Many of you have had those experiences. I know that I have. Maybe you've had one or two or eight more shots of Jamesons than you should've, and by god, you want your ninth. Perhaps you sat on line for an hour before you got in the venue. Maybe your food was served cold. You let your anger fester all night until you get home, and in an alcohol induced rage, unleash the fury of a thousand morons upon the venue on yelp.com. It feels good, saying all of the things you wanted to say for the whole world to see with no retribution. Right?
Yelp, in theory, is a great idea. However so is communism. In practice, both fail.
I think that user generated content is great and a critique of ways that your venue can improve is invaluable data that can be utilized to improve your venue. The problem is that they let yelpers review, and many yelpers are morons. At least food reviewers know a little something about food.
The most interesting thing about yelp is the filter that they have. You see, when you submit a review, it stays for a bit and then either disappears or is kept. The problem is that the filtration process is entirely arbitrary. A 1 star from someone with 2 reviews can stay, and a 5 star from someone with two reviews can go. There is no set rules in yelp. I never knew why until I discovered that it was because they practice extortion. Yelp will call you after about 6 months and ask you to spend over $3,000 a year on "premium yelp," which essentially means that they give you some advertised hits and you have an "account manager" who takes care of your bad reviews. If you don't fork over the money, suddenly your good reviews get filtered and your bad ones stay. These guys are crooks. Yes, yelp.com, I'm talking to you. Moving on.
I'm not saying that you shouldn't yelp if you get bad service because that is an absurd notion. I am; however, saying that there are some ridiculous things that are simply your own fault that you need to own up. I can't tell you how many people gave me a bad review because they couldn't get in a club I was bartending or managing. How do you review a club that you're not dressed well enough to enter?
Sometimes when you work you get someone calling you out by name. Now, since I was an adolescent, my personality lends itself to people either loving or hating me with very little room in between. Typically it is the latter. This is because I am somewhat abrasive, sarcastic to a fault, and have a pension for sharp retorts. Luckily for me, there are many people who appreciate my personality and love me as a bartender. The following; however, are my top 5 favorite complaints on Yelp.com. None of these have been fabricated or edited, and come from work at 4 different venues.
5. "Second, you have no sensitivity training."
That is correct. I don't. That is one of the exact reasons that I choose to work in the field that I do rather than corporate America. If I worked in a cubicle, I couldn't tell you that you were being an idiot when you were. Forgive me if rather than bowing and scraping because of some illegitimate claim, (her complaints were amazing. To add to her credibility, this woman spelled 'bourgie' as 'boushey' when referring to herself; I suppose the elite are never taught to spell?) I tell you that you are being unreasonable. I don't apologize when I have nothing to apologize for. Not sorry.
4."The skinhead bartender makes a strong drink but seems to yell a lot. Is he drunk?"
Wow. Listen, lady. I am not a vain man, so I will never spend money on keeping my hair line from marching steadily to the back of my head, but skinhead is quite a leap from 'balding guy.' And guilty, I do yell a lot. That is because the music is very loud in a club, and unless we both learn sign language in the next 15 seconds, I will make no money and you will be very thirsty.
And I wasn't drunk. Maybe.
3. "...cannot believe the nerve of that bartender. my husband asked for an old fashioned with oranges, and he just said no! Instead he brought over an old fashioned and said it's the only one he knows how to make. Luckily, my husband said it was the best old fashioned he ever had.
First of all, I kind of understand this point. I know I shouldn't do this sort of thing, but I just enjoy it too much. Most Old Fashioned's are made too damn sweet (STOP MUDDLING CHERRIES, ASSHOLES!) and I think my recipe is better than most. I sometimes make people stuff they didn't order, but almost always get a super positive reaction. But what blew my mind about this review is that she gave me ONE STAR. She said I made her husband the best cocktail he had ever had, and I get one star! Unbelievable.
2. "Eric is like hot girls at the club. They're really annoying but really hot so whatever. He is a dick but he makes a good drink so I put up with it, and keep coming back."
I actually thought I had a much better relationship with this guy (Hi, Mark...) but that's ok. I was a bit disappointed that they didn't take the analogy further, though. If it were me, I would say something to the effect of "Eric is like a hot girl; he is just after your money and will do anything to get it." This is my second favorite simply because it's true. This felt more like a compliment.
1. "not to mention that if you complain about anything in this place the manager or the owner are the most ass holes on this earth."
This is by far and away my favorite insult about me. Cast aside the obvious, that I am an asshole, but just the grammatical structure of this sentence is legendary. Whenever I am having a bad day, I simply read this sentence and erupt in laughter. It doesn't get any better than this. I am having a t-shirt made with this on the front. A+.
The lesson, my friends, is think before you yelp. I would love to close and say it is because of a quote like "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," but frankly, it's just because I only have so much room in my wardrobe for amazingly stupid statements you write that I make into t-shirts.
