Money Makes the World Go Round

In the midst of trying to finish my business plan and talk to investors, the owner of one of the hot restaurants in town came and asked me to train his bartender behind my bar. He claimed that the reason he couldn’t do it at his bar is due to the fact he is closed for the month to do a remodel. His second overhaul in less than two years. Completely unnecessary if you ask me since he has one of the most beautiful restaurants in town, I’m not quite sure where he gets the money.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to train his bartender because he claims that in his remodel he is redesigning to be the adult version of our bar. Which we aren’t really quite sure what that means, since the average age of our guest is probably 45 (although I have the sneaking suspicion that most of them like Jell-O and play with tinker toys in their free time). Anyhow, he asked and I didn’t say anything but that I’d have to think about it. I figured if I had a day, I could figure out a better way to phrase, “You coke-sniffing scum sucker who calls himself a chef because he knows what julienne vegetables are, what are you fucking nuts, we are not training your bartender for free so you can steal all of our drinks, systems, and ideas.” He had the audacity to send this poor kid in and tell him that he was going to “help” me behind the bar. I got a phone call from the opener at 4 p.m. telling me that some guy was there for a realistic. I haven’t hired anyone in months and I am not hiring anyone, so I was baffled. Then I figured out it must be the scum sucking chef’s little henchman. When I got to work at 5:30, he was having dinner with coke-sniffer who was so delighted that I was going to train his bartender. I called him the next day and said as flattered as we were to be asked to train him, he needed no training since bartending is just really glorified dishwashing.

So I met with an investor last week who is looking to get out of the business he is in now. He is in his early 30’s and has always dreamt of owning a restaurant. He came to me, I didn’t go to him, which felt good. But his ideas of what a bar should be differ from mine and I don’t think I want him to be my soul partner. He is a nice guy, but extremely boring with absolutely no sense of humor. I found myself explaining tidbits of sarcasm most of our lunch. I don’t know how he feels about being just being one of many investors; I have the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t like it because he really wants to be a part of the restaurant, which is exactly why I want to have more than one investor. Nonetheless, he is very interested and sounds like he could put the money together. So it is a start, made me start thinking more in the money terms and less in the concept of a restaurant terms. It also made me see that the first step is to see if I can buy the bar I manage now and then if that doesn’t work to move forward from there. On Thursday, I have lunch with one of my regulars who absolutely adores me and when I asked him to have lunch with me because I was looking at buying the bar he told me what an idiot I am to want to invest in that business because the entry was too low, the success rate is minimal, and the return is low. And I agreed with him on all of those things, but it wasn’t what I was expecting and definitely a blow to my ego and a shock nonetheless. But I feel better now, still ready to go eat lunch with him on Thursday. I’m taking my best friend, who I also work with, who is positive she can sell him on the idea.

So maybe it is the beginning to something bigger for me. For the meantime we got a write up in the local food magazine for our winter cocktail list. I just got photographed for another local magazine and Sunset Magazine is doing a piece on the bar. I’m supposed to talk to the woman writing the article tomorrow. Hopefully it is very glamorous and enticing.

Excited for the weekend. We are going to do hot buttered rums with cinnamon nutmeg compound butter, homemade caramel, and spiced rum. I’m also making eggnog from scratch with Myer’s and brandy. I have a crème brûlée martini with vanilla cream, Navan Vanilla Liquor, and Vanilla vodka with a handcrafted vanilla sugar candy that I made that’s been killing it. I drizzled the candy when it was drying and all of the candies look like beautiful pieces of artwork. I’m also doing a gingerbread martini with a gingerbread man hanging off the rim of the glass for First Friday. I think it will be really cute.

Cocaine

Cocaine is God's way of saying you earn far too much.

A History Lesson

Alcohol can tell your history. The first time I ever drank hard alcohol was at one of my parent’s friend’s parties. They lived up on a hill on the south side of town next to miles of sprawling BLM land filled with piñon trees and cacti. While everyone was enjoying the nice weather and the mountain vistas, my sister, her friend, and I put some brandy in a large Dixie cup and informed our parents that we were walking back to town. It was the middle of summer and the day was long, we walked late in the evening in full daylight each taking sips with a quick shake of the head after each one.

That would be one of the last times I drank hard alcohol in moderation. I was soon thereafter awarded a scholarship to go to Europe and within a month found myself drinking pot-stilled vodka mixed with Coca Cola until I vomited, but even that wouldn’t keep me from ordering another drink. I moved back to the states for an unusual fondness for McCormick’s vodka mixed with orange soda. As were my platform shoes and short haircut short lived once back in the States, my palette changed for a partiality for micro-brews and marijuana. One day some unusually clear thinking showed me that I was spending quite a lot on beer and how that could be better spent on clothing and long trips. I quit drinking for the most part and then almost entirely when I met a guy who viewed alcohol almost in the same context as my Southern Baptist grandmother, that it was only put on this earth to make you weak. I was doing pull ups off the door jams at this point, so any chance of fragility was out of the question.

I left college and moved to the city where I was surrounded by people that drank as a hobby, a sport, and some for exercise. I started hanging out more and jumped on the cosmo craze, feeling hip with my pink sips as I developed an interest in designer clothing, chef-inspired cuisine, and started to understand the difference between a viognier and a barolo. I soon after took on a cheerful alcoholic as a boyfriend who turned me onto Crown Royal and expensive bottles of champagne. It is with this I left a three-year relationship when I was making some of the better money of my life, with nothing more than a few photos of well-dressed drunk people in fancy restaurants.

After a move to the Virgin Islands and a realization that I needed to regain a sense of dignity and pride, I moved back to my hometown. Where I met my husband who showed me the delights of Jameson. I then found Jameson 12 at an Irish pub in Phoenix, and for now that is my staple drink. I like looking at the back of a bar and seeing a bottle that reminds me of a certain time, or a certain place, or a certain friend. I just wonder how that history is for some people, for example my regular D.

D is in his late 40’s, tall and thin with a long blond ponytail. He is always very cheerful and loves to tell everybody what good energy they have. He is the kind of guy who keeps crystals in his pocket and advises to have your tarot read in times of trouble. He usually never has any trouble himself, since his father sold a winery in Napa in the 70s and D lives off of that money. Thus, D has never had to work and lives about 25 miles out of town on a ranch that has an abundance of housecats and no other animals.

