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Over the past year I’ve been traveling almost nonstop, and of course, drinking to match. And while I’ve been able to quaff cocktails in the world’s finest establishments, I’ve also been disappointed plenty, too. Some of the bartenders I’ve been running into lately have made me visbly angry.
I was sitting around with my editor this morning and she brought up a quote from this article,
“…if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary.”
And it got me inspired to draw a few of these comedic frustrations into silly cartoons. They are anthropomorphic little expressions about how everyone has faults but me:
Now he lives in the islands, fishes the pilins
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs, losin his hearin
But he don’t care what most people say
Slothy Joe is awesome in that Lebowski way. He has a Jimmy Buffet bootleg from ’82 that he really wants you to hear some time. Slothy Joe ain’t moving too fast.
I really like Slothy Joe. I like him for the same reason I like drinking a pint in a dark bar on a sunny afternoon, I like him the same way I like to wear the same shirt 2 days in a row; I’m on vacation right? Fuck it.
Slothy Joe’s aloha shirt collection is the only thing in his life untouched by the, “fuck it attitude.” And he has some epic hibiscus prints in his closet. Slothy Joe even knows all of the tropical drinks to back up his wardrobe. He can make you a Zombie, a Donga Punch or a Tropical Itch. He knows the Diki Diki, remembers the Jungle Bird and can make a Suffering Bastard (both ways). But Slothy Joe Isn’t called, “savant Joe,” because he can remember a lot of drinks, they call him Slothy Joe because he ain’t working too hard to make the drinks he remembers. Instead he wistfully remembers the drinks of yesterday while using off brand light or “gold” rum to make everything.
Slothy Joe takes the path of least resistance, always. He uses a blender for everything, instead of shaking any drink, even if not on crushed ice. Slothy Joe makes blended Old Fashioneds. Though he works in the tropics but fresh fruit is always passed up for canned. Pre bottled sour mix makes bigger drinks faster than squeezing a lime. Any recipe Slothy Joe could attempt is now likened to sculpting Michelangelo’s David out of mashed potatoes.
But none of this is really Slothy Joe’s fault. When he started working in that beach front hotel he just wanted a cool job making fun drinks watching long sunsets scored to Aja by Steely Dan. But F&B managers, Hotel owners and the general miasma of the service industry whittled the job down to the nothingness it is now. Sorry Slothy Joe, no more Cocktails & Dreams, just hearing loss from using a blender too much.
Next: The Goat
*Coined by Nathan Webber as a term for assholes that put amaro in everything
In case you’re wondering: I drew this with an app called Paper 53, after I had dinner next to a guy named Georg who made this app that delightfully allows me to scribble little amusing cartoons. Georg is a great guy to talk to about schnapps, and he sure can intuitively digitize a creative process.
Over the past year I’ve been traveling almost nonstop, and of course, drinking to match. And while I’ve been able to quaff cocktails in the world’s finest establishments, I’ve also been disappointed plenty, too. Some of the bartenders I’ve been running into lately have made me visbly angry.
I was sitting around with my editor this morning and she brought up a quote from this article,
“…if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary.”
And it got me inspired to draw a few of these comedic frustrations into silly cartoons. They are anthropomorphic little expressions about how everyone has faults but me:
Clive isn’t a sly fox, he is a slick fuck.
Clive has one thing down about being cool, “don’t try too hard.” Clive might be asleep right now. He was bone luging before Intsagram ever existed. Bartender? More like “Amartender.* ” What is Clive’s deal you ask?
“Oh, you don’t know?”
Clive is the hipster bartender and his fixe bike is locked up out in front of the bar. Every drink that he makes has an Italian amaro in it. The worse the amaro, the more he uses it. Amaro di S. Maria, I’m talking to you.
“I’m really into amaros right now”
Clive has a signature move and it’s his lean. Most bartenders lean towards a guest to see what they would like to drink. Clive leans away from the guest and employing a pressure-free sales technique. This casual nature ensures that you’ll get your cocktail…eventually… when he notices you. Young bartenders: leaning forward is attentive and empathic, whereas learning back equals,
“I’m sooo hungover right now.”
