I remember the barman at Harry's Bar in Paris, standing impervious behind the little bar, concocting a Sidecar with a quick shake, perfectly calm in his white jacket in the light of afternoon.  Later, at night we saw the crazies who go there to 'have fun.'  Monsieur Jacques had probably seen quite a lot.

There is a story from back in the day of Hemingway and Fitzgerald of someone bringing a lion into Harry's Bar.  I wonder if versions have Hemingway himself kicking out the host along with his lion.  I had the impression the place hadn't changed much.  My friend Phillippe explained to Monsieur Jacques that I was a barman too, back in America, as soaked in the bee motif and atmosphere over our drinks. At the end of our little visit, he reached to a shelf behind him, and with great professionalism and generosity, handed me a little book of cocktail recipes.  "Pour un comrade," he quietly said, and we shook his hand and, I hoped, tipped him well, before then going out and driving around the Arch du Triomphe.

A barman must be, in effect, an accomplished Buddhist, familiar with the Lankavatara Scripture, which states that if you hold that all things are illusory and insubstantial, despite their appearances, you can't go far wrong.

All night, sometimes, I get it from the server, her hackles up, sharing her distress.  "So and so is an elephant, this person is a hippotomus, that lady over there, she is a 'beeetchh.'"  Somewhere, Monsieur Jacques is keeping his dignified cool.