Jeffrey Morgenthaler

(Gosh, they look happy.)

Anyway – it’s July, which means that it’s that time of year, to take a week-long reprieve from the steamy swelter of Oregon and head once again to the cool lazy breezes of New Orleans. Tales of the Cocktail is a week of cocktail seminars, workshops, classes, competitions, food, fun, friends, and – for some – nearly lethal amounts of alcohol that flows freely through the streets like so much urine in the morning sun.

I’ll be there, working, playing, talking, laughing, and – if Keith Waldbauer has anything to say about it – drinking while I provide blow-by-blow updates via my Twitter account.

So join me, and I hope to see you next week at Tales.

Dear Grey Goose vodka;

It has come to my attention, during many incidents over the course of several years, that your wonderful product is determined to kill me. I am not referring to the ubiquitous hangover that so many of my clients have endured as a result of partaking in your fine product, but rather something more sinister.

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Someone sent their drink back tonight.

Scott and I put a lot of care into our cocktails: we use all fresh ingredients, we measure absolutely everything, and we’re passionate about every drink we put out. We’re proud of the fact that our drinks rarely get sent back, so when one of our servers came back to the bar with a half-consumed margarita, we were naturally concerned.

“And he wanted to know what took you so long”, she said, “He asked if you were growing the tequila yourself.”

We tasted the rejected drink, and it was perfect. And believe me, I’m harder on my drinks than most of the people drinking them. So what was this guy’s problem? And how do you grow tequila?

“Who sent this back?”, I asked.

“Jared from Subway“, the server growled as she stormed off.

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I’m at the Portland Airport this morning, at some “German” bar on the concourse. I walk up the bar and order a double shot and a beer.

Now, mind you, I’m not doing this because I’m that into drinking at ten in the morning. I’m doing it because I’m terrified of flying.

Anyway, the friendly airport bar staff greets me and serves me my drinks and breakfast. With no ID. Awesome.

I notice an older woman crawling along the bar edge, looking for a seat. Being the consummate gentleman bar-goer, I make room for her next to me, as my bag and jacket are taking up a barstool.

Now, I don’t know how to describe this woman in a politically-correct kind of way. Let’s just say that she was wearing a sweatshirt with the Tasmanian Devil on it.

Enough said.

She seemed to be already mildly intoxicated at 9:30 AM, and I could feel the bartender’s tension. She asked for her ID, and Ms. Lady made a big scene. Once she had produced her valid ID, the bartender served her. With reluctance.

Tasmanian Devil took over the bar, hitting up customers for cigarettes, negotiating prices with the staff, and asking every male in the place (including myself) to buy her breakfast. It was the last thing the staff needed to deal with.

The whole short scene reminded me that sometimes, as bartenders, we tend to size people up as they approach our bars. Sometimes we’re right, but sometimes we’re wrong. Please remember to not take it personally, but all of us have had some bad experiences. Like this.

More later, I’m going to take a disco nap and grab some dinner with the folks that sell alcohol to my bar. I’m going to have lots of photos and stories from Las Vegas!

The last time I was in my hometown in California, we made the obligatory visit to my hometown bar. It’s a British pub located downtown, and although it’s changed a lot over the years, I always make sure I stop in every time I’m home. It’s a solid little hometown pub where everyone knows you, no matter how long it’s been since you were last in. My sister even worked there for a few years when she was in college.

So we stopped in for a beer after a three-hour drive from San Francisco, over the mountains in the rain, et cetera, et cetera. We were jittery and in desperate need of a pint. It was a Sunday, so although there were a few post-game fans in there, the bar was very manageable.

We stood at the bar and waited for the bartender to notice us. Being a bartender myself, I always wait patiently with my order ready and my money organized. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And at about minute ten, my companion leans over to me and whispers, “This guy’s taking forever. Is he drunk?”

He wasn’t drunk. He was shit-faced.

When he finally did make it around our side of the bar at minute fifteen, he glared at us and yelled, “Jesus Chrissss…. whaddya want? Fuuuuhhk…”

“A pint of Stella Artois and a pint of Bass, please.”

“Fuuuuhhhk…”

He came back with our beers and snarled, “Ten dollars”

I laid a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change.” And we walked off to enjoy our beers as far from our barkeep as possible. Once we were done, we left for another British pub up the street, where the bartenders were professional – and sober.

Now, I’ve been a little inebriated behind the bar once. Once. I didn’t enjoy it. I was tired and would have rather been anywhere but behind the bar. Not to mention the fact that it’s illegal for bartenders to consume any alcohol behind the bar in Oregon. But this kid looked like he’d been doing it for a while, possibly thanks to California’s relaxed server laws.

Folks, I don’t care either way if you’re going to drink behind the bar. But, for the love of all that is holy, if you can’t handle your alcohol, stay sober behind the bar. Not only did this drunken asshole miss out on some good customers and some great cash, he’s going to miss out every time I’m in town.

Come across any drunken bartenders in your town? Leave your stories in the comments below.

A couple comes in to the bar last week. He’s intelligent-looking, with stylish glasses and salt-and-peppered hair, and nicely dressed. She’s a vision of adorableness: petite, with innocent eyes, a gorgeous smile, and the body of an angel. They grab a table in the bar and sit on the same side of it together, all cute-like. They hold hands and whisper in each other’s ear as they sip their cocktails.

