Funny. In these crazy days I am reminded by a customer on Jazz Night at the bistrot wine bar, of my gig at Austin Grill. Ten years behind a small bar in a good Tex Mex restaurant, back when Glover Park was cheap rent. "You were famous," she says, "like that guy at The Mayflower..." A reference to the famous Sam, Sambonn Lek, Head Bartender, Town & Country Lounge of The Mayflower, which closed in January after what? fifty years? Longer. A great barman. Whose signature cocktail is "SAM I AM," a mix of 2 oz. citron vodka (preferably "Ketel One Citroen" according to his business card) along with some citrus, a little Amaretto (of the non-endorsing kind), a little juice which is red in color, etc. A gentleman far and way more fun than the cocktail that bears his name and inventiveness. A generous spirit, to say the least, the two words vying. Magic, humor, utter friendliness, man, you can't top this guy, no way.

So it is taken as a high compliment, even as it comes out of an obscure past, one I almost feel some shame about somehow, I don't quite know exactly why. I started there as one of two original busboys. The original Austin Grill. Ann C. in the kitchen, Johnny F. behind the bar, both mentors, Rob W. bringing his sense and sensibility, Kurt M. hiring a great staff. Almost fifteen years did I work there, and yeah, I was a barman. Through several generations of wait staff, the long lived of which might last two years. I was a repository of history, of institutional memory, and I didn't even screw up too much, except maybe the time I confused a nice quiet woman coming in from work with--I don't know how or why--a homeless person I thought I'd seen.

But anyway, yeah, I was the bartender at a special place. That's what I did, proudly, decently, with care and organization. Tequila tasting, margaritas made with fresh lime juice. And along the way I learned how to do it, gentlemanly teachers, great cats, Lawrence, a man who taught me about music, took me to places. It wasn't easy work. But there were always great people to work with. Peter, Teddy, Bob, Spike, Owen, Ed F., Ed C., Jesus the list goes on, Squirrel Boy, to say nothing of the many many cats who worked in the kitchen, German, Oscar, Juan, Tomas, Pedro, the base of the operation of fajita, taco, enchilada, chili, chicken wing, burrito paradise a la Austin Texas, even barbeque brisket sandwiches on Wednesdays.

From one restaurant, two, and then, a small chain. And somewhere along the line, not to mention the great music and pedal steel twang, it had to end. What is born, replicates, and then begins to die. And death for a cool single individual restaurant that never wants to be corporate, but leave the front line grunt in charge, not fearing those above, cordial in fact, and fair and decent to all, eventually, yes, slides into the corporate. And like a story book, two brothers showed up one day, and in fact, sat at my bar on a sunday night, smiled, and played perfectly dumb. On the one hand they wanted the 'famous bartender'--if they'd been prepped, probably not really--to 'comp' them a Dos Equis, but behind the smiles, or the smiles of hidden aggression and ruling power to seize, they were corporate number crunchers, and somehow wisely I did not buy them a round of this beer they liked so much, even as they told me they were restaurant people come to look at a restaurant. (And yet, out of some kind of macho pride, they really personally wanted me too. Hah! I'm not so stupid after all.) Soon enough, one who was guiltier than anyone of real sexual harassment on the power job level would be inviting us to an early Saturday morning meeting in which he himself would shout, like Castro or Stalin, or whomever, about "Sexual Harassment," and made us sign some document, yeah, made us. (I should have handed in my resignation right then.) Okay, maybe the guy was just skeptical, concerned perhaps rightly even about lawsuits, and thought, from some experience, that restaurant people are dirty creeps. If that's what he thinks, good luck, buddy. (Brothers, correct me if I am wrong. Yes, you're just doing a job. no harm in that. my apologies, of course.)

I won't say, what followed them was a story of nascent corporate goons, of the kind who eventually fired me as I came in for my Sunday night shift to start the week and ate my chicken tacos sub spinach instead of rice up on the third floor I'd seen change quite a bit. They fired me, sending a corporate chef, whose effort at understanding me was remembering how long I'd been at the place. "do you know what you did? tell us about the end of the night.' As if drinking tequila wasn't sometimes involved, when a corporate mentality has undercut staff and morale. Escorted from the building, even, this famous bartender, part of the community of Glover Park, a trusted friend, Uncle Teddy, Budweiser serving brother, tequila Buddhist.

I was at work at a new place two weeks later, a place where I remain. Working with good people again. I don't speak too much of the old days, and these days are quieter. I close up by myself, go home, and have some wine, by myself and think of Irish music, my own kind of music. A face from the old place comes in, well, that's cool. It's nice to be remembered.

To think, once, I was a barman of some fame. Hah, that's cool, I like that. I put a lot into it. Nice to have that come back.

Cheers, Happy Saint Patrick's Day. By the way, The Pogues were great at the 9:30 Club last Wednesday.