Obviously, money is not an issue to D. He has always been an extremely generous tipper and a good spender. Over the months I’ve come to learn that he is engaged to a woman S, who waits tables two nights a week at a French bistro in the town that they live near. He always speaks very highly of her and how they were getting married in Hawaii in February. About two months ago, he brought S in for dinner. She is the same age as he, extremely beautiful, nice, and charming. S and D started coming for dinner once a week, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same NxNW glass of cabernet and ending with the same Italian coffee drink.

Last Friday, D was in alone. Which is not unusual. He had two Italian coffees and his tab was $15. He paid with a credit card and then left $100 as the tip. I didn’t look at the slip and just put it in the drawer. G.I. Joe might have thought that knowledge is half the battle but when it comes to what people have tipped me, I’ve found that I cannot help but lose my enthusiasm to poor tippers and furthermore I think it’s tacky to look at the charge slips as you pick them up.

A few moments later, he calls me over with the curl of his pointer finger and says, “you didn’t see the tip, did you?” To which I replied no, I didn’t. He says, I left you $100 and then I feel like he is trying to kiss me from over the bar. I turn my head and say thank you but wonder if he thinks I am one of the cheapest prostitutes in Bend. I saw Cathouse, $100 won’t even get you a hand job. But the money wasn’t really for me; it was to impress the smart-looking blond girl sitting next to him. He proceeded to place his arm around her, rub her back, and kiss her on the neck. He bought another round of drinks, this time Voyant Chai liqueur, and this time left $50 on it. He left with this blond girl and put on a show of kissing her hard against his truck outside of the restaurant.

At 1:45 a.m. the phone rings. The phone never rings this late into the night, I am always alone now with the doors locked counting money or putting stuff away. So to hear anything in the building is shocking. I answer it. S asks me if I’ve seen D becaise she is concerned that she hasn’t seen him all night. I told her he left the bar around 10 p.m. I was surprised that he was fucking around on her; surprised that this woman was calling in the middle of the night, surprised that somehow I was in the middle of their fuck-up-ed-ness. But unfortunately, I am numb to people having affairs, people cheating with their wives’ best friends, and bar owners fucking their staff while their wives do the books in the backroom.

D & S came in the next night. S told me how D had fallen asleep in the truck in the driveway and how she didn’t find him until morning. I had to turn around and roll my eyes. S was looking at the back of the bar and saw the tall orange bottle that the Voyant comes in and asked about it. I told her it was Chai Tea Liqueur and that it was very yummy and creamy with cinnamon and nutmeg, like putting the flavor of Christmas in a bottle. She asked D if he wanted to try it and he says no. So just like I think of fun times, friends, and exquisite meals I’ve had when I scan across the bar, I just hope for D’s sake that they don’t have Voyant at the bar on his wedding day.

Dear Abby:

My husband is a liar and a cheat. He has cheated on me from the beginning, and when I confront him, he denies everything. What's worse, everyone knows he cheats on me. It is so humiliating. Also, since he lost his job over three years ago he hasn't even looked for a new one. All he does is buy cigars and cruise around and bullshit with his pals, while I have to work to pay the bills. Since our daughter went away to college he doesn't even pretend to like me and hints that I am a lesbian.

What should I do?

Signed,

Clueless


Dear Clueless:

Grow up and dump him. For Pete's sake, you don't need him anymore. You're a United States Senator from New York, act like it!

Attack of the Flu

For the past three years, October has brought a debilitating fit of bronchitis to me. I scurry around sick people year round without as much as a cough and then at the end of each October I suddenly cannot breathe when lying on my back and find a certain satisfaction when coughing up hard balls of mucus. I fantasize about never getting out of bed and watching television game shows until I have figured out the pattern on Press Your Luck. I watch the side of the bed become a cesspool of used tissues and use my sickness as an excuse to have food, books, magazines, and vitamins delivered to me by my husband as if I am some sort of invalid.

And it is with this state of body and mind I worked for the past three days. As alluring as it would be to not move and just sleep, I have no choice but go work eight to nine long hours on my feet in a busy bar. Smiling, laughing, joking, without coughing, sniffling, or lying down. It has been a real challenge to my showmanship and a real game in patience. Fortunately, we were busy but not to a point of any real challenge. Last Saturday was absolutely insane and I was behind the bar by myself. So I was glad to have another bartender on last night and I was able to sneak away and get some other stuff done, in particular change the cocktail menu.

I’m excited about the new drinks I’m putting on. The first called HucklePeary which is 44 North
Huckleberry Vodka, Grey Goose Pear, a dash of Gomme Syrup, and a little bit of fresh grapefruit juice.

The Second is called What’s up Doc and is Organic Carrot Juice, Ginger Syrup, a dash of fresh squeezed lemon juice, and Yazi Ginger Vodka.

The Third is called Pomoru Shu and is Pearl Plum Vodka, a dash of Crème de Casis, and Hou Hou Shu Sparkling Sake.

The Fourth is called Chai-Tea-Ni and is Voyant Chai Tea Liqueur, Vodka, Cinamon Nutmeg syrup, and a hint of cream.

The Fifth is called Red Curry and is Bicardi Coconut Rum, Ginger Syrup, Lime Juice, and a splash of Mazama Pepper Vodka to give it some heat.

And regardless of these fancy cocktails, a $33,000 bar top, and a clientele made up mostly of retired golfers, lawyers, doctors, and other professionals. Somehow some sort of sleeze can always find his way through the door. One such creature walked through the door last night, so sloppily dressed I thought he was a cab driver because I had fares waiting for a cab. But he ponied up to the bar and ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks. The other bartender poured it for him and I went about tending to other things. Not soon after, one of our favorite customers who is the chef at a neighboring restaurant told me that the sleeze was annoying the women next to him. I decided to do a load of dishes and then deal with it, and at that point the women got up and told the sleeze that he was freaking them out. I moved the women to a table and let the guy sit by himself for a moment. But within seconds he was in the midst of the chef’s conversation with his friend. His friend was sitting next to the sleeze and the sleeze asked if he wanted to go to the strip bar with him. He replied that he would have to ask his wife, the other bartender. The other bartender isn’t his wife but replied that she keeps a tight leash on him and that he couldn’t go to the titty bar. The sleeze then proceeded to bop him in the side of the head. He replied, “Don’t hit me in the head.” And the sleeze said, “You can hit me in the head, but I’ll hit you right back.” So I looked at him and said, “You have annoyed two women to a point where they don’t want to be in the bar. Now you have invited yourself in a conversation where you are not welcome. Then you proceed to hit this person on the head. You need to go.” He asked if he were getting kicked out of the bar because he wasn’t leaving. So I went out from under the bar, grabbed him by the hoodie and pulled him out the door. He put both of his arms out and grabbed onto the door so he couldn’t leave. And I looked at him and asked him if he wanted me to call the police on him. And he still was grabbing on, so I pulled one of his arms off the door which caused him to fall because he was pulling all of his weight from the doorjam. By this point three men were standing there ready to save me, but fortunately once again, I didn’t need saved.

