Reykjavík Grapevine - 06.08.2004, Blaðsíða 12

COLUMN
H
.S
.
WORST BARTENDER
IN REYKJAVÍK
by Padraig Mara
There’s only one quality that a bartender really needs. More important than speed of service. More
important even than a working knowledge of cocktails. A bartender must, MUST like their customers,
or at least appear to. I could do neither. A good barman is part psychiatrist, part con-man, and part ac-
tor. I was a cook banished from the kitchen. I really had no business in public at all, much less serving it.
During the day, the café where I
worked attracted three groups with
its international cuisine and almost
funky ambience. First there were the
tourists, identicaly dressed, escaping
the rain, asking for directions and,
if they were from Germany, stealing
all the bread. Then, there were the
immigrants, gathering together to
talk about the old country in a place
where they didn’t feel completely
surrounded. And finally the artists,
tucked in their corner, requiring an
unceasing supply of expresso and
ice water. This was no problem. I
reprimanded (that’s ALL for you,
Dieter) and directed the tourists to
Kolaportið. I kept the artists on a
steady caffeine drip. I shed a tear
with those far from home. Mostly
however, I chain smoked and listened
to the stereo. If this would have been
the extent of my duties, I would have
been content. The problem was that
Friday night always came eventually.
As day turned to night, our little
oasis of multi-cultural interaction
turned into a nightclub of sorts. The
nature of the job changed. While the
place filled up with merry-makers,
you were expected to become a sort
of master of ceremonies, a good time
coach, making sure everyone was en-
joying themselves. This was difficult
for me, as I didn’t give a damn who
was amused so long as I was.
Weekend shifts were tricky. It
could go either way. If the place
didn’t fill up, or if it emptied before
2:30, the owner would tell you to
lock up. This left you a few hours of
playtime for yourself before last call
all over the city. But if the place was
still jumping by 2:30, your night was
shot. You’d be cleaning and cursing
until 7 a.m. easily.
One Friday ran like this:
9 o´clock: All the tourists scurry
back to their hotels, in their match-
ing anoraks and feckless expressions.
The immigrants have gone home,
they’re saving money. The artists
switch from coffee to white wine.
And then come the rest...
11 o’clock: The 16-year-olds show,
order Cokes and hot chocolate while
furtively guzzling fifths of Beefeater
stolen from Pabbi’s liquor cabinet
hidden in their backpacks. I come
upon one in the kitchen, wrist deep
in a sink backed up with Sambucca
and Thai-noodle vomit.
Kid (clad in too-big pink dishwash-
ing gloves, finger tips bent hys-
terically)- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I
couldn’t make it to the bathroom. I’ll
clean it up. I’m cleaning it see?
He rummages around ineffectu-
ally in the muck. Splash, splash. He’s
got tears in his eyes and I’m waiting
for closing.
12 o´clock: The druggists arrive,
stake out tables close to the rest-
rooms. They go to the toilets in pairs
and fill up our wastebaskets with
bloody tissues. They can never order
just a beer or a shot. Always some-
thing exotic or non-existant.
Druggist (getting his head togeth-
er)- Ok,Ok,Ok...I´ll have a Russian,
no, no,no a Screaming, no... a blue
meanie. I want a blue meanie.
Me- No such thing, man.
Druggist (genuinely offended and
developing a nosebleed)- What
kind of place IS this?
1 o’clock: Everyone else arrives.
Most of Reykjavík. Hair gelled stiff
and curled. All dressed to the 9’s and
posing like somebody’s watching.
The crowd’s half-drunk already, act-
ing up and, by the looks of it, down
to stay for the duration.
My barman’s banter is non-exis-
tent, the more crowded we get the
more annoyed I become. I viewed
the night as my own personal
shootout at the O.K. Coral. You ask
for a drink, I throw it to you. Bang,
yer dead. I had fulfilled my duty
to you. I didn’t want to hear about
your lovelife, your interests, or your
chances with the dark haired girl at
that table. Your night was getting in
the way of mine.
By 4 am my night is fucked. I’m
on a stool behind the bar, smoking
my Nth cigarette. I’m long since past
the point of caring about the patron’s
music taste. I put in Thin Lizzy and
Dancing in the Moolight comes over
the speakers. I notice as a woman
stands up from her table. She’s in
her late twenties, eyes crossed, a bit
chubby. She starts to dance a bit to
the song, clumsily, just there next to
her chair. She’s not a bit drunk, I’ve
served her soda water and lemon
all night. Her face is turned toward
the ceiling, eyes closed as she dances
naively, unselfconsciously. We all
watch mesmerized, through smoke
shade and bloodshot eyes, break our
poses and just watch. Her friends
are looking up at her smiling. And
suddenly it’s all alright. The tourists
are bundling up against the feared
weather. The immigrants are count-
ing krona in their sleep. The artists
are worn out with talk and wine
and are nodding at the tables.The
druggists are a-jingle-jangling home.
The teenagers are wretching all over
the dawn breaking city. It’s Saturday
morning in Reykjavík and it’s alright.
H
.S
.
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