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For six hours they attack relentlessly, like a bunch of shiny-faced British redcoats: Wave after wave of orders are fired at us, point-blank. Stuck behind the bar, we're defenseless—struggling to keep up. As one of the two bartenders in charge of quenching the desires of about 80 people on a night like this, I run, not walk, to the other end of the bar to fetch a bottle of Cynar, the Italian artichoke bitters, of which a quarter-ounce goes into a pomegranate manhattan. I squeeze past Janell, the plucky bartender who's struggling to control the foam on a pint of Moylan's stout she's pouring. "It starts to get to you, that stare," she says, looking out into the crowd. "The thirstiest stare in the world."
I work a few nights a week at Cantina, the Union Square bar opened by Duggan McDonnell and partners in 2007. Saturdays see a thin drip of people until the clock strikes 10 p.m. Then the floodgates burst open. And when the bar is packed three deep with people waving bills in your face, you want to make eye contact, but there's no time to lose your pace. I look at my phone; it's only 11 p.m. Every 10 minutes, I hear the sharp crack of another empty bottle shattering when it hits the recycling bin.
A speaker, located about 10 feet from my left ear, is blaring "Excursions" by A Tribe Called Quest. The DJ on duty, a guy named B-Love, has good taste, but the music is piercingly loud. (Thus, all the dialogue in this piece should be imagined as it was uttered—screamed at the top of one's lungs and repeated a couple of times for clarity.) Nevertheless, I'm on a roll—until, that is, a young woman finally catches my eye and sweetly places her order: a blackberry Cabernet caipirinha, an El Capitan, a Tuscan sangria and a pitcher of Pisco punch. My heart sinks. To fill her order involves fetching the vin santo, red wine, mezcal, Tuaca and Punt e Mes; muddling blackberries, limes and pineapples; squeezing dozens of fruits; stirring and shaking; and setting an orange peel on fire. As I hack my way through the jungle of an order, I wish people would just order the drinks that I personally loathe drinking—a Jack and Diet, a vodka soda or, for god's sake, just a simple beer.
Ironic, isn't it? After all, as 7x7's wine and spirits editor, I got into bartending in order to learn about the practical side of the industry I was already covering—in particular, the part of it that celebrates the art of the cocktail. But artfulness, I've now learned, does not come easily on a busy Saturday night. Even though, with a shift like this, I'll walk out with upwards of $160 in tips in my pocket (on top of an hourly minimum wage), it's this kind of night that makes me want to throw in the towel.
(Clockwise from left): Prepping serranos; A collection of arcane bitters; Muddlers, strainers and spoons; Citrus fruit for twists; Cantina owner Duggan McDonnell.
But I'm not the only person to have romanticized what it would be like to work behind the bar in the midst of SF's rising cocktail scene. In a time when the term mixologist is uttered without irony, and bars from Bourbon & Branch to Rye and restaurants from Absinthe to Beretta serve up some seriously sophisticated cocktails, the bartending profession has garnered an allure it didn't have when bartenders were anonymous slingers of G&Ts. Today, bartenders are known by name: Absinthe's Jonny Raglin, the Alembic's Daniel Hyatt, Nopa's Neyah White. So I suppose it's not that surprising that I often meet guys at Cantina—guys with girlfriends and well-paying jobs—who, clutching a Dark and Stormy, propose, "How about if I just bar-back here? Like one night a week? For free?"
This is when I politely ask whether they're ready for another drink.
But I know the longing. Only three years ago, having worked largely as a freelance wine writer (this still provides most of my income), I was no longer content to simply sit eagerly at the bar. I wanted to get into the mix myself— ultimately, to exchange knowing looks with the world-weary bartenders who were annoyed with such neophytes as myself. So when Duggan—whom I had met and become a regular customer of when he was just making a name for himself and his groundbreaking drinks at the bar of the late Frisson—asked me whether I wanted to be part of his new project, I was only too happy to try it on for size.
