Loose Cans

And BAM! Done. Passed it all with flying colors. 100% on both the written test (maybe the only one to ace it) and the wine test (which everyone is required to ace), and blazed through the speed test. The speed test was to make 20 cocktails barked out to you in six minutes. Sample speed test:

2 shots Orgasm
2 shots Screaming Orgasm
Jack & Coke
Melon Ball
Gin Gimlet
007
2 Metropolitans
Margarita
T & T
Black Russian
Toasted Almond
Greyhound
Madras
Bourbon & Water
Stoli Vanil & 7
7 & 7
Rob Roy rocks

These are done at dizzying speed--1 every 18 seconds at least--and must usually be made two at a time. It's not the easiest thing in the world. When we started speed drilling on wednesday, I was the only one in the first round to crack the six-minute mark (5:50). I then fell inexplicably to eight minutes, don't know why. But the next day, I kept upping my speed: 6: 00, then 5:40, then 5:20. More than good enough, but far from the best. Shannon managed 4:30 yesterday, I don't know how. She's bionic.

So today. It was a bit mad. We were all pretty wound up. We'd whipped through the written test in the morning, and after the job placement and hunting talks, and then the beer seminar, it was time for the speed test. Speed mixing, especially when you're being timed, is a huge adrenaline rush. Everyone watches everyone because we go one at a time. Whenever anyone reached for the wrong ingredient, say, Stoli Rasberi, we would all yell, "CHAMBORD!!!" Once, actually, this screwed someone, because Rachel hollered out "SOUR MIX!" at the very, very wrong time (it was tonic that was called for), and poor Jose had to retrace his steps. All but one person passed (Sasha's English wasn't stellar, nor was she too swift). Jose, my partner, whose time the two of us had, through teamwork, cut from 9:00 to 5:30, came in at 6:00 bang-on (it would have been less, but Rachel's mistake fucked him up badly). The best time, and let's get this out of the way, wasn't mine. Asher somehow came in at an earthshattering 3:55. Kristy, his partner, came in right behind him at 4:01. The aforementioned Shannon sliced her time to 4:22. Then me.

4:44. Make a wish. For me, that's fantastic. I never set out to be fast, and I have no intention of working in clubs, where speed pouring is the essential skill. I drilled less than anyone (preferring to help out Jose, who needed it way more), and studied, well, not at all. Therefore my speed is more organic, and therefore (I am a good liberal, after all) more "real." I RULE!

Seriously, though, I may not be the fastest draw in the west, but it's pretty clear I knew my stuff, knew my liquor far, far better than anyone else in the class. Hopefully, that'll get me a job. I start the hunt on Monday.

Another thing or two: firstly, I would like to tell those of us who are underage and who have never set foot in a bar, and have no intention of doing so until we reach legal age, a few things. Because in a few years, when you go to your first bar, you'll thank me. Firstly, you all should know what up-selling is. It is the practice of pushing the most expensive liquor on the customer, thereby increasing revenue, tip and recognition. If you order, say, a cosmopolitan, any bartender worth his (or, which is more fucking likely, her) salt will immediately reach for the Grey Goose and ask, Will this do? Stop her. Say, No, thank you, the well vodka will do (or if you want to be a prig about it, the Stoli Limoncello). Up-selling is universally-practiced. Every time I've asked a bartender for a Manhattan, he's sprung for the damn Maker's Mark. Henceforth, I shall be stopping him and requesting the Jim Beam.

Here's why: if you order bourbon neat or on the rocks, by all means let yourself be upsold. Take the best (or what you like the most--the best doesn't always suit your taste). But if you order a cocktail, especially something like a cosmo or an apple martini, don't let it happen. The reason is, most cocktails are so loaded with mixers that they wholly obliterate whatever subtleties may distinguish the one liquor from the other. There are so many other ingredients in, say, a Cosmo that the only thing the vodka is used for is delivering the alcoholic kick that sets it apart from cranberry-orange-lime juice (and in a Cosmo, which is the most serious chick drink in existence, containing approximately four solid shots of liquor, that's a respectable kick). Hence, paying $11 for a Grey Goose Cosmo when a $7 well vodka version will do equally well is just senseless. The only drink you should allow yourself to be upsold is a martini, which is made with so little vermouth these days (the "extra dry" leaves it out altogether, and the "in and out" is a metaphysical martini, where the vermouth is put into the glass, swirled around and evicted before the gin is added) that the quality of the base liquor becomes considerably more of a factor.

All this talk of Grey Goose leads me to another point, and the last for tonight, as it has just gone 3am and I would like to sleep soon, please: Grey Goose? Overrated. Good? Hell yes (as good as a vodka, which is basically less pungent formaldehyde, can get). The best? Absolutely not. The only real criterion for vodka, which has about as much taste, odor, body and color as Carbon Monoxide, with only slightly less lethality, is the number of times which it has been distilled. The more it's distilled, the cleaner and purer it is, and therefore, the better-tasting it is. Smirnoff, which is Absolut piss, is triple distilled. Grey Goose is very proudly distilled five times. Oo wow. Well, there's another one that's just the same, at half the price: SKYY. Buy it. It's five times distilled, just like GG, and it's just as good. It's an American brand crippled by terrible marketing. GG's marketing is terrific: "We're number one!" And Absolut, of course, is the most famous liquor in the world for no other reason save marketing. It is singularly bad and should be drunk by no one, ever. Stick to SKYY. Stoli and Ketel One are also good substitutes. I hate vodka.