Ordinarily these two would be any bartender’s ideal customers. They’re polite, they’re tipping, and they seem to be low-maintenance. But I know something you don’t know: These people are fucking psychotic.

They come in once a month, just rarely enough for me to remember them. And I always forget, it’s terrible. I forget, and since all I remember is their nice, friendly faces, I’m almost happy to see them. That all changes when I walk over to their table to clear their fourth round.

And it hits me: Holy shit, are these people are in the middle of the most mentally abusive breakup ever? Did I just overhear him call her the c-word? Did she just tell him that she screwed his best friend? Oh my God, is he crying? What the fuck?!

It happens every time. They break up every time they come in to my bar. Every. Single. Time. And every time, he leaves. He pays the bill and storms out, leaving her a husk, a shell, whimpering at the table. It’s the saddest thing you’ve ever seen, until you see what happens next.

She goes into the bathroom, and when she comes out, she’s happier than you’ve ever seen her before. She sits down with a group of business guys and chats them up. They buy her a drink and ask her if she’s okay. She tells her psychotic story, that he’s a jerk, that she gave back his engagement ring tonight, and so on. I don’t know who to feel sorry for, him or her. But he’s gone, and she’s sitting here, so I guess I’m feeling a little sorry for her, even though I know she’s completely insane.

I make sure to keep one eye out for her safety as I do my side work behind the bar, but she doesn’t need my help – the men slowly slide away as they come to the same realization. She then turns her attention to me, tells me the same story I’ve heard countless times before, and the next thing you know I’m putting her in a cab and slipping the driver twenty bucks to make sure she gets home safely.

They’ll be back in about six weeks and we’ll go through all of this again. Ain’t love grand?

It’s Friday night. I’m closing the bar tonight, so I’m not required to be there until 6. Lately, on Fridays, it’s been kind of slow, so I saunter in around 6:15.

Of course, it’s slammed.

The printer is chattering off drink orders for the restaurant, the bar is full of customers, and my bartender is running around like a crazy man.

There’s a group of regulars at the end of the bar, and they’re celebrating. The ringleader, a slow redneck-type that comes in occasionally, is buying drinks for the whole group, and for everyone he knows that walks by.

Now, this group’s tab is starting to skyrocket, and we’re starting to get a little nervous. We’ve gotten shafted by this guy on numerous occasions, and it seems that the higher his tab is, the less of a tip we get.

But we don’t have time to worry about that, because they’re making us work. Hard. Mojitos for all his friends, margaritas all around, beers, shots, wine, you name it. And Redneck’s putting everyone’s drink on his tab, like the King of Siam. Everyone loves a big spender.

Eventually they start to wind down, and Redneck asks for his tab. The other bartender presents it to him and he freaks out.

“There’s no way we had all of these drinks”, he says.

“I’m sorry, but we ring in every round into the computer when you order them, so the tab should be accurate”, my bartender tells him.

“Well there’s no possible way we had all of this.” He starts to try to tally how many drinks everyone had, while drunk, of course. “You had, like, four or five beers, right? And how many mojitos did you drink between the three of you? Four? Five?”

This guy is getting to be a problem, and we’re still really busy. So he informs my bartender that he refuses to pay for about 30 bucks worth of drinks. Fine, whatever, says the bartender, and comps them off of his tab. The guy’s a friend of the owners’, we’ll just call the bosses and tell them what happened later.

But here’s the clincher: after running us ragged for three hours on a busy Friday night, after whittling down his tab by refusing to pay, after cleaning up his friends’ spilled beers and putting up with their drunken antics all night, he left us (drumroll, please) ..

Four dollars.

Karma works in strange ways, pal.

Marche restaurant was rocked by celebrity once again, as Democratic hopeful (let’s face the facts, we’re all pretty hopeful at this point) John Kerry and his enormous entourage of Secret Service agents, aides de camp, press corps peeps, and well-wishers descended upon Marche tonight. And I have the photos right here!

I know that the first thing on everyone’s mind is: “So what does the next president of the United States have for dinner on a Thursday night? ” Okay, just this once but then it’s on to the photos.

First Course: Wood Oven Roasted Totten Inlet Mussels with Tomato and Saffron Vinaigrette, Served with Grilled Bread. 10 bucks.

Second Course: Seared Sonoma Foie Gras with Caramelized Peaches and Blackberries, with Brioche Toast. 14.50

Main Course: Pan-Seared Albacore Tuna with Smoked Tomato Sauce, Olive Tapenade, Zucchini Cakes and Roasted Cherry Tomatoes. 22 bones.

So here’s John-John (can we call him that yet?) with some locals who sneaked in past the muscle posted at the door (I’m talking about our hosting talent, not the guys with the earpieces)

The crowd outside the restaurant was amazing. Word spread pretty quickly, but our boys in the tight suits kept everyone back. Some of these people camped out for over two hours! It was like Guns and Roses was getting back together, and tickets were going on sale at a French restaurant!

So here are the good ones. These are of John Kerry with Marche waitrons Kate Merrick (left) and Lyn Burg (right) – it’s a veritable John Kerry Sandwich!

There are some digital photos out there, so I’ll post more as people send them in.

Thanks!