guinness with him.  It’s been too long.  (If you’re ever anywhere near Donegal, Ireland be sure to visit Doms Pier 1, where Diarmaid pours the best pint around.)

 

Cleveland neighborhoods . . .

The spotlight was on Cleveland last week, and not in a good way.  Headline after headline told of the young girls who had been kidnapped and held hostage.

People who lived nearby were horrified and shocked that this had happened in their community.

“It’s really hard to imagine it happening here,” Ruben Hernandez told me.  Ruben is our Heartland Payroll supervisor, and he grew up in that neighborhood.  He still lives only a few block away.

“This is so unlike the neighborhood,” Ruben said.  “It’s really a close community where people look out for one another.”

Ruben recalled a childhood incident where there had been a fire at one of his neighbors homes . . . aside from the damage to the building, the family’s Christmas presents had been destroyed.

“I remember being nine or ten years old,” Ruben said, “And me and my friends were all out shoveling sidewalks and driveways to help raise money for that family.  Everyone chipped in, and those kids had new presents in time for Christmas.”

Ruben also told the story about when his father had a stroke, and his mom was trying to care for him after he left the hospital.

Apparently one family after another would bring food over to the Hernandez home.  Someone’s family would bring the prepared meals one morning, and then the next day someone else would send something more.

“All the families were leaving meals for us,” Ruben recalled, “Usually it was the daughters that brought it to our house.”

“They would drop it off on the porch in the morning” he said, “And it was like it never crossed their minds that they were doing something unusual, or special.  It was just the way everyone in the neighborhood took care of each another.”

We have to send out a special congratulations to Ruben — he’s about to start his own family.  He and the beautiful Gabby (pictured on the left) are expecting their first child this coming November.  (So you finally got around to it, Ruben . . . good for you.)

 

“Chombo’s” great idea . . .

After the Boston Marathon bombings, the One Fund Boston was set up to accept donations for the victims.

Our weekend bar back, Craig “Chombo” McK, came up with a unique way to gather more support for the fund.

Craig is a trucker by day (delivers wine for an area distributor), and he’s also a musician, performing frequently on the Boston scene with Julian Hammond, Dave Hodgman, and Tim Mitchell.

Their band, the Fantastic Liars, had a gig scheduled at the popular night spot, Radio . . . and Craig thought — “Hey, why not play music, have fun, and raise money at the same time?”

By the time other people had picked up on the idea, something like twenty bands had joined Craig for that night’s performance, and they raised over $7000.  (Click below to hear Fantastic Liars — that’s Craig on the right, on saxophone.)

We may be adding more specific details when I talk with Craig again over the weekend . . . but way to go, Chombo!

(Here’s an original tongue-in-cheek drawing of Craig — done on a cocktail napkin of course.  This was drawn at the bar by former Johnny D’s staffer Nate Boucher, who was also an art student.  Craig’s reaction to the drawing — “Hey guys, it’s not a caricature, it’s a portrait,   . . . and a fine one at that!”)

(Back next week with more bar stories.)

 

 

Ever wonder how professional bartenders easily free pour so accurately — one ounce, one and a half, or two ounces — all without using a shot glass or jigger?  How long does it take to master this skill?  Check out our video below and you’ll see it takes far less time than you’d think.

At Johnny D’s, Oscar is a kick-ass bartender . . . but because the club uses a measured pour, he never perfected doing it free-hand.

A couple of weeks ago I laid down a challenge.  I told Oscar that he could quickly develop this skill in less than ten minutes . . . and learn it so well that he’d immediately be able to train someone else.

Last week we actually tried it, and at the end of this introduction you can watch the video we made of our project.

You’ll see Oscar now free-pouring like a champ, and also training Brittany, a waitress at the club with no prior bartending experience.

(You’ll also learn how to do this on your own . . . in only a few minutes.)

Quick background on the “four count” . . .

Most bartenders use a standard “four count” to free-pour — a count of  . . . 1 – 2 – 3 – 4.  The “four count” is preferred because it breaks down so easily —  “1” equals a quarter shot, “2” equals a half shot, on up to a full “4” count — which is the house pour, or one full shot.

The most common mistake when teaching this count is to put the “horse before the cart.”

I’ve seen bartenders make the trainee start pouring blind immediately.  The trainee pours blind into a tin cup, then empties it into a measuring glass to see how they did . . . short pour one time, then too much the next.

Then they try again.

And again.

And again.

It’s much faster to simply pour into a long row of shot glasses, over and over.  Just keep pouring into a shot glass while counting — until you have the exact count down like a musical beat.  Then measure how you do with a blind pour, using that learned count  . . .

 

Do bartenders spend their life counting . . . ?

While it’s useful to count at the beginning, just to establish the rhythm — once you have your exact count and you’ve been using it for a while — you won’t actually be counting at all.

To start, when practice is over and you’re actually working behind the bar, you’ll use a “silent count” — (as Brittany does at the 5 minute mark in the video.)  Very quickly that “silent count” will become a “muscle memory.”  Your wrist and arm will know the exact four-count just by the “feel” of the time your arm is raised.

 

The video . . .

First, I have to say that I’m not a great camera-man.

I also want to remind you (once more) that Oscar is teaching this lesson less than ten minutes after he’d learned the method himself.  (This is the way we planned it . . . we wanted to demonstrate how easily the skill can be both learned, and taught.)

I guess I’m pointing this out because there sure are some rough spots in the video.  There are things that we would have changed if we’d done it a second time.  (For example, towards the end of the video, Oscar is interrupted by a woman wanting to purchase a Johnny D’s T-shirt.)

And if we’d done it more than once, maybe we would have cut down on the beginning of the lesson, where Brittany is just learning the feel of the bottle.

But we had already decided . . . no editing, no corrections, just one chance.  So once the camera started rolling we were committed to “keep on trucking,” just to prove that learning how to “free-pour” is a ten-minute task.

(Actually, in this case, an 8 minute and 29 second effort.)

So here it is . . . if you follow the method in this video, you’ll be free-pouring like a pro in no time at all.  (One suggestion:  Enlarge the video to “full screen” and you can better see how accurate Brittany becomes at pouring exact shots.)

Thanks to Johnny D’s and owner Carla DeLellis for the use of her facilities and staff.