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“Most days what I do is fun for me, and I love having fun.”
“You’re also very good at what you do.”
“I am good at quite a number of things, álainn.” The wiggling of my eyebrows gets her girlishly giggling once more. “Should I be late for work and remind you of them?”
Her slow headshake isn’t nearly as convincing as she believes it to be which is how I end up on top of her and ten minutes late for training.
The early part of my class is a lot of bookwork bullshit. Testing us on how to spot fake-ids while simultaneously warning the eight of us in the course how more and more advanced they’re becoming. We practice deescalating patrons, each of us taking turns to pretend to be different types – me naturally getting the drunk sorority girl celebrating her twenty first birthday – and end the first half of our lessons reviewing important parts to the law as it pertains to serving. Pizza lunch is provided and the conversation we freely engage in is my favorite part of the session so far. Learning where the others work, where they’ve previously worked, and how many of their places I’ve been to or have friends who have been to them is rather reassuring. Not only because I know they’re putting in the work for their work, giving us more than just ringed-in bullshit, but because we all work somewhere near enough to A2 that we understand some random shite that outsiders don’t.
Performance is the only thing the second portion is devoted to. Easy shite like properly showing the label of a wine bottle during the pour or cleverly dabbing the drops away is followed swiftly by the way to cut a pour itself, something that easily transitions us to the showcasing our free pour abilities with liquor. There are some major cockups from those that are newer yet some admirable moves from those with veteran status. The status of most is evident in the way they complete a task or grow fearful over someone else’s fucking up a move that contain a lot of flair.
During my particular set of orders – third from last – I do my best to cover a wide range of tricks to demonstrate my knowledge as much as my willingness to take risks.
Shaker tosses from one hand to the other are simple but adding it around the back and widening the catch range convinces you they’re much more difficult than they truly are.
And patrons love shite that they don’t think is easy to do.
Large fluid gestures with the bottle going around my head to then roll it down one arm to pour into the shaker I’m holding looks complicated to those that don’t realize it’s just an illusion created by a clever sleight of hand.
For my own added amusement, the second time I execute the move, I give it a slightly different take, letting the bottle rest on my shoulder and ear during the pour while I pretend to be telling a friend who rang I’m too busy to talk.
Our female instructor chuckles like I hoped alongside a couple of the other women in the training.
I let my arrogance run wild with my final demonstration. Whether it’s because of the argument with my girlfriend or because I have – admittedly – begun to wonder lately what would bring me greater joy in this aspect of my life or a combination of the two that convinces me it’s a good idea to go all out is unclear.
But I do it.
Bottles are spun on the tops of shakers back and forth. Tipped precisely from one point to another to be caught and tipped for using. Twists and flips of stirring sticks and strainers are enough to warrant the wide-eyed gaze of the onlookers, yet it’s the fruit, fire pairing that puts everyone over the edge of impressed.
The instructor devilishly smirks, winks her approval, and moves onto the next student leaving me to join the others at the tables for observing.
I’ve just settled in the seat beside Geoffrey Winslow, a full-time dark-haired bartender who’s probably closer to Harper’s age than mine, when he playfully pokes, “I know the Irish drink more than we do, but you do not have to also serve it better than us.”
His Doctenn accent is now much clearer to me than it was earlier in the afternoon. “We naturally do everything better than you lot. It’s the Irish way.”
He lightly laughs under his breath and leans in a bit closer to continue the conversation without interrupting the class. “I wish I could argue with that, however, based on my very limited experience in what I am assuming by your accent is your native land, you are absolutely bloody right.”
It’s my turn to chortle at a low volume as to not be disruptive. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll say, your country typically does better in the Olympics.”
“Absolutely; however, I was not going to bring that up.” More laughter is exchanged between us. “That is actually the reason I visited Ireland. My oldest brother, Jonah, is a diving instructor for athletes who train to compete at an Olympic level. He went for work and arranged to have me tag along with. Luckily for me I had just turned eighteen, which meant I could spend all of my free time drinking pints in pubs and learning about unknown bands like The Script and Georgian ArKtecture before they hit it big.”
“Both amazing bands.”
“Agreed.” His grin grows wide. “And pub culture there is one that is unmatched in my opinion, although, I would love to change that.”
The statement unexpectedly sparks something inside prompting me to fold my hands together at the same time I angle myself forward. “What do you have in mind?”
“Have that vibe and atmosphere brought right here to A2. It is a uni town, which means there are plenty of places that cater to them, yet we lack those in that next phase or the phase there after. The one on the other side of partying ‘til four a.m. The one where you want to just meet a mate for a pint at a familiar place that’s low key without being too trashy or too expensive. A place that you instantly feel welcomed and safe, and you are treated like you are family regardless if it is your first time or fiftieth. Somewhere you hear tales that begin with ‘when I was boy’ more often than ‘what I saw on Snapchat’. Somewhere where life experiences and social bonding bloom over great brewed beer – the states have Runt’s and I definitely want to carry that – and fantastic fucking fish and chips. Maybe on the occasion a little unknown band or fiddler can play for free drinks just to liven the place up a bit on a Saturday or Sunday.”
Thoughtlessly, I utter, “That sounds bloody incredible.”
“You know what would make it better?”
Curiosity jerks my eyebrows upward.
“Someone behind the bar who knows what the bloody hell he’s doing.”
“Wouldn’t someone who wants to assist in running the actual business be even better than that?”
