The Dance

It’s been about two weeks since I left my job as a craft bartender. Before I started bartending, I was cooking at the same restaurant. I feel lost without the constant threat of going to work at the end of the work, forcing me to get the rest of my work out of the way. I have begun to miss the rush of constantly being bombarded with tasks. Most of all, I miss the dance. For now, my tasks are long and arduous. Writing and working in a restaurant are two very different things.

I have worked nearly every position there is to work in a restaurant, besides owning. I will never own. I learned that from my parents. There is a certain fervor to everything, every position with its own different flavor, but it is a scramble all the same. My favorites were in the kitchen and behind the bar. I don’t spend a lot of time on the floor anymore, meaning in the front of the restaurant. I still interacted with guests behind the bar, but when things really picked up there would be one person making drinks as fast as possible and another interacting with customers. I was usually the former. On a Saturday, I wouldn’t pick my head up for two hours if I was lucky. Other nights were worse. 

The dance is a certain thing that can only be performed with certain people. New people don’t know how to dance. Greenhorns, we call them; greenie for short. I am young, but I dance exceptionally well. Dialogue in the kitchen and behind the bar is short and precise, often relying on context. Every movement is measured, be it pouring 2 oz. into a tin, or the three steps it takes to get to the beer cooler. One turn and one step to open the oven with your left hand, since your towel is kept on the right side of your apron. Tongs in the left, pans in the right. Jigger in the left, bottle in the right. Knife on the right of the board. Always. Towels strewn everywhere, sinks running constantly, hands always wet, but never slippery. Heat. Oil. Shouting. Fans running. Talking. Music. A pan clatters. A glass breaks. Laughter. Oppa!

With my last team, we danced in lockstep every night. Well, middle, and register. Register gets bottles, cans, wine, and soda. If it was exceptionally busy, draft beer and mixed drinks while we handled cocktails. My bartender and I would reach over each other in the most absurd ways. Arms tangled with one another, one leaning over the ice well backwards to reach the sweet vermouth while the other underhanded a tin into the sink over them. When it was busy, we seldom spoke. Shake this, stir that, I’ll pick up that ticket if you do this. All without words. We pointed fingers and nodded. We were all intimately familiar with every part of our bar. You could hold up a bottle and exchange a glance, and a fresh one or a refilled bottle would appear moments later. When there’s only so much space to move, and only so many people to complete so many tasks, you have only one option: learn how to dance, and learn how to do it with others. We only looked up for the sound of the ticket printer or the bell on the door. It was glorious. The kitchen was the same, just hotter and even tighter. We danced and danced until it was over, and we would all look up and breathe a collective sigh of relief. Then we would do it again the next night.

I have stepped away for a moment, but I will be back soon enough. I fear that I will never find a team that I move as well with, but there’s only one way to find out. Get back on the floor, and start dancing again.

Ken, Kim and Ian. My dream team.