Because of Duggan's cocktail renown, Cantina opened with a degree of fanfare. Its personality is a direct emanation of Duggan's, a unique combination of seriousness, levity and insouciance. It's the rare place where you can get a gently stirred, perfectly balanced Negroni while Snoop Dogg is playing. Decorated with bottles of antique spirits, old books, plants, pirate paraphernalia and used furniture, it's a bit like a child's pirate cave, but with a phenomenally well-stocked bar (64 rums, 62 tequilas, 11 Piscos and 27 cachaças). And because of this, people expect—quite reasonably, I think—to be blown away by every drink. Yet despite a week of hard-core training in New York at the BAR program (aspiring bartenders: it's the real deal), my first shift at Cantina still had my hands shaking visibly and uncontrollably.
Flash forward one year to the recent evening in question (and me with a lot more experience under my belt). I show up for work at three in the afternoon. The dark, empty bar has the aroma of overly ripe fruit, with a sugary tinge of rum. The scent of Nag Champa incense wafts from the back, an attempt to banish what Kristina McDonnell, Duggan's wife and another of the owners, calls, simply, "bar smell." The first half hour of an opening shift includes many trips up the 16 steps from the basement, carrying heavy buckets of ice, tubs full of citrus, cases of beer, backup booze and the big fruit bowl that sits like a centerpiece in the middle of the bar.
The next hour or so is spent slicing limes, lemons and oranges. Pineapple and cucumber are cut into chunks, ginger is diced and serrano peppers are shaved paper-thin. Listening to Terry Gross interview Philip Roth—the antidote to the blaring music I'm inevitably going to be yelling over soon—makes the tasks pass quickly. I nick my thumb, which blooms with a little drop of crimson. I bandage it, but it'll cost me later. With about 15 minutes left until the 5 p.m. deadline, candles are lit.
(Clockwise from left): Cantina heats up; Mackay's two-handed shake; 7x7's wine and spirits editor Jordan Mackay: wine writer by day, hardworking bartender by night; A perfect Negroni.
On any given night, there's about a 40 percent chance that the first customer will be P.J., a loquacious hairdresser who works across the street. Occasionally, he's accompanied by his miniature poodle, who, like a well-laid trap, never fails to attract the adoring attention of some woman, only to snap fiercely at her when she tries to pet him. P.J. talks to everyone, even if they don't want to be talked to (which is most of the time) and always orders absinthe and orange juice, which he takes with a float of Cointreau. When asked about this strange cocktail, he always asserts, "That's the way they used to drink absinthe, but without the Cointreau, which is my personal touch." He never, however, specifies who "they" are, though. The only drink I can find like this is on cocktaildb.com. It's called the Oddball.
The quiet nights are when you get to learn about people's quirks. For instance, there's Emmerich and his equal-parts-gin-and-vermouth martini with a twist, or Burkle, who drinks an ungodly concoction he invented called the Doggerel, which fuses lime, Scotch and St. Germain elderflower liqueur.
It's still relatively peaceful when a clean-cut guy in a tucked-in blue polo shirt sidles up. Before he utters a word, I call it: He subscribes to Imbibe, the drinks magazine. After concentrating on the drink list, he says, "I'd love to try the Laughing Buddha." (Sure enough: "I read about this bar in Imbibe. And on Drinkboy, it was said that this was the cocktail to try.")
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Get the Most Out of Your Bartender
DO have your entire order ready, for yourself and your friends. No bartender has the time to meet each member of your posse. And when we finish making your margarita, please don't say, "Oh, and two more of those."
DON'T whine, "My drink's too sweet." Politely say that you like it a little more tart, and we'll be happy to fix it for you.
DO be patient.
DON'T ask to have your drink made extra strong. Would you ask a chef to put an extra steak on your plate for no charge?
DO have your money or credit card ready. The moment to dig through your purse is not when there are 50 people behind you.
DON'T whistle or wave to get the bartender's attention. It just makes it easier for us to identify whom to serve last.
DO tip well. A buck is fine on a beer or two, but not for two or more labor-intensive cocktails.
DON'T assume Corona, Red Bull or Malibu is available. Or that the bartender should be willing to make some nasty, obscure shot you once had in Cabo.