So that was the highlight of the night. And today, I haven’t got out of bed once.

Cheers!

"My doctor told me to take something for my cold."
"What did you take?"
"His Coat!"

Who likes it up the ass?

About three months ago, a blond guy in his early thirties came into the bar with a friend. In a fit of extreme anxiety he blurted out, “Do you use fresh herbs?” Since I wasn’t quite sure if he was trying to get the name of a reputable drug dealer or a mojito, I asked him to repeat himself. He replied, “You know, fresh herbs.” And I asked what for ? And he said, “You know for your drinks.” You would think that the six mojitos with delicate mint leaves floating in them right next to him and a full glass of luscious picked mint would be enough to answer his dense question, so I replied, “No, we use plastic herbs with a special time-release crystal that makes your drink extra fresh and minty!” The guy replied, “Well you’re a sarcastic one aren’t you. Actually you are just obnoxious.” And I told him that he was right and there was a bar just right across the street for arrogant ignorant equally obnoxious bar customers where kind loving tolerant bartenders would be nice to him regardless. And with that, the guy became a regular.

Jim does contract work at the hospital and comes in to town about every two weeks. The third time he came in, he was with a fellow contractor and ended up sitting next to two blatantly gay men who were opening a high-end fashion boutique in town. Jim just happened to go to the restroom in between the two guys giggling and taunting one another, when the lispier of the two gay men asked me if Jim batted for their team. I have moderate to good gaydar, but certainly not as good as someone who actually takes a chance shoving his dick up a straight man’s ass. Since I hadn’t put that much thought into it, I told him that I didn’t know.

A few weeks later, Jim reappeared with three well-dressed men who were all joking about where they get their hair done, who has hotter abs, and what they like to feed their cats. I couldn’t believe that I had missed it, obviously Jim was gay. There was no doubt and to confirm my new found suspicion he stayed late with one of the men drinking until the bitter end at which point they made plans on meeting at Jim’s hotel room. The next three times Jim was in, he was hanging out with this guy.

Only a few weeks later, Jim came in with some of his workmates. One of them started chatting about his dog which led me to gush about my dog, the direct result of childless people in their 30’s owning a pet. Jim’s friend claimed he was the same about his dog, allowing the mutt to rule his life until he had children and learned to put the dog in its place. Curious as to how having children had affected his marriage, I changed the subject from the dog. Which of course led to him gibbering about how darling his two babies were. Out of the blue, Jim piped in how absolutely adorable his son is. “You have a son?” thinking that this is a remnant of the days before Jim took strangers home from the bar to blow him. “Yeah, he’s four months and in reply to your question it has brought my wife and me closer together too.”

Yeah.

If any young beautiful women would like to marry Yakov, he is having a wedding on August 8, 2008 for himself. He doesn’t have a bride yet but is excited for the wedding.

There were these two friends, one who was gay, who died in a horrible car accident. They both went to heaven and were standing at the pearly gates when St. Peter met them.

St. Peter asked the first man for a picture of his wife. After looking at the picture, St. Peter asked him if he had ever cheated on her.

The man replied, "I was unfaithful to my wife one time."

St. Peter decided to give the man a station wagon for him to drive around heaven.

Now it was the second man's turn.

St. Peter asked him for a picture of his wife and then asked if he had ever cheated on her.

The man replied, "Actually I'm gay, but here's a picture of my lover, and I never cheated on him."

St. Peter was very impressed and decided to give the man a Ferrari to drive around heaven.

After a few months in heaven, the two friends met up with each other. The second man was bragging about his Ferrari when the other turned to him and said, "I wouldn't be bragging if I were you. I just saw your lover on a skateboard."

Asshole Down!

This is the documentation of my night.

This evening around 9 p.m. a tall bald gentleman dressed in a white dress shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots came into the bar and sat at seat three on the bar. I was not behind the bar when he ordered, but he had Grey Goose with a Chamord float and a twist. He did not appear to be intoxicated when he entered the bar. He got up to use the restroom, which entails walking across the restaurant, and slipped. I did not see it, but another server did and came and told me. I asked her if he was all right and she yes. I asked her if there was anything on the floor and she said no. He returned from the restroom and asked to speak to a manager. I said I could help him. He told me that our floor was ridiculously slippery and he didn't know what kind of wax we used on the floor, but it was unnecessary. I replied that we didn't use any wax on the floor, but we would certainly look into making it less slippery. I never told him that no one else had ever slipped on the floor, although no one ever has. He showed me the bottom of his boot, which was very slick and had absolutely no tread on it. He told me that he did not know what type of shoes we wore here, but he had on absolutely normal shoes and it was ludicrous how slippery the floor was and that he could sue us and take everything we had. I asked him if he was hurt and he said no and that he wouldn't sue the bar anyhow because he was already rich. He then added that he was from New York City and had a sick sense of humor. At this point I figured he was done, he had vented, we had established that he wasn't hurt, and I said that we would look into the floor not being so slippery.

He takes a few steps and then asks me my name. After I reply, he begins to personally attack me by telling me that I need to change it. I replied that I was sorry that he had happened to take a spill in our restaurant, but that was no reason to personally insult me. He then sat down and started rubbing his arm saying that it had pulled out of the socket when he slipped and once again he would sue us. I assured him that if he had hurt himself that we had insurance that would cover his medical bills and asked if I could call him a doctor. He said that he didn't need a doctor and that he wasn't going to sue, that he had all the money he needed. He then proceeded to start calling people on his cell phone. He made a big scene about calling people and telling them where he was, but never said that he was hurt. I had a server make him an ice pack for his arm. He never put the ice pack on his arm. He just rubbed it one more time. He complained again about the slippery floor, claiming he was a hockey skater and a superb athlete, not one to be clumsy or slip on a floor. I left to go to the office and called the owner of the bar, to ask him to come down to talk to this man. The owner said he would be right down. I went back out and told him that the owner would be right down to talk to him. He said that he would not still be in the bar; I told him that the owner was well on his way and would be present momentarily. To that, he got up and left the bar.