Clive has forgotten how to shake a drink. Clive has forgotten how to muddle a drink. And without Amaro Nonino, Clive has forgotten how to make a drink. I’ve got news for you Clive, If you mix Amaro Nonino with coffee grounds and rotten lamb curry it still makes a good cocktail. Why? because Amaro Nonino is ambrosia and it is doing the heavy lifting, not you.
Ramazzotti is certainly Clive’s other crutch and sometimes he walks with a Fernet Branca pimp cane. With 5 other amaros mixed shittily with 5 other base spirits he’ll write a cocktail list,
“Ripped off from Imbibe,”
And a cocktail list that a surly, angry, pirate like myself will enjoy yet also a cocktail list that will ensure a new generation’s fear of whiskey and gin. In that way, Clive, you are to blame for the increased sales of Whipped Cream Vodka.
Thanks Clive.
Next: The Sloth
*Coined by Nathan Webber as a term for assholes that put amaro in everything
In case you’re wondering: I drew this with an app called Paper 53, after I had dinner next to a guy named Georg who made this app that delightfully allows me to scribble little amusing cartoons. Georg is a great guy to talk to about schnapps, and he sure can intuitively digitize a creative process.
Over the past year I’ve been traveling almost nonstop, and of course, drinking to match. And while I’ve been able to quaff cocktails in the world’s finest establishments, I’ve also been disappointed plenty, too. Some of the bartenders I’ve been running into lately have made me visbly angry.
I was sitting around with my editor this morning and she brought up a quote from this article,
“…if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary.”
And it got me inspired to draw a few of these comedic frustrations into silly cartoons. They are anthropomorphic little expressions about how everyone has faults but me:
Bart the shitty Rhino caterer, he doen’t even have the thumbs to be all thumbs.
Hey Bart, here is an idea – after the wedding/ during the retirement party/ whatever the fucking occasion that got you hired – we want to drink, so how about you open a couple bottles *before* we walk up to your bar.
Or do you think I enjoy watching someone slowly open a bottle of gin, then look for vermouth, then open the can of olives, then fumble around for an ice scoop and when that isn’t even in place, use a pint glass to fish out the pillow ice, all to then utter:
“You wanted a vodka martini right?”
Bart, you have one job, it’s called emptying bottles and the only way you can do it wrong is to do it slowly: well, mission accomplished. Bart left his branded plastic “Gallo” wine key in his other pants, can he borrow yours? A wine key is the only tool in life he needs to get a paycheck other than the wrinkle free dockers he sports. Not all of us can make it to the dry cleaner, but I know you did not wash that shirt since Ari’s bar mitzvah. Come to mention it, that bow tie is not tied at a jaunty angle, it’s a clip-on, you can at least wear it straight.
Occasionally he gets a bit creative, like the time he combined the bride and groom’s name and added the suffix, “tini,” for the signature cocktail. Bart, I know that is just a cosmo. He told his boss that Canadian whisky and bourbon are similar enough to only serve Crown Royal. Bart only pours 1.25 oz of liquor a time and refuses to pour doubles. God forbid my plastic cup had a little extra fun.
But I really feel bad for Bart. It’s not easy to tend bar off of a card table, outside, in August, facing West at sunset. It’s a bitch to be a catering bartender. And it’s doubly hard when you aren’t even a bartender. It’s OK, I know you are just doing this gig until you get a call back from that sitcom about the 6 Rhinos trying to make their way in NYC: Rhino Friends. Bart, buddy, sincerely, I wish a punch bowl could replace you too. But no, someone insisted on hiring your clumsy Rhino feet to ineptly open my Heinekin,and Bart, I didn’t even want a Heineken. Heinekin is what you drink in airports when your only other option is Bud Light. Go home Bart.
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Next: The Fox
In case you’re wondering: I drew this with an app called Paper 53, after I had dinner next to a guy named Georg who made this app that delightfully allows me to scribble little amusing cartoons. Georg is a great guy to talk to about schnapps, and he sure can intuitively digitize a creative process.
Over the past year I’ve been traveling almost nonstop, and of course, drinking to match. And while I’ve been able to quaff cocktails in the world’s finest establishments, I’ve also been disappointed plenty, too. Some of the bartenders I’ve been running into lately have made me visbly angry.
I was sitting around with my editor this morning and she brought up a quote from this article,
“…if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary.”
And it got me inspired to draw a few of these comedic frustrations into silly cartoons. They are anthropomorphic little expressions about how everyone has faults but me:
Camus the bartender, in all black not because he is an existentialist, but because he he doesn’t care about anything.
