Typical guy who ends up working in a restaurant as a bartender. A sort of Dickens type character, not quite the drunk Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities is, but more a fuck-up. Perhaps a stubborn artist, like an unknown Beethoven at what he does, kept in shadow obscurity and night shift. No girlfriend, which must mean something about him, some flaw, but perhaps for being somewhat like Sam Clemens was, fond of exactly the kind of base things a proper wife cringes at and edits out, amazing she puts up with him. And, yes, like Arjuna, from the great meaningful tale of The Bhagavad Gita, not knowing what to do with himself a lot of the time. But he still shows up for work.
A history of the Monday Jazz Nights leading up to the food critic's visit puts the bartender in a bad mood. José, the busboy, push all the low teak tables around into place, get the tables set up, while the downstairs guys fuss over a fork slightly out of line. The bartender drags up the night's supplies from the basement. No one stocks mineral water anymore. And then the next Monday, M., I'm told as I get there, won't be coming in, closing on a house. Great. J, back from his travels, I'll help you set up, I'll float upstairs and down. Great. And then the night itself. The band pulls up to the curb just as I get in... Of course, help the old guy, Hod O'Brien... Lug the heavy Roland keyboard up the stairs, and already there are people in my hair. Hod sits down on the couch, on bare cushions, as I put the red cloth seat covers through the washing machine. The busboy has his stuff to do. Again, no one to help me. V comes upstairs, goes into the wine room to lay on her stomach perfectly relaxed. On break, iPhone out.