Well, you know, I suppose not all bartenders are cool, but I just have to pause and mention how great and supportive the men and women who work behind the bar in San Francisco (and elsewhere) have been regarding my little obsession with the Savoy Cocktail Book.
I mean, really, I’m just another cocktail nerd with a blog.
Mrs. Underhill, who really has more experience with bartenders and their late night world than I do, always tells me, look out for these guys, don’t take it seriously. Whatever happens, don’t take it personally.
And, fair enough.
I don’t really live in that world.
But here’s a funny story…
I grew up as an adopted child in the Midwest. For whatever reason, my adoptive Mom never allowed us in the kitchen to cook or even really do dishes. We didn’t go to bars or really know any bartenders.
A few years later, while at college, I found myself working in kitchens, doing dishes, and eventually cooking.
I really enjoyed cooking and did it for a number of years. After cooking, I discovered I had talent for technical problem solving, i.e. QA, and found a career in Information Technology.
Many years later, last Christmas actually, through a bizarre series of coincidences, I met my genetic Father.
As it turned out my real parents met while my genetic Dad was working as a bartender. They didn’t really know each other. Really. My genetic Dad doesn’t remember my Mom at all. After they split, my genetic Dad later worked as an engineer and problem solver for an automotive company in the Midwest. When that fizzled, he started working in food service, and has been working in it for the last 30 years.
At over 70 he is still helping a friend of the family open a cafe in northern Wisconsin.
I’m sorry if this is giving my adoptive parents, who I love, short shrift, but what the fuck does this all mean?
Am I not too old to be worrying about this sort of shit?
Why am I here, finding the very career which literally spawned me, interesting?
And to bring this all the way around…
While I have had nothing but good experiences with San Francisco bartenders, it seems like my Dad, at least back then, might have been one of those bartenders Mrs. Underhill always warns me about.