Some sage advice
When I’m training new bartenders or consoling an industry vet who is struggling with burnout, I have a bit of advice I pull out every time. It has become a sort of mantra. I even use it on myself when I get too close to the internal abyss and find myself staring into the void.
“Your first day is much like your last day. You show up, make drinks, and then go home. That’s it. Make sure you have something that accounts for your time outside of work.”
The idea is that the industry has a way of pulling you in and locking you down. It’s got a pull to it, a gravity. And before you realize it, you’re trapped in its orbit of five years, then ten, and then twenty, and one day, after dropping a drink off, you look at your hands, once young and clean, are now cracked, callused, and yellowed. What happened?
This industry does not reward individuality, and that’s for a reason. It’s not about you. It’s about the guest. Some learn that fast, some learn it the hard way. And so you show up, and you put your identity in your locker with your jacket and bag. That’s where it stays for eight, ten, or twelve hours.
And after a decade, when you look back at the years spent, what do you remember? Surely it won’t be making that martini, it won’t be bussing that table, it won’t be laughing with the guests as you walk them out the door. And if you don’t have something to account for your years outside of work, you won’t remember what happened at all. It feels as if you sold your soul for a spot of quick cash, which has since dried up as well.
There are many things that’ll save you in this moment. Some people have relationships and families, which is, by all accounts, a great way to account for your time. That counts. If not a family, then something that compounds, something that builds, something project-based.
The most common choice is always the arts.
And actually, I have another bit of advice for those looking to put together a band. Go talk to your local servers and bartenders. You’ll likely find a guitarist, a drummer, and a vocalist all in the same shop.
That’s how you survive this industry—and if I can extend that out a little further, that’s just simply how you survive.
Resist the call
Another caveat—stay away from the cocaine.
And the late-night drinks, the free drinks, and the after-hour parties.
It’s so so easy to get sucked in. It’s so easy to let it destroy you.
It’s rather glamorise I have to say. And that’s what gets you. There’s almost a game of celebrity to it. It’s not Hollywood esc, no. Nobody is wearing anything designer. Nobody is chased by paparazzi. Industry workers exist in the shadows, but even in that, the shadows learn to recognize each other.
There are such things known as “bartender’s handshakes.” And it’s a way of ordering, a way of indicating that you’re an insider. When done right and done at the right time, suddenly you’ve had three drinks and paid for one.
It’s a wholesome thing. It really is. It’s a way of saying, “I see you—enjoy your time off.”
But the industry is saturated with addicts. We’re addicted to work, we’re addicted to the adrenaline rush, we’re addicted to alcohol, we’re addicted to fast cash, and with that, eventually and inevitably, someone brings something a little more enticing into the mix.
The setting is often this:
It’s past 2:00 AM, the bars are closed, and the public has stumbled home. But what of the staff? They’re still amped up from that last-call rush and that midnight Red Bull. They’re gonna be up for hours. Where do they go?
If it’s not an after-work party in the back of the house, it’s at somebody’s house.
This is, by all means, a great time. As the rest of the working world gets off at 5 PM and goes out to the bars to enjoy there after work indulgences, this is theoretically the same thing.
Everyone from the hosts and barbacks to the cooks, lead servers, and bartenders shows up, and the party is on. And there’s nothing more immaculate than a bunch of industry professionals who are drunk and can’t seem to turn it off. Bartenders start grabbing bottles, making drinks they’ve been thinking about all day. Chefs raid the fridge and start showing off for the pretty girls. The lead server, working on maternal instinct, starts checking on everyone, making sure they’ve eaten and had lots of water.
And then the night persists, people continue to drink and smoke and eventually, somebody pulls something out that’s only for a select group. And it can make for a fun night, a really fun night. It usually is, but the problem arises when this becomes the standard.
Unlike the general public, who might stumble into one of these parties every other month or so, the industry tends to host one weekly, if not several times. And with access to this underground network, one could sniff out a party whenever they wanted.
That’s when it begins to consume you. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it destroy bartenders. I’ve seen people come back from it. This has been going on for a long time, and it’s even worse in the bigger cities. Seattle has a scene for it, but you get out to LA or Las Vegas, and it’s a whole new world. You’ll see it in older bartenders, because this is not a new phenomenon.
In fact, if you see an older bartender, they likely survived it. And not to expose them, but frequently, if a bartender is post forty, you’ll notice they’re completely sober.
I once worked with a bartender who had come out to sleepy Seattle from Vegas, and when I asked him about his time there, he said, “I wish I could remember.” And based on the searching look in his sad blue eyes, I could tell he meant it. He couldn’t account for his days.
So that’s my point: if you find yourself in the industry and getting pulled into the trappings, resist the call. Go home, have a glass of whiskey, and crawl into bed. You’ll thank yourself the next day and in the next decade.
It’s a quiet life, but it’s a good life.
If you put the pieces together, you’ll notice that retiring at the end of a shift yields you a long morning as opposed to a long evening. That can be a tough adjustment for people, because you end up spending a lot of time alone. And then you go to work, and despite being surrounded by people saddled up at your bar, you’re still alone because, well, your personality is tucked away in your locker.
Sure, that sounds depressing if you let it, but if you do it just right, it’s rather serene. While the rest of the world is locked away at a desk, you can go for a long walk in the park on a Tuesday, and aside from a few retirees, you’re alone to enjoy the splendor of the park. You want to go have a nice lunch somewhere, no need for a reservation. And so you’re free to explore the world unencumbered.
And I suppose I’m lucky that my early-morning indulgences are books and writing. It’s a wonderful feeling to start the day with a cup of coffee, the early-morning light filtering through the window, and the smell of a newly bought book.
I’m not suggesting you pick up my hobbies, but I do think an indulgent early morning is much better than an overly intoxicated evening.
Oh my god… am I getting old? Did I just say that?
Christ. Anyways, sure, I apparently stand by it. Wake up early, save yourself, and account for your days.
Cheers,
Keven D. Stehl