DO refrain from calling out our names if we haven't introduced ourselves first. It's creepy.
DO smile. And we'll probably smile back.
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He wants to talk about stirring techniques (purists consider using the handle of the spoon cheating). He compliments the vigor of my shake. (If you energetically go after it, a bartender elder will often, somewhat creepily, say, "Nice shake!") My shake is goofy. I do it over one shoulder, holding the shaker with two hands so it doesn't come apart. Duggan and Aaron (another partner) both shake one-handed.
Because of our downtown location, the next couple of hours are a stream of tourists, hotel employees, hairdressers and theatergoers. But we're not so busy that I don't have time to carry on a conversation—the "Where are you from?" type of banter. "Ohio, really? What brings you to San Francisco? You came in early for a dentistry convention?"
These slower periods are my favorite moments. To put an unusual cocktail before someone (say, the buccaneer—a drink made with gin, Campari, pineapple and Falernum) and watch them enjoy it is a pleasure—especially if they normally prefer the pinnacle of blandness: a vodka soda.
Tonight, to my surprise, things are already picking up by 8 p.m. The night develops its own propulsive rhythm. By the time I finish one drink, someone else is waiting to place an order. My cut thumb, marinating in lime and tequila, stings as I make a margarita. A girl starts to snack out of my bowl of pineapple. Janell sees her and icily says, "Please don't eat our ingredients." But the the girl takes another, and then, like an insolent child, another—defiantly looking me in the face. I want to give her a time out. I raise my finger and say, "No more."
A few minutes later, a cute blonde in a summery pink dress orders five cocktails (bad), but they're all the same (good). I can knock them all out at once in one of our oversize pitcher shakers. I tell her she's going to have to wait a bit, though, as friends from the wine department of Michael Mina have just squeezed up to the bar. I don't have time for exciting inventions, so I go for a few impressive off-the-menu standbys: aged rum with Averna and Carpano Antica with orange zest; Pisco and St. Germain with lime peel, lemon bitters and soda; Miller's gin with Canton ginger liqueur and orange.
I look back at Pink Dress. She's waited serenely the entire time and sincerely says "thanks" when I finally put her five drinks in front of her—and leaves a $3 tip.
By now, it's midnight. Our bouncer, Big Mike, is weaving his mass through the crowd, a limp girl thrown over his shoulder. He deposits her outside and comes in to ask me for a towel. I reflexively hesitate. I love my towel—the towel is my friend. With cheerful blue and yellow stripes on one end, it de-stickifies my hands every few minutes. But one look at the back of Mike's nice leather coat, dripping with puke, and I hand it to him. (Despite the volume of drinks we do, this is actually rare. And horrifying.)
The clock strikes one and people start to pack it in. At 1:30 a.m., we go to beers and shots—no cocktails—and I begin consolidating my fruit and marrying the spirits. As the last drunk is hustled out, I survey the casualties: A bandaged thumb, a soiled towel, a sense of lost innocence. Black cocktail napkins and white receipts litter the floor like confetti, and behind the bar it looks like a citrus massacre, lime hulls everywhere, belly-up in little pools of beer. On my way home, I pass the Mexican guy with the sagging truck full of recycling who's come to fetch our empty bottles. While his night has just begun, mine is finally over.
How To Mix the Perfect Negroni
What Your Drink Says About You
(From left to right):
