On the first day of the heat wave, indexes in the triple digits, I take the early bus in.   And the bar is torn apart.

Hugo tells me the boss had brought in an exterminator, having evidence of rats, traps for cockroaches too.  And from several shelves, missing back up stock, like soda water, beer back ups, things the other bartenders are oblivious to.

There's not much on the book.  "Manuel is on vacation," states Marie Reine matter of factly.

So I pull it all together.  Mineral water, more Sancerre, i need soda water and tonic water back ups, I need citrus fruit, prepare the back and the sink bin used as ice bins for the back up opened white wines, the roses, the sparkling wines...  I put the bus tub from under the sink, which has an inch of condensation water, stinking, through the washing machine, along with the cutting board, as someone put the bin for the dirty linens on top of it.  There's a cockroach stuck under a wire conduit up on the mirror above the Campari, pastis, Chartreuse liquor shelf, and this is not easy to clean up...

The air conditioning unit portable by the window, come to find, the tube attachment, a queer thing to handle, easily detaching, is letting hot air pour in, and it takes a good eight minutes to get it set and reasonably making a seal again, after turning things around completely.

I'm already busy with walk-ins by the time the boss walks in.  Ted, I want to talk to you...  And he explains the things he found in his operations last night...  Dirty plates fallen behind the milk crates... More stock and clutter makes it harder to keep things clean.  Okay, boss.  The Chinese woman, finding cocktails aren't on happy hour has hot water with lemon, he's having ice water.  They are foodies.  I spent a good ten minutes talking over the menu...  "Table 50 wants you..."  Yeah, dude...  He goes over and takes the order I prepped them for, having already got their order for escargot.  Yeah, I got it...  Why is she waiving anyway, I was just over there...

Two other couples have come in, one at the bar, I get their drink order.  The couple at table 57, walk ins, is pregnant, and I went through pains to explain that two of the cheeses on the plate are unpasteurized...  as well as other menu notes, as she doesn't want to eat a full entree..  Another couple is sat, and a coworker with no emotion on her face, blank, comes up, doesn't see water glasses that need filling on the five top... gets a drink order.  I told the specials she tells me, giving off an air of disapproval to this whole messy upstairs operation and maybe because it's eighty degrees...

Co-worker from downstairs seats the two guys at 60.  She's efficient.  I go over and talk wine with them, after I've got things more or less covered and under some control, the two who will go down at 7 after their drinks, two glasses of happy hour wine.  I don't need a lecture right now. and I'm the only guy who attempts to clean things.  Fine, you don't want me to stalk, I won't.  I talk menu and wine the two gentleman, they're cool...  The Chinese couple hands me a big old school camera to take their picture with their entrees, Cassoulet, scallops over ginger broccoli mousse.

The busboy furiously brings up the plates of food for the tables, whether or not I've had time to clear off the appetizer plates finished...  The helper retreats to the air conditioned calm predictable situation of the main dining room...  They must be full downstairs.

Another two top, seated way back in the wine room, followed by a four top also seated back in the room...

Bar couple has finished dinner, and she'll have another pinot blanc, and he'll take a Calvados.   I have the Django gypsy swing station playing on Pandora, and the boss's wife comes up the stairs, and two more women take a seat at the table near the bar.  The boss comes up and reminds me of the four top, yeah, I know.  The heat is getting to me a bit, can't help snapping.  He goes over to the table to take their wine order, and one of the ladies is rather attractive.  Well, I'll get to be their wine shrink later on.

Couple at the bar suggests a music change.  They've been to Paris.  Hotel Costes.  Does this music drive you crazy?  Oh, yes it does, particularly when it's live, I tell them.  So, having talk of the moonwalk fifty years ago, I switch over to Henry Mancini, which can be fun in a nostalgic cool mellow way.  One song and then another, as I greet, somewhat wearily, the boss's wife, Cl.  They had a late dinner up by the window with me a week ago...  I get her some water.  "I hate Glen Miller," she says, as a song by his orchestra plays away.  "Put on Hotel Costes," the lady of the bar two says, as I turn around and sort of glare at Cl.  Okay, I change the muzak.  And continue to run around back to the room and up to the front.  Dessert for 65.  Clear the four top, not getting much help.  Hugo comes up with silverware and goes back to the corner to sort them out.  Could you get me an espresso for 42...

Cl. is looking at the bottle of Italian cabernet that ended up in front of her.  As a gesture of peace, I call her name, but she looks away.  I open the bottle and put a tall wine glass in front of her.   After a little chat, they depart, presumably to the other restaurant up the street, as I'm still in the weeds anyway.  Bosses, and entrepreneurs, by their karmic incarnations here in this world keep an aloof and sometimes bitchy attitude, which rubs me, as I am not of their type.

(Yes, at work, they all try their best to cow the poor wise holy man, and people will even throw you to the Roman soldiers, I find out a few days later after patiently waiting on two ladies the whole evening who have two bottles of the brut chardonnay cremant from Burgundy, who, seeing me fried at the end of the night and pouring out the tastes of different wines to placate the last couple having a late dinner with their Tinder date,, and the seductive woman from Istanbul who often pushes her tolerance, "we'd like a tasting of red, too," as if it's owed them, as if they'll be displeased in that customer way if they don't, for free, too, though, after I pour them some small sips, they say thank you, appreciatively enough, having won, and one of them reaches over and finishes several of her girlfriend's little sips.  All the attitude I get, when I'm just a humble guy trying to keep the business up and drum up fresh interest through my little wine offerings...  Humorless people sometimes, as if I'm giving away what belongs to them personally...)

The bar conversation, now that my friend Karin has joined, my two guy friends, careens around in different ways, and the lonely barman needs a taste of chilled red wine...  the differing voices getting in their words...



The ideals of art are too much sometimes.  There is no bridge between our own talents to the ideal, those seemingly attained by other artists, I find in my Zen readings of late.  That will keep you in tune with the inner gyroscope compass...  Do I have the time to spell all of my evening out, without a pot of coffee or a cigarette?


And so a barman is stuck, being a poor version of the monk, of a Jesus serving wine to sinners and all the personalities of the world, while writing along in his own poor way of some sort of perhaps spiritual journey.  Better off with his thoughts and pursuits held privately enough as not to be embarrassing.