Stay thirsty,
"the most ass hole on this earth"
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
The Serbians
This is Alex. Notice the red bull can in the frame as Milos rushes to get in on the picture.
Door
The first lesson that I learned in my new place of business is that one must be able to do every job in the house. It was a difficult first lesson to learn. When my boss, Jin, told me it was time to learn every job in the house, I said no problem.
"Good," he said, and revealed a plunger he was hiding behind his back, "because there is a toilet clogged in the women's room." I let out a small sigh and took the plunger, hoping for a smile to crack his face. I'm sure it did as soon as my back was turned, headed towards the bathroom.
My most recent departure from the comfort and confidence I have behind the bar is working the door. Allow me to explain.
Darna, on a saturday night, is a war zone; highly organized chaos. I am quite used to the routine of putting out fires on the service floor, from dealing with guest complaints to expediting table service. I know how to run a lounge. Part of my comfort of running the club is that I know I have a few muscle bound Serbians floating around, ready to pounce. I've met a ton of bouncers in my day, and the Serbians are by far and away the best. They're always dressed nicely, they're not just big, they are tough, and have a demented sense of humor that I find particularly hilarious. The best comedian couldn't get a smile out of any of my guys, but every time I pretend to stab them with my bottle opener that looks like a butterfly knife, I get a few quality minutes of laughter.
The door at Darna was a mess. We didn't have ropes and people would simply crowd the door. No line, no order, just chaos. Finally we got ropes, and Jin would send me to the ground floor to work the door.
I'm no slouch. Anyone who knows what to look for in the broken bones in a man's face or the scars on his hands can see that I am what you would call "weathered." Years of fighting in the ring and outside of it have made me, as Sarah likes to say, "ruggedly handsome." However unlike my bouncers, I am not a large, musclebound man, so the idiots that should be intimidated by me don't really know any better. Being a small man and working the door makes the job difficult, and being the guy that ultimately decides if you get in or not, I have to take a lot of shit. After all, as Big Sean, a former bouncer once said, "I'm not a bouncer, I'm a customer service agent."
Now, the door is an animal different from the rest of the venue. It is a double sided knife because on one hand you need to make people feel valued yet exclusive. There are friends of the owners and regulars who just get in, even if the line is being held. People in the line will yell at you, (which. by the way, literally NEVER works) or they will be clever.
A few of my favorites:
Guy: Hey nice tie clip. Bruins fan eh?
Me: Thanks! You a fan?
Guy: Oh hell yea! We're gonna take the cup this year.
Me: What do you think about Timmy Thomas this year? He is putting on one hell of a show...
Guy: Thomas is the best, dude. Saving our ass left and right.
Me: TRICK QUESTION! TIM THOMAS IS SITTING OUT! NOW EVERYONE WILL WAIT!
(Line groans.)
I'm a particular fan of the old "Hey bro, I know the owner..." approach. This also rarely works, mostly because I simply tell them, "Ok, well call them. Tell them to call me on my radio and I'll let you right up."
I've also become very fond of bribery attempts. Now for your average door guy, this is a sound approach and likely your best option. This is the least effective method for me, however, because I'm already making a salary. As soon as I close the restaurant downstairs, I work the line. I'm already getting paid for the previous 14 hours of work, and this is just an exercise in organization. I'm often offered bribes, or even tips, and I always say no.
The biggest key is to try to not look at anyone, and to never get angry. You don't make eye contact because it invites excuses and I don't much feel like listening to them. More importantly, never get angry, because someone can hate you more than anything else, making them wait for an hour outside, but as soon as they get in, all will be forgiven.
Stay thirsty.
"Good," he said, and revealed a plunger he was hiding behind his back, "because there is a toilet clogged in the women's room." I let out a small sigh and took the plunger, hoping for a smile to crack his face. I'm sure it did as soon as my back was turned, headed towards the bathroom.
My most recent departure from the comfort and confidence I have behind the bar is working the door. Allow me to explain.
Darna, on a saturday night, is a war zone; highly organized chaos. I am quite used to the routine of putting out fires on the service floor, from dealing with guest complaints to expediting table service. I know how to run a lounge. Part of my comfort of running the club is that I know I have a few muscle bound Serbians floating around, ready to pounce. I've met a ton of bouncers in my day, and the Serbians are by far and away the best. They're always dressed nicely, they're not just big, they are tough, and have a demented sense of humor that I find particularly hilarious. The best comedian couldn't get a smile out of any of my guys, but every time I pretend to stab them with my bottle opener that looks like a butterfly knife, I get a few quality minutes of laughter.
The door at Darna was a mess. We didn't have ropes and people would simply crowd the door. No line, no order, just chaos. Finally we got ropes, and Jin would send me to the ground floor to work the door.