1. Shot of Patrón You think you know, but you have no idea.
2. Pacifico and a shot of anything Fine-dining restaurant employee.
3. Sommelier Sidecar Your knowledge of wine is not as good as you think it is.
4. Vodka Soda Marina chick (even if you're a guy).
5. Jack and Diet Ex–frat boy who spends too much time at the gym.
6. Dark and Stormy Seasoned drinker who's "on the wagon."
7. Milk of Millennia You're likely from L.A.
8. Mojito European tourist who will later ask whether we know of a good disco in the area.
9. Vodka Red Bull Show us your ID.
10. Pisco Sour Young woman from a South American country, or a dyed-in-the-wool cocktail geek.
For six hours they attack relentlessly, like a bunch of shiny-faced British redcoats: Wave after wave of orders are fired at us, point-blank. Stuck behind the bar, we're defenseless—struggling to keep up. As one of the two bartenders in charge of quenching the desires of about 80 people on a night like this, I run, not walk, to the other end of the bar to fetch a bottle of Cynar, the Italian artichoke bitters, of which a quarter-ounce goes into a pomegranate manhattan. I squeeze past Janell, the plucky bartender who's struggling to control the foam on a pint of Moylan's stout she's pouring. "It starts to get to you, that stare," she says, looking out into the crowd. "The thirstiest stare in the world."
I work a few nights a week at Cantina, the Union Square bar opened by Duggan McDonnell and partners in 2007. Saturdays see a thin drip of people until the clock strikes 10 p.m. Then the floodgates burst open. And when the bar is packed three deep with people waving bills in your face, you want to make eye contact, but there's no time to lose your pace. I look at my phone; it's only 11 p.m. Every 10 minutes, I hear the sharp crack of another empty bottle shattering when it hits the recycling bin.
A speaker, located about 10 feet from my left ear, is blaring "Excursions" by A Tribe Called Quest. The DJ on duty, a guy named B-Love, has good taste, but the music is piercingly loud. (Thus, all the dialogue in this piece should be imagined as it was uttered—screamed at the top of one's lungs and repeated a couple of times for clarity.) Nevertheless, I'm on a roll—until, that is, a young woman finally catches my eye and sweetly places her order: a blackberry Cabernet caipirinha, an El Capitan, a Tuscan sangria and a pitcher of Pisco punch. My heart sinks. To fill her order involves fetching the vin santo, red wine, mezcal, Tuaca and Punt e Mes; muddling blackberries, limes and pineapples; squeezing dozens of fruits; stirring and shaking; and setting an orange peel on fire. As I hack my way through the jungle of an order, I wish people would just order the drinks that I personally loathe drinking—a Jack and Diet, a vodka soda or, for god's sake, just a simple beer.
Ironic, isn't it? After all, as 7x7's wine and spirits editor, I got into bartending in order to learn about the practical side of the industry I was already covering—in particular, the part of it that celebrates the art of the cocktail. But artfulness, I've now learned, does not come easily on a busy Saturday night. Even though, with a shift like this, I'll walk out with upwards of $160 in tips in my pocket (on top of an hourly minimum wage), it's this kind of night that makes me want to throw in the towel.
(Clockwise from left): Prepping serranos; A collection of arcane bitters; Muddlers, strainers and spoons; Citrus fruit for twists; Cantina owner Duggan McDonnell.
But I'm not the only person to have romanticized what it would be like to work behind the bar in the midst of SF's rising cocktail scene. In a time when the term mixologist is uttered without irony, and bars from Bourbon & Branch to Rye and restaurants from Absinthe to Beretta serve up some seriously sophisticated cocktails, the bartending profession has garnered an allure it didn't have when bartenders were anonymous slingers of G&Ts. Today, bartenders are known by name: Absinthe's Jonny Raglin, the Alembic's Daniel Hyatt, Nopa's Neyah White. So I suppose it's not that surprising that I often meet guys at Cantina—guys with girlfriends and well-paying jobs—who, clutching a Dark and Stormy, propose, "How about if I just bar-back here? Like one night a week? For free?"
This is when I politely ask whether they're ready for another drink.
But I know the longing. Only three years ago, having worked largely as a freelance wine writer (this still provides most of my income), I was no longer content to simply sit eagerly at the bar. I wanted to get into the mix myself— ultimately, to exchange knowing looks with the world-weary bartenders who were annoyed with such neophytes as myself. So when Duggan—whom I had met and become a regular customer of when he was just making a name for himself and his groundbreaking drinks at the bar of the late Frisson—asked me whether I wanted to be part of his new project, I was only too happy to try it on for size.
