Customers were savvy, and while some enjoyed the relaxed comfort of a sports bar or cozy restaurant, they held their bars to higher standards.Craft breweries, wine bars with extensive imported wine lists, historic locations with prohibition pasts, and in one case (and one of the ones I favored) a hidden little twelve seater with some of the best (if notthebest) rare liquors in town.
And despite my efforts, there was only so much good booze could do for a place like The Basement.
Something I’d mentioned to Audrey a few times in the past.
Oh, Jesus, I was actually going to do this, wasn’t I?
“Fuck.”I said, eloquent as I knew how to be.“If we end up killing each other, I’m blaming you both.And haunting you.You’ll never get to have sex again, you hear me?”
Audrey squealed a little “Yay,” that I pointedly ignored, while Jackson chuckled.“This ought to be good.You, working with someone.”
“Hey,” I said, indignant at the suggestion that I was unwilling to compromise.“I’m open to suggestions.”
Jackson barked a laugh.“Good one.”
“Shut it, pretty boy.You’re here on a probationary period.”I took a deep breath, feeling a lot better now that I’d made at least one decision.
After they left,I jumped on my laptop and brought up Youtube, flagging a long list of videos to watch.Maybe if I watched a few, understood the effort involved, it would stop my (currently overenthusiastic) brain from racing ahead of me.
While I searched, I dialed the number for the bar phone, hoping I wasn’t about to regret the other decision I’d made.
It didn’t surprise me that Sam was there.He had workaholic written all over him (among other things).Did he ever leave the bar?Before he could say anything, I spoke.“Fine.I’m in.When do we start?”
“Okay,” he said slowly, but he didn’t question who’d called, so either he recognized my voice or had put the pieces together.“Right.Good.Glad you made the right decision.”
I should never have agreed to this.
Whatever goodwill Sam might have earned from me disappeared quicker than sunshine behind storm clouds after our call.He made us swap phone numbers (I’d labeled him “Sir Smuggington” just to make myself laugh) and emails, then waited approximately five seconds before sending me a lengthy request along with a stack of articles to read.It was probably the first email I’d received in years that wasn’t marketing spam.
Apparently, Sam’s style was obsessively reading about what was happening instead of experiencing it, which I told him in my reply.He responded that it was a waste of time to visit every place without doing the proper research first and that he expected me to give the requisite time to craft a response by filling in any details I knew about each bar.I wanted to crush my phone in my hands but decided to blatantly ignore replying while binge-watching TV for two hours until I’d gotten sick of his smug voice nagging the back of my brain and went through the list he sent.
A handful were links to economics articles on Gen Z vs.Millennial spending, some general discourse on the fall of the neighborhood bar, and (more surprisingly) a rather in-depth piece on personal branding and the creator economy.He’d marked that last one with a question, “The new competition?”I skipped past all of that for the time being to focus on the first half of the email, which was a list of the currently ranked bars on the North Side.He’d even separated them by area and made notes about the estimated target audience and pricing.
Honestly, if I hadn’t already seen him make a drink with my own eyes, I would seriously doubt he’d ever left the office before.
It was a hundred percent clear why he needed a second person on this.Within seconds of seeing the names, I knew exactly which ones were more hype than substance, which were popular because they’d made deals with local tour guides, and which were worth our time.I began listing out some names he hadn’t included that I knew were hidden gems—outliers who were small enough not to make top ten lists but were where anyone who worked in the scene actually went when they wanted a drink.I also marked a few of the new ones that I’d heard nothing about yet.The city was a big place, and there was alwayssomethinggoing on, and it hadn’t been my job (until now) to really notice it.
Time had passed quickly while I’d typed it up on my phone, and I shot it off to him as I watched the coffee pot brew for a second time, feeling oddly productive.It had been a long time (ok, maybe ever) since I’d been asked for my opinion on other bars outside of quick recommendations for afterparties, and I hadn’t realized just how much I knew until that moment.
Still, I hoped this wasn’t going to be a regular thing.I certainly didn’t want to be spending my spare time reading and writing emails.If I’d wanted that in my life, I wouldn’t be tending bar.
Clearing out the dozen new junk emails I’d received, I audibly groaned when Sam’s response came through.It was a Saturday; didn’t he have a life?(Says the person still wearing their pajamas at 11 a.m.).Curiosity drove me to open his email, which I realized was a mistake as soon as I’d read the first sentence:
While I appreciate the effort, commentary on which establishments “have hotter bartenders” or where “the owner’s a real dick” were not valid critiques.
This guy.I swear.
Without reading any further, I wrote back:
News flash—hot bartenders bring in girls, which bring in guys, and any place where the owner is a dick is also where the drinks are overpriced water and the staff is treated like shit.Kind of thought both those things were worth noting.But what do I know.
His response was quick:
Noted.
I swallowed a scream.Quitting was suddenly looking a hell of a lot more appealing.The next three hours were spent down the Youtube rabbit hole.