There's one more thing. Tequila. Everyone's got a tequila story. God knows I do. Most of these stories include the next morning, which is invariably savage (after a night of margaritas I always hope I'm dead by morning so I won't have to pay the awful price). There is a reason for this. The Mexican government are extremely protective of their tequila. It can only be produced in five regions I can't spell or pronounce. But most key is, it must be made from a bare minimum of 51% Blue Agave. Some tequilas, such as the excellent Patron, are made from 100% Blue Agave, and are as highly prized and savored as scotches. They won't hurt you in the morning, and you won't shoot them. But you don't get Patron. You get Cuervo, and Cuervo is the fucking devil. It is exactly 51% Blue Agave. The rest is pure, unfiltered motherfuck. That's why it makes you feel like a scooped-out pumpkin.

More tomorrow. Right now I'm exhausted. I'm certified. Now someone give me a job.

Ben's dog!

It was really irritating. When I tried to type my name, for instance, it came out m wort. The title of this blog was ooe cn. Anyhow, I bought this new one, and things are peachy. Not only that, but I have a reason to blog now, which is exciting because this past week has brought me no reason whatsoever. I started my bartending class today, and I love it. It's brilliant.

We go from 9:30 to 5, operating behind a mock bar, well-equipped, with a full array of mock bottles behind us in the usual arrangement. The bottles, while real, are of course filled with colored water. This is only a problem if one wants to see, say, the difference between a Tequila Sunrise and a Tequila Sunset (the grenadine goes in after the tequila and OJ in the former, and before in the latter). And pousse-cafe's are of course impossible. But that's really not an issue. I don't think I'll be needing to make those. So today, we had a thorough introduction, followed by free-pouring (tricky, fucking tricky). Then we just lurched into making drinks, first barreling through every highball known to man. Highballs are drinks that come in tall thin glasses, but which are shorter than "talls." Those are for your Long Island Iced Fuck You. Most highballs are easy to make and pleasant to serve: Gin and Tonic, Cuba Libre, Scotch and Soda, 7 & 7, etc. These have very clear titles--also a plus. But then, somewhere along the line, drinkers turned into little girls (I'm sure it wasn't just little girls, either; men, you have a lot to answer for). They began to put fruit juice in their drinks because they found the taste of alcohol too, I don't know, icky (if you don't like the way alcohol tastes, DON'T FUCKING DRINK IT). It started inoffensive enough, with the Screwdriver and the Greyhound. But this was Evil too potent and cunning to be caged. It swept through America at lubricated speed, and soon enough we saw the proliferation of such uninspired, saccharine, juvenile concoctions as the idiotically yet accurately named Woo Woo (Vodka, Peach Schnapps--gag me--and cranberry juice) or worse yet, the Sex on the Beach (same as above, but with fucking orange juice on top of it all). Then there is the fearsome threesome: the Sea Breeze, the BAY Breeze and the Madras.

These drinks are almost identical. It is impossible to remember which is which (though I'm sure that anyone who knows the name of any one of them would never deign to order one, so hopefully I'm safe). Each has two kinds of juice, and I'm not going to tell you which has what because then I run the risk of some douchebag asking me to MAKE them one, and that could end in tears. These drinks--ALL of them, with the exception of the Blue Hawaiian, which should not be drunk by anyone over the age of 16, and which has a negligibly higher ABV owing to the addition of curacao--never have any more than 1 oz. of al-kohal in them. One shot, often less. That is not a fucking cocktail, you twits, that is fruit juice with a nasty aftertaste. To illustrate: a martini or a manhattan has 3.5 oz. of Gin/Vodka (a vodkatini. Gag me) or Whiskey, on top of which comes at least a shot's worth of vermouth, more for a Manhattan.

Martinis, incidentally, are strange. Lately, for your more hard-core Martini drinker, the vermouth has been almost entirely eliminated from the recipe, to the point where it is sometimes rolled around the glass and evicted before the addition of the gin (called an in-and-out), misted on with a vaporizer and in the extremest cases, left out altogether. You are then left with gin, neat, with a forlorn little olive lolling around in your glass. Or you can make a Gibson if you leave in the vermouth and add in three pearl onions, which have got to be the foulest-smelling things I have ever encountered. Anyhow. Back to my screed.

Now, I don't want it to be thought that I am chastising people for not drinking enough. Far be it from me. I am chastising people not only for pretending to drink (because drinking is invariably accompanied by bravado), but also for drinking with the expressed intent of getting shit-faced locked. It's ignoble and it's ignorant. In particular, I hate, and I do mean hate, Malibu. In anything. Ever.

Anyhow, invective aside, I do seem to have some talent for this thing, though that could be a result of a certain preexisting affinity for the art, resultant in a greater level of familiarity with its devices. I seem to have more knowledge of spirits in general. This is likely because I actually care what I drink, unlike some little girls I know. But of course, bartending isn't just mixology. Clearly. It's specialized skill with its own internal bylaws and practices. This school stresses the dynamic across the counter, the social aspect of bartending and the bartender's duties to his or her clientele just as much as it does the actual mixing. These are not all things that can be taught in full, but the school helps us along. It's a mighty fine program, I have to say. I love it. Brilliant.