He never appeared to be intoxicated, rather an arrogant ass on an ego trip.

1) Here are the other written down statements as to the night.

A man walked by us at the bar, fell and grabbed my arm for support. When he rose he complained about his boots and seemed intoxicated. He carried on about his cowboy boots and the floor. He seemed fine and without injury. And he left the bar.

2) We were having a great dinner. We saw the man next to us walk around and slip on the floor, he appeared to catch himself but was very embarrassed and made a big deal to a couple that was directly behind his slip. When coming back from the restroom, he started talking to a waitress, then accused her of being defensive because her arms were crossed. But he was talking about suing the place. (I personally always cross my arms) He asked her name and then told her to change her name. He had really bad energy. He said a kid was laughing at him. He was very aggressive. Called someone complaining.

On that note, I hope this man dies and burns in hell.

This guy went into a bar and ordered a beer. He happened to look down the bar and see a man sitting there with a head the size of a cue ball. So he walked down and said to the man, “Excuse me sir, I don't mean to be rude but I noticed you have a small head. Is this a birth defect?” The man said “No, I got this in the war. My ship was torpedoed by the German's in WWII. I was the only survivor on the ship so I swam to shore. One day a mermaid swam up to me and said she would grant me three wishes. For my first wish I wanted to return to the U.S. The mermaid granted that wish. My second wish was to have all the money I would ever need. Wish granted. My third wish was to have sex with the mermaid. She said, ‘I can't grant that wish because mermaids can't have sex.’”

So I said, “How about a little head?”

Distill the Distillers

Well, the hiring issues are over. I offered the position of food runner to the girl whose father is a chef. She obviously didn’t take it. The firefighter came back. And for the first time in the history of the restaurant, the staff is good and happy and they all work well together. It is such a relief to go to work and not have any staff issues.

Tonight I wanted to strangle one of the most annoying men I have ever met. About two months ago, my husband and I went to dinner with the people who own the bar. We went to a new restaurant in town and were treated extremely well, with a lot of extra attention. The next night, the bartender and owner of that restaurant were in with a man who distills vodkas and bourbon for a living. He asked if I had his bourbon, which I did not but I told him I would bring it in. He gave me his card and I saw that he also had a lot of interesting flavors of vodka, so I decided to try one of those too. Upon arrival of these two liquors, I immediately opened them and found that they were just a fancy label and a nice bottle away from being locally distilled rubbing alcohol. The bourbon I ended up pouring off in the well and I managed to finagle the vodka into a cocktail that includes muddling a bunch of basil, and adding enough lime and sugar to mask any hint of what the vodka actually tastes like.

This evening this man came in and I merrily showed him that I brought in his beloved vodka. He asked me what we used it for and I made him one of these labor-intensive cocktails. He loved it, and then asked me what the story was about the 360 vodka because he hadn’t seen it. I told him that it had an incredible flavor profile and came from a very progressive company. I said it was comparable in taste to a vodka that we carry that has been filtered 100 times and tastes almost like tap water. I said that I had tasted it to the Grey Goose and it definitely had less impurities to it and had less flavor. He then went off on a rampage about how Grey Goose is shit and of course nothing tasted good compared to it. He went off how Grey Goose isn’t really from France and it is really made in Ohio. If I looked at the bottle it would say it wasn’t made in France. I looked at the bottle and it said it was distilled and bottled in France. He continued about the disgrace of Ohio-made Grey Goose and I said, what is the problem with Ohio. It’s in the grain belt of this country, if any place should make vodka, why not where we farm all the grain. He continued on his ridiculous anti-Grey Goose stance for the next 90 minutes. I almost told him he should shut the fuck up since his product tasted like McCormick’s vodka at the price of Stoli, especially after he declared that the other companies distill four times and filter at least twice but he knows that that it doesn’t do anything after two distillings and the filtering is just a marketing ploy. A marketing ploy that sells vodka I guess, since Grey Goose outsells any of my other calls. What a fucking idiot.

Very excited to try Redbreast 12 yr. Irish whiskey. It comes in tomorrow.

I was making love to this girl and she started crying. I said, "Are you going to hate yourself in the morning?" She said. "No. I hate myself now."

- Rodney Dangerfield

What's Your Poison

Oh my little worker bees. I got to work to find that the bookkeeper that my husband fired three days ago is doing the restaurant’s bookkeeping right where I intended to eat dinner. So I ate in the back of the kitchen where the health inspector just hung a new sign about how once upon a time a guy had diarrhea, went to work, didn’t wash his hands, got 256 people sick, shut down the restaurant, and killed a 56 year old woman. I thought it was a little dramatic for a sign above the sink that reminds you to wash your hands. But, honestly it fits right in with the other huckabaloo that unfolds in that kitchen. About fifteen minutes after I finished eating, I walked through the kitchen to find the head-cook coddling the dishwasher, who happens to be his sister-in-law. They have a typical Mexican brother-in-law/sister-in-law relationship in which he appears to always be trying to get into her pants and she always looks willing but afraid. So at first I just thought it was more of their odd flirtations but then I could tell that she was crying and hurt. In turns out she pulled a pan of hot potatoes off of the stove and burnt herself with boiling water. Although I am sure she is going to be fine, I sent her home with an ice pack. Which meant that the head cook had to leave for 30 minutes. So that left the other cook at sauté and me in pantry, and let me tell you -- I make a mean Greek Salad. I am always completely out of my element in the kitchen and I love it because it is a challenge. I also love it because I don’t have to talk to anybody except for the food runner and the other cook. It really is a nice break from the bar.