This guy is a bit older and asking him to shake a drink with two hands is madness. He shakes a cocktail like he is languidly jerking off. He says he is too busy to shake with two hands but his other paw, more often than not, lies limp at his side. Camus won’t measure anything and he loves sour mix. He wears all black because he works in a shitty corporate restaurant that thinks it’s actually still an acceptable way for a server to dress. Every piece of fruit in his garnish bowl has one weak little zest cut from it as to ensure that he both A: wastes maximum fruit and B: never properly garnishes a drink. He spends most of his shift pouring beer and the second-least-expensive-wine on the glass pour menu.
Camus isn’t all bad, he is a little rough around the edges, but that’s a good thing for a bartender. Camus has a good quick joke for you while you are waiting for a table and he is often nice enough to card your wife.
It might surprise you to learn that there is more than meets the eye here. He has a secret that not many know: CAMUS MAKES BANK. The corporate shitbox he works for, you know, the one you love the chicken wings from but won’t admit that you ever go to, pays him benefits and a good wage. He also gets tipped out by every 21 year old communications major that serves his beers on the floor, he works 4 days a week, pulls rent in a shift and a half, and he wants you to come see his blues rock band this weekend, he’ll put you on the list.
Camus isn’t a shithead, he is just lazy. And isn’t it everyone’s right to be lazy? Not if you sell me a $16 (+tax) Manhattan; I expect fresh vermouth (god help me if you tell me you use Vya or some likewise ex-trendy shit), a chilled class, a stirred drink and I want it faster than the amount of time it takes the cook to microwave the wings. Camus, shrugs his shoulders, and shakes my manhattan and forgets the bitters. I simply suggest, that were Camus to try a bit, he might not hate life, and if nothing else, I could get a better drink.
Blues Rock is the worst musical genre.
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Next: The Rhino
In case you’re wondering: I drew this with an app called Paper 53, after I had dinner next to a guy named Georg who made this app that delightfully allows me to scribble little amusing cartoons. Georg is a great guy to talk to about schnapps, and he sure can intuitively digitize a creative process.
Over the past year I’ve been traveling almost nonstop, and of course, drinking to match. And while I’ve been able to quaff cocktails in the world’s finest establishments, I’ve also been disappointed plenty, too. Some of the bartenders I’ve been running into lately have made me visbly angry.
I was sitting around with my editor this morning and she brought up a quote from this article,
“…if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary.”
And it got me inspired to draw a few of these comedic frustrations into silly cartoons. They are anthropomorphic little expressions about how everyone has faults but me:
Timothy wants you to look at him, look at his fancy shit, is that a full windsor? Fuck, that is fancy.
First off, TIMOTHY, I’d rather call you Tim. Because last week, I knew a great bar back named Tim, now I know this Brooks Brothers asshole named Timothy. Timothy has a 4 foot long mixing spoon with a nonsensical trident at the end, it will surely put his eye out one day.
Timothy is very concerned with authenticity. Mexican Coca-Cola? Timothy uses Ecuadorian Coke with cacao. He must bear the burden of barrel aging his own barrels. He only uses the miniature glassware. He puts a flamed orange zest on everything, even the napkins, but his favorite garnish is the disapproving glare. If it isn’t pre-prohibition, Timothy isn’t interested. 50% of his drink menu has a dash of Absinthe, 50% has an egg in it, and most of those cocktails also include Carpano Antica. If you don’t like his cocktails then you obviously haven’t read the 10 year old NYT article hailing the resurgence of the speakeasy. He works in a bar called the “Bullshit” Social, the “Something” Volstead or the 23rd “I could give a fuck.” AND, Timothy doesn’t carry Midori because it has artificial coloring but has a Campari stain on almost all of his ties.
Dear Timothy, the folly of excitement is no crime but pride is a sin. You are young and full of piss & something acidic. I’d like to offer perspective from mothers everywhere: Your parents are not proud of you for being a bartender.
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Next: The Old Dog
In case you’re wondering: I drew this with an app called Paper 53, after I had dinner next to a guy named Georg who made this app that delightfully allows me to scribble little amusing cartoons. Georg is a great guy to talk to about schnapps, and he sure can intuitively digitize a creative process.
