One of my first regulars died yesterday.

Life is a continuous balance of comedy and tragedy; something that we must all deal and cope with. It's funny how things end up. Some people are just taken too soon.

As a bartender, your financial success in the industry is predicated on building "regulars," or people who come to see you at least once a week. When I first started bartending in DC, I could make drinks faster than anyone I worked with and was really starting to come into my own creatively, but had trouble, much as I did when I was younger, "playing with others." In short, I was an asshole.

Now, the concept of a "regular" feels really wrong at first. It feels as if both parties are pretending. I am pretending to care about who you are and you are pretending that you believe that I care. The suspension of disbelief by both parties is just ridiculous. I, your bartender, begin to memorize facts about you, much like I would with a real friend, make sure I know your drink and your name and your likes and dislikes, and in return, you give me money. Yes, this feels absurd. Then something funny happens.

At some point, you look forward to seeing your regulars. While you were taking the time to learn details about them, they were doing the same, and in some way you have created a bond, and the money doesn't feel awkward; its an understanding.  I'm not explaining it right but if you've ever had a regular, you understand.

Val was one of my first regulars. She was good friends with a girl I was serving with, and always had a smile on her face. I was told on Friday that she was in a terrible accident. I only had drinks with her in a group of larger friends a handful of times, but she would come to every single place I worked at and grab a drink. Say hello, catch up, and let me know what she was up to. She asked my advice on the restaurant industry: (My response: Don't do it!) and would later on bartend at a mutual friend's bar. She would come to me later and ask my about bartending and tell me her recipe ideas and how much fun she was having.

To be honest, dear reader, I am not sure the point I have in writing this. It's 6 in the morning and I haven't been able to sleep since friday night. I've had more friends than I care to list depart this world before their time, and could not figure out why this one was so different for me. I'm still not sure, but here is a guess.

I see my friends maybe once a week for a few hours. Regulars you see more than once a week. There are some regulars that just annoy you, but Val was a friend. She was a wonderful, lively young woman who I genuinely always liked seeing. I saw her often years ago and less in these past years; I regret that. To see the outpouring of love from so many members of the DC community has been an incredible thing. It speaks volumes of her character and is a testament to her spirit.  It is my suspicion that I mis-titled the beginning of this post, and it should've read "One of my friends died yesterday."

Val, we all wish you well upon your journey. I'll make sure I have a shot out there waiting for you.

For any who read this and knew Val, my deepest condolences on your loss and my kindest regards to your family. I hope that you all find comfort; I am thinking of you all.


-E

A Sip in Time

I’m sitting in BWI right now sipping a passable Cabernet at an outrageous price, on my way back to Boston for the weekend, and something occurred to me.

Let’s be honest with each other for a minute or two. I know why you do it, and I understand the trepidations, but most of us have no idea about wine.  A frightening amount of wine lovers don’t know a thing. I learned this very early, because before I managed, bartended, or even worked as a door guy (a glorious 3 day stint before getting my ass kicked and being moved to bar back - that’s another story…), I sold wine. When I was 19. How did I sell wine at 19, you ask? Well I don’t know, but it was really easy. 

Between working as a bike messenger and playing lacrosse and being an RA, I needed more money, therefore I needed more work. I applied to stock shelves at the Downtown Shaw wine department, which was huge. They told me that rather doing that, I could sell wine. I met Bill, a swarthy Boston man, born and bred, who has probably forgotten more about wine than I will ever know.

“I’m not 21,” I told him. “Yea, but you’re in college. You drink.”

“Yea, but not wine,” I replied incredulously. “And I can’t drink legally.” He laughed and gave me a hearty slap on the shoulder, and said “Well, you sure can read, college boy. You look at least 23, just fake it.”

Understand, I am not the type of person to half ass anything. And it just occurred to me, that I didn’t need to be able to drink to sell wine, I just had to read. And lie. 

“If anyone asks you ‘what’s a good year,’ tell them that the only years that mattered were 1961 and 1982, and they only mattered in Bordeaux.” Bill told me as we perused the Old World section of the wine shop. I had heard the term thrown around, and never really knew what it meant.  (An interesting update, 2009 and 2010 were both also once-in-a-generation harvests in Bordeaux before the collapse of the Bordeaux in the Chinese market.) Bill broke down the regions, varietals, and would lecture as well of any of my professors at Emerson College. I would have my wine books and put them in the cue in between studying First Amendment Law with Professor Brown, Crisis Communication with Doctor Payne, and Political Theory with Professor Kimball. 

Looking back it was hilarious. I would shock and entertain my customers with the opinion that Bordeaux could produce nothing to even compare with an unfiltered Northern Rhone (because I had to sell 4 cases of it to make Bill his quota). I would amaze them with my knowledge of Old and New world, having literally only ever had a sip of the Concho y Toro Red that my mom would drink after work (which is not far off from what I enjoy drinking currently, except fruitier…) and never a sip more in my life. 

When I began to truly taste and study wine, it took me a long time to appreciate why there was so much reverence for some of these older vintages and why some people paid incredible amounts of money for a Chateau Margaux that was older than anyone I knew. It was because wine especially, is history. It’s this moment of realization that when you drink a wine from another century, it’s like opening a time capsule. It’s a connection with the past - a piece of history. It’s not an observance of history, its a PARTICIPATION in it, and that is something magical. 

Stay Thirsty,

Eric