The new girl I hired, whose father is a chef, is getting freaked out and I can tell that we are too busy for her. I think she knows she is in over her head and I’m not really quite sure what to do with her because I like the run the floor really tight since we pool tips and everyone is good. But there is no way she can be out there in the restaurant, there are 21 tables if they are full that are being serviced by two servers and a foodrunner/busser. Obviously a lot of tables are just cocktailing, but nonetheless is a lot to handle and I can tell that there is no fucking way. Which means I have to sit down with her and figure out how to get her to where I need her, which means I’m going to freak her out. Which means hopefully she toughens up and figures it out. It just freaks me out because it reminds me a lot of the girl I just fired and I really don’t feel like reliving that. At least from the new round of hiring I got one really great girl and now the firefighter is coming back because she wasn’t getting any firefighting work and her crew chief is a crackpot who won’t pay her.

These are my two next choices:

A girl that works on a coffee cart at a golf course. In my ad it says experienced high-volume fine-dining server. What about coffee cart barista is any one of those.

Or I had a girl come in yesterday who works on a chuck wagon at a horse coral and told me she got 100% on her food handlers permit card, which everyone gets 100% on. They ask you things like, “Do you store ice cream in a freezer of an oven.” I told her, “Impressive. Let me put your resume in a safe place in case something in the food handling department comes up.”

Cheers!

There's a guy sitting at a bar, just looking at his drink. He stays like that for half an hour.

Soon, a big trouble-making truck driver steps next to him, takes the drink from the guy, and just drinks it all down.

The poor man starts crying. The truck driver says, "Come on man, I was just joking. Here, I'll buy you another drink. I just can't stand seeing a man crying."

"No, it's not that. This day is the worst of my life. First, I fall asleep, and I'm late to my office. My boss, in an outrage, fires me. When I leave the building to my car, I found out it was stolen.

"The police say they can do nothing. I get a cab to return home and when I leave it, I remember I left my wallet and credit cards there. The cab driver just drives away. I go home and when I get there, I find my wife in bed with the gardener. I leave home and come to this bar.

"And when I was thinking about putting an end to my life, you show up and drink my poison."

18 vs. 60

Oh what an awful night last night. I got to work knowing that the night before my barback had served underage guys. I was telling my husband about these guys and as I was telling him about them, it clicked that they were probably underage. I then had a panic attack that the liquor police were going to find me, fine me, and make legitimate grounds for me to lose my job. I was a bit off when I got to work. On top of it, the bar wasn’t set up properly and the new bartender has made this system that she thinks is more efficient but really doesn’t work. She has moved around all of the shakers I use and when I’m busy and in a groove I’m not thinking, I’m just reaching and when every time I reach the shakers are not where they belong, it makes for a really hard fucking night. In the middle of the rush, an ex-girlfriend to a 60-year old regular, who happens to be a lawyer, called looking for him and started screaming that I was fucking lying to her when I said he wasn’t there. You would think the drama would lessen with age or you might think the lawyer would put a restraining order against her. But no, the girls that were psycho when you were 14 are even crazier when they are 54 and the boys that dated them then, still do so now. Then the mother of the underage kid called and wondered what the fuck was going on at our bar; I explained the situation to her and told her how sorry I was that this happened and how paranoid I had been all day and night. She was quite forgiving, thank God. She shared that she had tended bar for years and she understood how it happened and also revealed that she has five sons and she knows that boys will try to get away with as much as possible. About ten minutes after that, one of the underage boys showed up. I took him in the hallway and tore him a new asshole for the stress he caused me. At the end of the night I had to fire the nutfuck for having another table walk out because she didn’t deliver their drinks to them on time. It was the third time it happened in two weeks, and it’s never happened at my bar before. The really shitty thing about it is, she left when I was in the bathroom so I had to call her to come back down to work to be fired. Yeah, let’s just say that when I got home this morning at 4 a.m. it was great to think that after serving lamb chops and $30 dollar pours of cognac all night, that I got to live the good life of Del Taco and pink champagne.

Cheers!

A lady at a party goes up to Winston Churchill and tells him, "Sir, you are drunk." Churchill replies, "Madam, you are ugly. In the morning, I shall be sober."

Pissing

It’s been a long exhausting week at the bar. I’ve really been giving it my all and after two long meetings this week, I have decided that I should keep my ears open to someone backing me on my own project. I had talked to the owners of the bar in February about some sort of sweat equity or possibility of ownership if we expanded. We had a long talk this week where I saw that they will probably never give up any ownership of the bar and that I really don’t think I want to be in business with them anyhow.

They didn’t specifically say this, I just saw that they can’t get their shit together to make it happen and more than anything, they don’t want it to happen. They are always starting a project without any follow through, which has been where I really shine. I get the shit done that they started. But they want to open a 2.1 million dollar steakhouse, which I think is fucking ridiculous. Steak has very low markup and a short life. I think it would be better to sell noodle bowls.

Anyhow, I had a bit of an offer a couple of weeks ago from a guy loooking to start a swanky martini bar, he asked me if I would be interested in a sweat equity situation, which is all I’ve got for equity. Then another regular asked me on Saturday if I have ever thought about opening my own bar and I said, “Funny you should ask, because I’ve been thinking a lot about it.” He is an investment banker and is the middle of a big project but said he would be very interested in backing me, but it wouldn’t be for a year or so. So I feel like I am getting some things on the platter, I have started putting together a business plan so when something more concrete starts to happen -- I’m ready. I’ve got a good idea that would be good in this town and is a great concept that could expand if it proved to be as successful as I hope. The swanky martini bar scares me, it might be too hip for Bend. There are not enough young hipsters in this town to pull it off. The bar I work at now looks really swanky, but we still do a lot of food and have PBR on tap! I just don’t have a good feeling about it, but I will see how set he is on the idea and how he sees a sweat equity partnership working.

Otherwise, life at the bar this week really wasn’t all that much different than the week before. We were hoping to fire the dimwit on Tuesday, but the fill-in girl (she works at our other restaurant) gave her notice and is moving back to Maine. So, that means I have to keep the dimwit. It’s hard to have her around, because I know her time is so limited. She is such a fuckup, I feel like every Saturday night we sit in the office and go over the million things that we went over the week before. Anyhow, I hired a new girl who I am very excited about. She is a super hard worker, very smart, and very wise in the industry. She is going to do really well.

I still need one more server, but I have a promising lead since the bar down the street got bought out and it put a lot of servers out of work. I recently saw the owner of that bar and asked her if any of her good servers were out of work and she is sending me one of her best girls. I meet her tomorrow, so I hope I am impressed.

