1954 Practical Bar Management by Eddie Clarke

THE ART OF SERVICE

able things already observed. Forthe whole place reeks oflaziness and inefficiency, making it obvious that there is no experienced guiding hand responsible for its supervision. Having arrived at our destination, we manage after several attempts to attract the attention ofthe bartender. He is busily engaged in a heated battle of words with a couple of characters whom we assume to be his assistants. He seems to resent our intrusion, but, nevertheless, after casually blowing the ashfrom his cigarette, he curtly enquires what we want. Nothing daunted, having come so far we decide to test his knowledge of mixing, and although it must be admitted with certain apprehension, we ask for"Mint Juleps". A look of consternation crosses the poorly shaven face of the grubby custodian, he mutters something and hopes he hasn't heard correctly. So we repeat the order, and then, realizing that his fair name is at stake, lockers and drawers are feverishly opened, books are hurriedly referred to, and after much consultation with the two assistants the pantomime proceeds. A large chunk of ice is wrapped up in a glasscloth which, by the way, is far from clean—it appears to have been used previously for wiping out a dirty ashtray. Our bartender now disappears from view, grovelling on the floor behind the bar with his prize. Suddenly an ear-splitting din arises as it is beaten to fragments with the aid of an empty syphon—the appalling crescendo is reached as, with a crash of glass, the syphon breaks. In our endeavour to see more, we lean our elbow on the bar-counter, just as our champion, looking flushed and puffing like a bull, emerges from the lower regions off the floor. We are amazed at the exhibition, giving way to horror as we realize that our elbow has been resting in a mixture of cigarette ash, sodden crisps and a variety of many liquids. Nothing loath, we glance along the counter and our gaze is held by the frightful sight,for it is on equal terms with muck,as the street gutter of a big city after a downfall of heavy rain. We shudder and force ourselves to look once again upon the "mixologist"—in the meantime this character has flopped on the counter a now torn, sodden and shredded glasscloth, spilling with crushed ice and other foreign bodies. Two handfuls of this resultant mess are thrust into each glass, followed by a limp greyish-looking weed, which is presumably mint. There is a

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