Because of Duggan's cocktail renown, Cantina opened with a degree of fanfare. Its personality is a direct emanation of Duggan's, a unique combination of seriousness, levity and insouciance. It's the rare place where you can get a gently stirred, perfectly balanced Negroni while Snoop Dogg is playing. Decorated with bottles of antique spirits, old books, plants, pirate paraphernalia and used furniture, it's a bit like a child's pirate cave, but with a phenomenally well-stocked bar (64 rums, 62 tequilas, 11 Piscos and 27 cachaças). And because of this, people expect—quite reasonably, I think—to be blown away by every drink. Yet despite a week of hard-core training in New York at the BAR program (aspiring bartenders: it's the real deal), my first shift at Cantina still had my hands shaking visibly and uncontrollably.
Flash forward one year to the recent evening in question (and me with a lot more experience under my belt). I show up for work at three in the afternoon. The dark, empty bar has the aroma of overly ripe fruit, with a sugary tinge of rum. The scent of Nag Champa incense wafts from the back, an attempt to banish what Kristina McDonnell, Duggan's wife and another of the owners, calls, simply, "bar smell." The first half hour of an opening shift includes many trips up the 16 steps from the basement, carrying heavy buckets of ice, tubs full of citrus, cases of beer, backup booze and the big fruit bowl that sits like a centerpiece in the middle of the bar.
The next hour or so is spent slicing limes, lemons and oranges. Pineapple and cucumber are cut into chunks, ginger is diced and serrano peppers are shaved paper-thin. Listening to Terry Gross interview Philip Roth—the antidote to the blaring music I'm inevitably going to be yelling over soon—makes the tasks pass quickly. I nick my thumb, which blooms with a little drop of crimson. I bandage it, but it'll cost me later. With about 15 minutes left until the 5 p.m. deadline, candles are lit.
(Clockwise from left): Cantina heats up; Mackay's two-handed shake; 7x7's wine and spirits editor Jordan Mackay: wine writer by day, hardworking bartender by night; A perfect Negroni.
On any given night, there's about a 40 percent chance that the first customer will be P.J., a loquacious hairdresser who works across the street. Occasionally, he's accompanied by his miniature poodle, who, like a well-laid trap, never fails to attract the adoring attention of some woman, only to snap fiercely at her when she tries to pet him. P.J. talks to everyone, even if they don't want to be talked to (which is most of the time) and always orders absinthe and orange juice, which he takes with a float of Cointreau. When asked about this strange cocktail, he always asserts, "That's the way they used to drink absinthe, but without the Cointreau, which is my personal touch." He never, however, specifies who "they" are, though. The only drink I can find like this is on cocktaildb.com. It's called the Oddball.
The quiet nights are when you get to learn about people's quirks. For instance, there's Emmerich and his equal-parts-gin-and-vermouth martini with a twist, or Burkle, who drinks an ungodly concoction he invented called the Doggerel, which fuses lime, Scotch and St. Germain elderflower liqueur.
It's still relatively peaceful when a clean-cut guy in a tucked-in blue polo shirt sidles up. Before he utters a word, I call it: He subscribes to Imbibe, the drinks magazine. After concentrating on the drink list, he says, "I'd love to try the Laughing Buddha." (Sure enough: "I read about this bar in Imbibe. And on Drinkboy, it was said that this was the cocktail to try.")
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Get the Most Out of Your Bartender
DO have your entire order ready, for yourself and your friends. No bartender has the time to meet each member of your posse. And when we finish making your margarita, please don't say, "Oh, and two more of those."
DON'T whine, "My drink's too sweet." Politely say that you like it a little more tart, and we'll be happy to fix it for you.
DO be patient.
DON'T ask to have your drink made extra strong. Would you ask a chef to put an extra steak on your plate for no charge?
DO have your money or credit card ready. The moment to dig through your purse is not when there are 50 people behind you.
DON'T whistle or wave to get the bartender's attention. It just makes it easier for us to identify whom to serve last.
DO tip well. A buck is fine on a beer or two, but not for two or more labor-intensive cocktails.
DON'T assume Corona, Red Bull or Malibu is available. Or that the bartender should be willing to make some nasty, obscure shot you once had in Cabo.