Otherwise, the highlight of the week was on Friday night. I was sitting with my friend confiding in her that I needed to make some decisions about how much of me I was going to put into the bar, because if I started a new bar I would want my cocktail list and a lot of my ideas that I’ve implemented where I work now. I could feel that I was about to get a migraine headache, so I wasn’t in the best mind set when I looked out the window and saw that some drunk was about to piss on the building. I unlocked the door, ran over to him and asked him if he was about to urinate. He didn’t seem phased, so I grabbed him by his hoodie, told him to put his little dick away, and to stop pissing on the fucking building. He asked me why I was enraged at him, simply put it is not o.k. to piss on buildings. If you want to start eating puppy chow then we can talk but otherwise such rights are solely for animals on four legs and red penises.

I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a memeber.

- Groucho Marx

Fat Dogs

Sweet, the night is over. The bar is clean and looks like it has never been used. If only my house could get that type of attention just once a week. I had a hell of a time getting to work today. The entire downtown was blocked off for a cycling criterium race. My dog, Sierra, had a playmate over today and I didn’t have time to walk them, so I decided that I would take them downtown and drop them off at my husband’s office. That way they could go for a bit of a jaunt. My dog’s friend, Drake, is definitely the most out-of-shape doggy heart attack waiting to happen in a country riddled by canine obesity I have ever seen. By the time we reached downtown, fifteen minutes after we left the house (I can do the ride without an obese dog in six minutes) he was heavily panting and twice decided to just sit, all 110 pounds as I propelled myself forward on my bicycle. This tug of war continued until we reached the point where the street was blocked off. Sierra was not on the leash but was at my side, when this crazy fat policewoman started screaming at me that no dogs were allowed. I could see my husband’s office building on the other side of the street, but it looked like an island a mile away where I had to jump into shark infested waters to swim to it. My dog ran up to her and she grabbed the dog screaming at me that I had to come and get her, so I told Drake to sit and then I went to get Sierra. But that wasn’t kosher with the fatass Gestapo bitch since I didn’t have both dogs in tow. It wasn’t like Drake was going anywhere, it was the first time in fifteen minutes that I hadn’t whipped him to move. I had a plastic bag of dog shit in my hand and I seriously considered winging it at her, but I remembered then that I live in a police state and at that point I could spend the next two years playing doctor with Bertha in a prison cell somewhere in East Texas. So when she wasn’t looking and no bicycles would take me out, I snuck across the street.

I got to work and the woman who owns the bar was in a complete tizzy. A couple had called in and reserved all eight tables outside and hadn’t arrived yet. The reservation had been held for an hour, which I thought was fucking ridiculous so I told the girls to put the chairs out (we kept the chairs in so no one would sit on them, since there was all of this mayhem with the race). The owner was a bit livid when she saw the chairs go out, but I was pissed that we were still holding tables for people that didn’t show up. She didn’t want to offend them since she felt they were good customers. Hours later, when the reservation holder came in to justify her fucking us over, I was able to put a name with a face. And yes, she is a regular of sorts, but one of the most annoying people I know and shit ass tipper. Good riddance I say.

Otherwise, slammin jammin busy all night. We hired a food runner about a month ago, thinking that we could staff less wait staff and see our dollar stretch a little further (we pool tips). But the girl we hired is a fucking idiot. She just graduated from some $40,000 a year college which daddy paid for. All she talks about is how what she learned in college is advancing her today. I’m like, what the fuck are you talking about, you are food runner. She has to ask about every ticket and I snapped when a ticket with one glass of chardonnay with sitting with one glass of chardonnay and she asked, “Is this the glass of chardonnay?” I said, “Is that what the ticket says?!?!?!?!?!?!?” Because I really wanted to lose it at her, what a fucking idiot. Then she had the audacity to ask the firefighter server about taking over her job. She is one of the best servers I have ever met and the food runner thinks she can take the job when she can’t figure out a fucking singled out chardonnay ticket. No fucking way.

Cheers!

A man walks into a bar, OUCH! You think he would have seen it!

Corkage Fees

I’m definitely reaching that breaking point where I seriously need a massage and a day off. I was sure that if that there was one ounce of bullshit tonight that I was going to stomp it out with a gusto reserved for drunks who break glasses on purpose and then start fights with their best friends because they suddenly decide they're gay. Unfortunately, the only thing that happened that was even remotely worthy of such vigor were three annoying women who brought in their own wine and then ordered $15 worth of food between the three of them. We had live music this evening which was not cheap, the point being that the band draws a crowd to pay for itself. We don’t have a corkage fee (never been an issue, everyone drinks cocktails for the most part). We only have two regulars, who ever bring in wine, and they always bring in great bottles which they leave us a glass or two of. But today a new rule is born, the discretionary corkage fee. Unbelievably rude, they arrived with an already opened half-drank bottle of white! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

For anyone who hasn’t tried it yet, you must have the 360 Vodka and the new Rangpur Gin by Tanqueray. The 360 Vodka is a brilliant product packaged very environmentally in an 85% recycled glass bottle with 100% recycled paper labeling. The bottle is resealable with a Grolsch-like lid. You can take the lid off and mail it back in a postage-free mailer provided and they will re-use the lid and donate a dollar for every lid received to a renewable energy program. If you order a case, the box is recycled cardboard and is the same size as a filing box, so it can easily be re-used. Every company can look at these guys for some simple and smart ideas. Not organic like the Square One, but pushing the envelope nonetheless. The vodka itself is filtered four times and will beat Grey Goose in any taste test and in fact, beats the new Diamond 100 (filtered 100 times) which practically tastes like water.

Tangueray just offered the new Rangpur in its portfolio. It is distilled with rangpur limes, which are a little fruit which is actually a hybrid from a mandarin orange and a lemon. Nonetheless, the flavor is very limey and very yummy. My new favorite cocktail is a gimlet made with the Rangpur and the 360 with a splash of Rose’s lime.

Cheers!

"A good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender."

-Jim Bishop

Kooky cooks

Unfortunately, there was not any event that was really noteworthy tonight. We got a really good push right around 7 that lasted for a couple of hours. Doable, but I definitely had that sinking feeling a couple of times, which I don't feel very often. Sometimes it is fun to get a push, you feel on it and people are impressed to see you in action, but today I just felt like I had the big facko macko grin on every time I turned around and I was sure that everyone could see right through it. The night would have been easier with a food runner -- next week.