I'm no slouch. Anyone who knows what to look for in the broken bones in a man's face or the scars on his hands can see that I am what you would call "weathered." Years of fighting in the ring and outside of it have made me, as Sarah likes to say, "ruggedly handsome." However unlike my bouncers, I am not a large, musclebound man, so the idiots that should be intimidated by me don't really know any better. Being a small man and working the door makes the job difficult, and being the guy that ultimately decides if you get in or not, I have to take a lot of shit. After all, as Big Sean, a former bouncer once said, "I'm not a bouncer, I'm a customer service agent."
Now, the door is an animal different from the rest of the venue. It is a double sided knife because on one hand you need to make people feel valued yet exclusive. There are friends of the owners and regulars who just get in, even if the line is being held. People in the line will yell at you, (which. by the way, literally NEVER works) or they will be clever.
A few of my favorites:
Guy: Hey nice tie clip. Bruins fan eh?
Me: Thanks! You a fan?
Guy: Oh hell yea! We're gonna take the cup this year.
Me: What do you think about Timmy Thomas this year? He is putting on one hell of a show...
Guy: Thomas is the best, dude. Saving our ass left and right.
Me: TRICK QUESTION! TIM THOMAS IS SITTING OUT! NOW EVERYONE WILL WAIT!
(Line groans.)
I'm a particular fan of the old "Hey bro, I know the owner..." approach. This also rarely works, mostly because I simply tell them, "Ok, well call them. Tell them to call me on my radio and I'll let you right up."
I've also become very fond of bribery attempts. Now for your average door guy, this is a sound approach and likely your best option. This is the least effective method for me, however, because I'm already making a salary. As soon as I close the restaurant downstairs, I work the line. I'm already getting paid for the previous 14 hours of work, and this is just an exercise in organization. I'm often offered bribes, or even tips, and I always say no.
The biggest key is to try to not look at anyone, and to never get angry. You don't make eye contact because it invites excuses and I don't much feel like listening to them. More importantly, never get angry, because someone can hate you more than anything else, making them wait for an hour outside, but as soon as they get in, all will be forgiven.
Stay thirsty.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Open at last, open at last, thank god almighty, we are open at last
Well, I suppose the cat is really out of the bag on this one, but Darna Restaurant, after months of setbacks and challenges, is open.
It is quite remarkable, the feeling once the doors are open. When the vision of the restaurant is just a twinkle in the owners eye, you look forward to the day that the entire staff gathers outside of the doors and then opens them. Once you open those fateful doors, the only vision one has is of a long vacation somewhere with mountains and some other poor bastard making my drinks for me. But there is no rest, only Zhul.
Drinks have always and will always be my speciality, though managing a restaurant means also stepping into the world of food. I do not think I was prepared for bridging the cultural gap on this one the way I had to. Allow me to explain...
It is a rare occasion that anyone sees meatloaf on the menu in a restaurant. Meatloaf is something that my mom makes me. It is literally one of my favorite meals by her. No matter how well it can be made by any Chef in the world, my mothers meatloaf will always be the best. Something you realize in the restaurant industry is that engaging with the food that people loved growing up is a bold choice, and you'd better get it right.
For my non-Arab readers, words like Mansaf and Molokhia mean nothing to you. To some, these words are staples of their childhood.
One of my guests, Said Durrah, told me that no matter what, no Mansaf will be as good as the one a man's mother makes. (To prove his point, his mother came in and tried ours. We got a thumbs up!)
So yes, good readers, we are open. Lunch, dinner, and beyond. Come into Darna; there is something for everyone.
Stay Thirsty,
Eric
It is quite remarkable, the feeling once the doors are open. When the vision of the restaurant is just a twinkle in the owners eye, you look forward to the day that the entire staff gathers outside of the doors and then opens them. Once you open those fateful doors, the only vision one has is of a long vacation somewhere with mountains and some other poor bastard making my drinks for me. But there is no rest, only Zhul.
Drinks have always and will always be my speciality, though managing a restaurant means also stepping into the world of food. I do not think I was prepared for bridging the cultural gap on this one the way I had to. Allow me to explain...
It is a rare occasion that anyone sees meatloaf on the menu in a restaurant. Meatloaf is something that my mom makes me. It is literally one of my favorite meals by her. No matter how well it can be made by any Chef in the world, my mothers meatloaf will always be the best. Something you realize in the restaurant industry is that engaging with the food that people loved growing up is a bold choice, and you'd better get it right.
For my non-Arab readers, words like Mansaf and Molokhia mean nothing to you. To some, these words are staples of their childhood.
One of my guests, Said Durrah, told me that no matter what, no Mansaf will be as good as the one a man's mother makes. (To prove his point, his mother came in and tried ours. We got a thumbs up!)
So yes, good readers, we are open. Lunch, dinner, and beyond. Come into Darna; there is something for everyone.