DO refrain from calling out our names if we haven't introduced ourselves first. It's creepy.
DO smile. And we'll probably smile back.
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He wants to talk about stirring techniques (purists consider using the handle of the spoon cheating). He compliments the vigor of my shake. (If you energetically go after it, a bartender elder will often, somewhat creepily, say, "Nice shake!") My shake is goofy. I do it over one shoulder, holding the shaker with two hands so it doesn't come apart. Duggan and Aaron (another partner) both shake one-handed.
Because of our downtown location, the next couple of hours are a stream of tourists, hotel employees, hairdressers and theatergoers. But we're not so busy that I don't have time to carry on a conversation—the "Where are you from?" type of banter. "Ohio, really? What brings you to San Francisco? You came in early for a dentistry convention?"
These slower periods are my favorite moments. To put an unusual cocktail before someone (say, the buccaneer—a drink made with gin, Campari, pineapple and Falernum) and watch them enjoy it is a pleasure—especially if they normally prefer the pinnacle of blandness: a vodka soda.
Tonight, to my surprise, things are already picking up by 8 p.m. The night develops its own propulsive rhythm. By the time I finish one drink, someone else is waiting to place an order. My cut thumb, marinating in lime and tequila, stings as I make a margarita. A girl starts to snack out of my bowl of pineapple. Janell sees her and icily says, "Please don't eat our ingredients." But the the girl takes another, and then, like an insolent child, another—defiantly looking me in the face. I want to give her a time out. I raise my finger and say, "No more."
A few minutes later, a cute blonde in a summery pink dress orders five cocktails (bad), but they're all the same (good). I can knock them all out at once in one of our oversize pitcher shakers. I tell her she's going to have to wait a bit, though, as friends from the wine department of Michael Mina have just squeezed up to the bar. I don't have time for exciting inventions, so I go for a few impressive off-the-menu standbys: aged rum with Averna and Carpano Antica with orange zest; Pisco and St. Germain with lime peel, lemon bitters and soda; Miller's gin with Canton ginger liqueur and orange.
I look back at Pink Dress. She's waited serenely the entire time and sincerely says "thanks" when I finally put her five drinks in front of her—and leaves a $3 tip.
By now, it's midnight. Our bouncer, Big Mike, is weaving his mass through the crowd, a limp girl thrown over his shoulder. He deposits her outside and comes in to ask me for a towel. I reflexively hesitate. I love my towel—the towel is my friend. With cheerful blue and yellow stripes on one end, it de-stickifies my hands every few minutes. But one look at the back of Mike's nice leather coat, dripping with puke, and I hand it to him. (Despite the volume of drinks we do, this is actually rare. And horrifying.)
The clock strikes one and people start to pack it in. At 1:30 a.m., we go to beers and shots—no cocktails—and I begin consolidating my fruit and marrying the spirits. As the last drunk is hustled out, I survey the casualties: A bandaged thumb, a soiled towel, a sense of lost innocence. Black cocktail napkins and white receipts litter the floor like confetti, and behind the bar it looks like a citrus massacre, lime hulls everywhere, belly-up in little pools of beer. On my way home, I pass the Mexican guy with the sagging truck full of recycling who's come to fetch our empty bottles. While his night has just begun, mine is finally over.
How To Mix the Perfect Negroni
What Your Drink Says About You
(From left to right):
1. Shot of Patrón You think you know, but you have no idea.
2. Pacifico and a shot of anything Fine-dining restaurant employee.
3. Sommelier Sidecar Your knowledge of wine is not as good as you think it is.
4. Vodka Soda Marina chick (even if you're a guy).
5. Jack and Diet Ex–frat boy who spends too much time at the gym.
6. Dark and Stormy Seasoned drinker who's "on the wagon."
7. Milk of Millennia You're likely from L.A.
8. Mojito European tourist who will later ask whether we know of a good disco in the area.
9. Vodka Red Bull Show us your ID.
10. Pisco Sour Young woman from a South American country, or a dyed-in-the-wool cocktail geek.
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