Had a good interview today, hopefully this girl is good. We bring her in for a realistic on Friday, which is always a good test of stamina. It's a busy long night and people either excited because they know they are going to make money, or they freak out because it is too much. Hopefully she's into it. I really need someone good, I only like working with smart witty fun hard-working people who are over achievers, everyone else just drives me fucking crazy. And I already have one server who drives me fucking crazy, need not two.

So the night was winding down and I was washing my 300th rack of dishes and who walks in but Yakov! I started laughing and told him I was sure that he was in prison. I guess his friend's (the friend who he moved from Las Vegas) father died two weeks ago and he had to help her get him to the hospital and then help her make arrangements for his funeral. He said he's also been busy helping with his father's business since his father seemed to have an expenditure problem while Yakov was gone. His father makes some type of airplane part and Yakov helps him somehow, perhaps by selling them on the black market to the Russians. I think the Russians still like to buy things like that from us on the black market, sure of it.

We have the craziest fucking cook now. The guy that runs the kitchen is a Mexican guy; let's call him Jose. He's been with the people that own the restaurant for three years, so we often give him the benefit of the doubt. He is the most moody person I've ever met and we always joke he's on the rag. He needs his back patted every time he puts a dish up.

Yah! Jose knows how to make a summer roll! Typically we get everyone together for a cheer, but tonight we were too busy to cheer each time a cheese plate came out of the kitchen.

He is the most annoying fucking thing in the world and we are hoping at the end of the summer that we can find someone to replace him. The obvious choice would be the girl working on the cold side of the kitchen right now. She can work sauté, but doesn't unless it's a bit of an emergency. It's a small kitchen, it runs with two cooks and a dishwasher. Jose recently had a baby and is always running home to take the baby and his unbelievably boring wife to the hospital. At 6:30 Jose decided that he needed to take the baby to the hospital, which left this kooky girl cooking. When the owner of the restaurant showed up to help her in the rush, she thought there was a problem. I'm like, you can't work the whole kitchen by yourself, the ticket times would be too long. Then she started mumbling in this weird southern drawl she has. I don't have a fucking clue what she was saying, although it was clear that she didn't think she was mumbling, but rather having a conversation with me. I nodded and agreed, I was just too tired to say, "I don’t understand a fucking word you're saying." In the midst of breaking down and cleaning the kitchen, she came out to the bar with her handbag on her shoulder like she was leaving. I asked if she was leaving and then she started mumbling some ya'll mumble jumble again. Then she went back into the kitchen and mopped the floor. She seemed kooky before, but now she appears to be schizophrenic. Fantastic, just what the doctor ordered as we go into the two busiest months of the year.

Cheers!

A guy enters the bar carrying an alligator. Says to the patrons, "Here’s a deal. I'll open this alligator's mouth and place my genitals inside. The gator will close his mouth for one minute, then open it, and I'll remove my unit unscathed. If it works, everyone buys me drinks." The crowd agrees. The guy drops his pants and puts his privates in the gator's mouth. Gator closes mouth. After a minute, the guy grabs a beer bottle and bangs the gator on the top of its head. The gator opens wide, and he removes his genitals unscathed. Everyone buys him drinks. Then he says: "I'll pay anyone $100 who's willing to give it a try." After a while, a hand goes up in the back of the bar. It's a woman. "I'll give it a try," she says, "but you have to promise not to hit me on the head with the beer bottle."

Yakov

I had an absolutely ridiculous beginning to the evening. I spent the day on-line searching for jobs overseas after seeing the movie Sicko last night. I spent my only night off this week questioning my mere existence in this country (that’s a great stress reliever). My questioning carried on late into today, but I finally think I'm ready to go back to being an ill-informed happy American (my genuine educated concern lasted right around 24 hours). Nonetheless, I arrived to work late in a funky state of mind. Not at all psyched about dealing with the girl we pretty much fired on Saturday and not very pyched about the realistic interview we had. (In a realistic interview, the candidate is put on the floor and follows a server around; almost like they are training. It is a great tool in hiring people because some people interview well and then you put them out on the floor and they are lazy or bad with people or can't organize or can't multi-task or think their cell phone is necessary at all times or a million other things you can't tell by asking them where they see themselves in 20 years.)

I thought I was prepared for work, we wear the overly seen black-shirt black-pants uniform. I arrived in a black tank top ready to don a very hip black cap-sleeved cropped light cotton jacket that just needed a few wrinkles taken out. Fortunately, I am always prepared and I brought my travel steamer; plugged it in, filled it with water, and waited as it decided that it would never make an ounce of steam again. As I created new swear words and ways of grouping them together, I decided to run one block down the street to the dry cleaner and have it pressed there. When I asked to have it pressed the girl at the counter was so gleeful in the fact that all of the presses were off that I considered jamming a handful of those awful metal hangers up her ass, but unfortunately I didn't have time. I had $110 in my pocket and decided to just go buy another top, my choices: five ridiculously overpriced boutiques where $110 might get you either a pair of socks or something hot pink with red fringe off of the clearance rack or the Patagonia store. Patagonia seemed like the right choice, at least I would wear whatever I bought there again. Seventy-five dollars later, I was able to spend the next six hours relenting the fact that I probably wouldn't make $75 in tips since there was not a constant flow of anything except for the dribble coming out of seat one’s mouth.

The realistic realistically sucked, so I sent him home at 7. He spent most of the evening frowning and looking put-upon that he was in one of the most beautiful spaces in town, was surrounded by beautiful women, and had the chance to get a much better job than he currently has. Certainly all reasons to keep a constant scour on the face.

Otherwise, I had the time to be concerned about one of my bar regulars Yakov (not his real name, but based on the Eastern Europeaness of his real name).

Yakov:

Around 25 years old.

5'9" medium build

Blond hair.

Charasmatic.

Always smiling.

Always well dressed, typically in brown.

Always smells like very expensive and good cologne.

Always wears a very expensive watch, most recently a Tag Hauer with diamonds in it.

