The bartender’s story

It was the craziest night. I have the receipts, I have the overflowing tip jar, I washed the glasses, I even tasted the stuff myself, and I still don’t believe it happened. But it did, in my bar.

There was a SNAFU with one of the orders, and the beer never got delivered. We’re supposed to have a dozen different beers. We’re down to the last keg, that one’s almost empty, and it’s 5 p.m. on a Friday. We’re all panicking, we can’t get hold of anyone to order more beer, and customers are walking in.

This one guy – big guy, looks like he does construction – comes up to the bar, and says “I’m buying a round, what’s everyone want?” Everyone wants beer, of course; they all want the amber, and that’s what we have left, but I don’t know if we have enough. I take the order, and as I’m about to go try and fill it the burly guy says “Friend, you look worried. What’s the problem?” Funny, I’m always saying that to my customers; this is the first time in ten years that a customer asked me. I tell him “Well sir, I’m just hoping we have enough beer to fill your order, we’re almost out.” The guy says “Hey, don’t worry, friend, it’ll be fine. You just pour till it runs out. You’d be surprised how far a keg can go.”
Well, I think, whatever, he’s trying to cheer me up and it’s nice of him but there still won’t be enough beer.

But he’s got this grin.

I fill the order, and there is enough for the round. Then the burly guy, still grinning, orders another round, and says he wants porter this time. I tell him we’re out, and he says “Pour an amber then, but remember the dark chocolatey amber is mine.” He winks. I think maybe I’ll have to cut him off soon, but I pour everyone’s order – and as I stand before you, I swear – when I poured the last one, the tap ran dark and it was pouring porter. I damn near dropped the glass, but that guy sings out “That last one’s mine, dude, be careful with that one” and I recover enough to hand the drinks around. He calls me over and says “I told you, don’t worry. You just pour. Everyone will get what they need.”

That keg that should have been empty by 5:15 poured round after round after round, and that guy is leading everyone in songs. Some of them were drinking songs in other languages, but he managed to get everyone singing along anyway – Hava Nagila was one. He’s the life of the party, buying rounds, telling jokes, dancing with people, getting all the solitary drinkers laughing and singing and joking and dancing too. He’s buying food for people too, as fast as Manuel can cook it… and I swear there was more bread than there should’ve been, now I think of it. And whatever people order, it’s coming out of the tap. Just for the hell of it, when one lady ordered a margarita, I poured from the keg to see what would happen, and damn if it wasn’t a frozen margarita pouring from an empty beer keg. And I could tell from the smell – you own a bar for ten years and you can tell – that it was top-shelf tequila in there.

By 9 p.m. he’s stopped drinking, but he’s still got everyone roaring with laughter. And it’s not the laughter you get from people who’ve drunk themselves stupid, it’s the laughter you get when everyone’s just a little buzzed and genuinely having a great time. That’s another thing – he seemed to be guiding people’s consumption so no one overdid it. People who are about to order one too many, he stops them and says he’ll buy them some juice instead, and they’re feeling so great that they AGREE. Even Big Jimmy – last time I cut Jimmy off I damn near had to call the cops, but Jimmy THANKS this guy. That tap pours orange, grape, tomato, apple, whatever the guy orders. He grins every time he orders a Virgin Mary, for some reason.

By midnight, everyone’s been laughing so hard and singing so loud and dancing so long that they’re exhausted. So he runs to his car and grabs a guitar, gets everyone quiet, and starts singing these slow, gentle songs. I can’t begin to tell you how beautiful those songs were. People are in tears – not sad, not sloppy drunk tears, but the way you cry when something’s so perfect you can’t stand it, you know?

2 a.m., last call, and that keg is still pouring. He calls out, “Hey, everyone, have this one on me. You should have the best wine – it’s something special, my own father’s vintage.” I pour sixty glasses of this rich, thick, fragrant red wine from a beer keg that should be empty, and pass them around. Then, “La Chaim!” he shouts, and everyone shouts back “La Chaim!” and drinks. Me too – he insists. I’m not a wine-drinker, but this is far and away the best thing I’ve ever had, and everyone gets real quiet as they taste. It was like… it was… What the hell, some things are too good to be described with words - you can only know it if you experience it. The closest I can get is to say this: I felt like I wanted to be a better man, to somehow begin to deserve the privilege of even touching this wine… and I knew I could never be a good enough man to deserve it.. and, somehow, I knew he was okay with that.

Then he pays his tab, in cash, and he turns to leave. Everyone shouts after him to wait a minute and… and, well, everyone wanted to hug him goodbye. He’s there another half hour hugging people, and I hug him too, and it’s like being a little kid getting a hug from Dad, just gentle, strong, safe. Then he walks out the door.

After I’ve closed up, I try the keg. It pours one more glass of liquid heaven, wine thick and dark as blood, terrifying and beautiful and full of everything that the world ought to be.

Then the keg runs dry. Not even foam.

I don’t know, you tell me. But by God, that was a party worth being at.

© John M. Munzer