Stay Thirsty,
Eric
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Tonic Water Wars (or "What the fuck is quinine?")
I often say that everything in this business is a fight, and this week has been no exception. It is the little things about building a restaurant from scratch that you never think about nor understand until you do it yourself. You wouldn't believe how much money we had to budget for light bulbs...
When trying to do something very original, recipes are a daunting and frustrating process. The problem truly arrives when you are a basket case for perfection like I am; the words "good enough" have never made sense to me in my professional life. This comes to the great surprise of anyone who has ever seen what my home looks like without someone cleaning up after me. Thinking out loud, I once asked why it is that my bar is entirely immaculate when I work yet my room is a disaster that would make Hurricane Katrina blush, to which my friend and talented bartender Patrick quipped, "You don't get paid to clean your room." I laughed and realized that perhaps I need to be given an allowance again as proper motivation.
I decided that for Darna Restaurant I would be featuring my own tonic water, hand made and force carbonated. This was all well and good until I looked up recipes. Every bartender and most drinkers know that the magic ingredient to tonic water is quinine, which I mistakingly thought was a mineral. (Fun fact: take any drink with tonic water and put it under a black light, and it will glow bright blue. Great for when you mix up a vodka soda and a gin an tonic and need to quickly identify which is which.) After reading the first recipe, I asked myself out loud, "What the fuck is quinine?" My brother, in the other room, called out "It's the stuff in tonic water, dummy." After an exasperated sigh, I began to google. Turns out that quinine is from with the bark of the Cinchona tree, and will turn a real tonic water brown.
First of all, finding cinchona is no simple task. Sure there are suppliers on the internet, but something about buying things to consume on the web felt wrong, so off I went. After six days and a dozen stops at various restaurant supply stores, tea stores, Chinese markets (try explaining quinine over two languages...), I found a supplier at an herbal shop in Northern DC.
After finding a few recipes online, I chose one that called for a quarter cup of cinchona. Following the recipe perfectly I let it simmer, cooled it, and with great anticipation, tasted.
"Holy shit," Jin, my manager, sputtered. "That's so bitter I think my tongue is dead," I sulked. We had put in too much.
Here I sit, eight trial batches later, not able to find a balance for the raw, real Cinchona. I later discovered that the already powdered version is far less potent than the real stuff I had, so I balanced and tried and failed and failed some more. Now with the last batch cooling, I prepare myself to run the quinine gauntlet once more. I'll let you know the results, but if you see a hole in the wall with the shape of a cooking pot, you'll know that this round didn't work either.
Stay thirsty,
Eric
When trying to do something very original, recipes are a daunting and frustrating process. The problem truly arrives when you are a basket case for perfection like I am; the words "good enough" have never made sense to me in my professional life. This comes to the great surprise of anyone who has ever seen what my home looks like without someone cleaning up after me. Thinking out loud, I once asked why it is that my bar is entirely immaculate when I work yet my room is a disaster that would make Hurricane Katrina blush, to which my friend and talented bartender Patrick quipped, "You don't get paid to clean your room." I laughed and realized that perhaps I need to be given an allowance again as proper motivation.
I decided that for Darna Restaurant I would be featuring my own tonic water, hand made and force carbonated. This was all well and good until I looked up recipes. Every bartender and most drinkers know that the magic ingredient to tonic water is quinine, which I mistakingly thought was a mineral. (Fun fact: take any drink with tonic water and put it under a black light, and it will glow bright blue. Great for when you mix up a vodka soda and a gin an tonic and need to quickly identify which is which.) After reading the first recipe, I asked myself out loud, "What the fuck is quinine?" My brother, in the other room, called out "It's the stuff in tonic water, dummy." After an exasperated sigh, I began to google. Turns out that quinine is from with the bark of the Cinchona tree, and will turn a real tonic water brown.
First of all, finding cinchona is no simple task. Sure there are suppliers on the internet, but something about buying things to consume on the web felt wrong, so off I went. After six days and a dozen stops at various restaurant supply stores, tea stores, Chinese markets (try explaining quinine over two languages...), I found a supplier at an herbal shop in Northern DC.
After finding a few recipes online, I chose one that called for a quarter cup of cinchona. Following the recipe perfectly I let it simmer, cooled it, and with great anticipation, tasted.
"Holy shit," Jin, my manager, sputtered. "That's so bitter I think my tongue is dead," I sulked. We had put in too much.
Here I sit, eight trial batches later, not able to find a balance for the raw, real Cinchona. I later discovered that the already powdered version is far less potent than the real stuff I had, so I balanced and tried and failed and failed some more. Now with the last batch cooling, I prepare myself to run the quinine gauntlet once more. I'll let you know the results, but if you see a hole in the wall with the shape of a cooking pot, you'll know that this round didn't work either.
Stay thirsty,
Eric
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