Yakov first started coming to the bar with a house-arrest ankle bracelet. He knew exactly how long it took to leave the bar and get to his house out of town. He never delayed and when he said he needed his bill, it meant immediately. Not soon after he started coming, we found out that he had the ankle bracelet because last year when he was living in Seattle he was at a party and a friend asked him if he knew five men who would marry five Asian women so that they could get their greencards. And Yakov said, "Yeah, I bet I could find five men that would marry hot Asian women to get their greencards. How hard could that be?" And it proved not be hard at all, and those five men found five men and those five men found five men, you get the picture. So after about a year, the INS started noticing a trend with these Asian women and as they investigate they find Yakov at the top of the pyramid.

Yakov was supposed to go to federal prison, but somehow charms the judge into letting him have house arrest instead. When he gets house arrest, he takes his parol officer out and persuades her to let him have three hours each night to leave the house and have dinner and a drink. Somehow, she agrees to this. He even gets his anklet taken off early. So part of the deal is that he cannot fly for two years, but the second the anklet is off, he swears that he will be on a plane by the end of the next week. And sure enough, he comes in and says, I'll see you a week. I got permission to go to Las Vegas to help a friend move to Oregon. He told them that she had no family and he was the only person who could help her. He said two federal marshals would be there to great him at the airport as he embarked and disembarked. But then he also says that he is going to put three video poker machines in the back of the U-Haul and transport them to Oregon, which is illegal since the state controls all the gambling.

This whole conversation took place over a month ago. And since there has been absolutely nothing as to his wearabouts, I'm thinking he must be in prison or killed by somesort of mafia guy that he was in cahoots with. A few days ago, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum came in, very cute young women with matching stripper-blond hair. These girls had been running around with Yakov right before he left. (Yakov really likes accessories, nice watches, nice cars, expensive haircuts, nice jackets, nice belts, and two dumb pretty girls finish the look off perfectly.) Dee asked me if I had seen him and I said no, waiting for their take on the whole thing. After a moment, Dum decided that he might have stayed in Nevada, but Dee thought he was most likely in prison. Dee had spoken to him four weeks ago when he was driving through Reno, so we know he left Las Vegas. Now I can’t help but wonder where the hell he is.

On a lighter note, if you see the 2003 Rockblock Syrah, pick it up. Good regulars to me brought in a bottle this evening and left a glass. Great nose with dried cherries and figs, fruit forward with a nice smooth long finish. I always feel like syrahs are so variable, you never know if it is going to be big and fruity, or taste like rubbing alchol with cheap strawberry jam infused in it. But this one is a winner!

Cheers!

A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.

Last minute push

What a fucking crazy night. We didn’t do any business until 10:20, and for the record we do last call at 11 p.m. At 8 we sent home the food runner and at 10 we sent home the other bartender because it was so quiet. She looked at me and said, “Are you sure?” and I acted like she was an idiot, since the entire night had consisted of only one of us being behind the bar and the other of us lollygagging in some manner or another. And not soon after she left, the bar filled up and a sixteen people came in and asked if I could make 16 pineapple mojitos, and certainly you should never say no to that. So the ship immediately started sinking. The owner arrived in the beginning of the chaos, thank God, because she ran drinks and food. However, our newest server kept fucking up left and right and unfortunate to her, the owner was there to witness everything. I had already decided to sit down with her and share with her all of her inadequacies that she exhibited from last week (she was on vacation most of this week), but after tonight it was pretty much the, we want to fire you, but we can’t until next week when we find your replacement, so maybe you might want to look for another job.

That conversation is always awkward and it is the shittiest part of my job. I really wish that everyone was smart, hardworking, and good with people. But it seems like a lot of lazy people with very little personality somehow end up in this business. And I work at a place where we never fire people, we just make it so miserable until they quit or we schedule them down to the point where they need to find other work. And unfortunately, this week we are already understaffed because of the whole, “I think I want to be a wild land firefighter” thing.

So on a more cocktaily note. I created a cilantro mango margarita that is killing it. I really only put it on the list to show that cilantro is a tangible cocktail ingredient, but it has become my best selling cocktail in only a few short days. Who would have thunk it?

Cheers!

WOMEN'S POEM

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks,
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.

I pray he's gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind,
Knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I pray that this man will love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.

MAN'S POEM

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs
who owns a liquor store and a golf course. This
doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.

Art Walk

So it’s one of those nights where you make a string of tickets long enough to wrap around your waste to look over at the printer to see that now you can keep Manuel Uribe Garza’s pants up. Some pompous dick in front of me asks if I went to school for chemistry (thinking that it takes a chemist to make a grapefruit cosmo) and I answer no - international business. He then keeps hinting at if I want to work for him in his start-up software company, to which I think, does it mean I would have to spend more time with you, because if that is the case, fuck no. He obviously thinks that I’m wasting my life away behind a bar, which is fucking ridiculous because everything great has happened to me at a bar. I’ve met all of my best friends at a bar, I met my husband at a bar, and I’ve paid for everything I own from being behind a bar. What he doesn’t understand is that I probably make more money than he does, I get to say fuck at work, and I am a local celebrity. Sitting at a desk isn’t in me, or else I’d be doing it. I told him to leave me his card, and guess what - his start-up hasn’t started printing cards yet. Fuck nut.

One of our best waitresses got called tonight to go fight forest fires. She thinks it is what she wants to do. At first, I was selfish for the restaurant. I didn’t want her to leave because it meant hiring someone else and she is so fantastic, she is one of those people that is impossible to replace. But now, I’m worried, because it is fucking dangerous and they haven’t trained her at all. I was reading tonight how she is supposed to know how to use a chainsaw, drive a 5-2 transmission truck, and a million other things she doesn’t have a clue how to do. I honestly cannot believe they are sending her out there so green. She is supposed to be back on Friday to work. I told her she had the week to decide if she really wanted to leave the restaurant or not, because if so, next Friday and Saturday could be it until she returns in the fall. Assuming a tree doesn’t fall on her.

Otherwise, just the random drama of the veteran staff pissing on their territory. We hired a new bartender and the resident server just hounds her for every fucking thing. It’s unfortunate, because the bartender is good. She knows that the server is marking her turf, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll be glad when they’ve established a hierarchy.

Cheers!

I think everyone should go to college and get a degree and then spend six months as a bartender and six months as a cabdriver. Then they would really be educated. -- Al McQuire