The Bartender's Code
On loyalty, rum, and why that's not a thing, bro
Another afternoon shift in my gorgeous little cocktail bar nestled in the quiet end of the very bohemian suburb of Newtown.
We’d been in the area awhile now, and like most independent businesses in the inner-west, we’d fast become a local staple in the community.
This particular day, a new face wandered in.
David, a big burly Scotsman, propped himself up barside. I cracked him a tin of stout, poured us both a nip of whisky and we got to chatting.
He turned out to be a lovely man. Extremely funny, charming and polite. A perfect customer to boot; never overstaying his welcome, knowing when I had to do my job and when I was able to resume our conversation. Exactly the type of man you want at your establishment.
He continued to pop in semi-regularly and I was always happy to welcome him in. His friendliness was infectious, and people warmed to him quickly and with ease.
One evening as he made his way out, he mentioned he was off to dinner with his ‘beautiful wife’. The man was so excited to go on a date with his wife, and I remember mentally noting how lovely that was.
She came into the bar and tapped him on the shoulder, where Dave proceeded to introduce her to me.
I smiled and extended my hand as we met eyes for the first time.
I know her.
I’d seen her before, somewhere in the close-knit community I’d become part of. I’d recognise the homeless dude outside the Town Hall pub, I’d wave to the girl who worked in the chicken shop, I’d dodge the elderly bloke who ripped about on his electric scooter blasting Elvis from a jerry-rigged bluetooth speaker.
Fast forward a little while, and Saturday night is in full swing. David wasn’t a late evening drinker, at least not in my place. So I was surprised to see his wife walk in the door and take a seat in one of my booths.
Excited to have big Dave in on a party night, I waited to see him squeeze through our narrow door. The human who followed was definitely a male, but it wasn’t David.
He was probably the same age, but had a distinct air of toff-ness. He wore pressed chinos with brown, polished leather shoes. Upper half in a Ralph Lauren button down shirt, his thinning hair combed carefully over the pink underneath.
He sat opposite David’s wife. She smiled. A smile not reserved for platonic friendship. A smile of intent, passion, secrecy.
Who in the ever loving fuck, are you mate?!
I smiled when he came to the bar to order for them both. Sav Blanc for the lady, “my choice” for him.
Ugh.
I cracked him our most expensive beer.
“Can I have a glass?”
Pfft. David doesn’t need a glass, and he has all of his hair. Fuck you.
“Sure!” I grabbed one from the fridge. “Start you a tab, mate?”
I watched them over the course of a couple of hours. Laughing, touching. He eventually switched seats and slid up next to her and that’s when things got hot and heavy.
They felt it was time to leave, and they scooted out of the booth. I tapped his card as I met her gaze.
“Have a great evening guys, see you again” I said through gritted teeth.
I was pissed.
Of course, I knew I had only seen snapshots of these peoples lives. I don’t know anything about their relationship, who am I to judge? It didn’t look great to me, but hell, I’d met couples with non-traditional arrangements before.
I didn’t see Dave for a while after that, until one sunny Sunday afternoon he appeared, big familiar smile across his face.
“Sam! Get your man a beer please mate!”
We caught up, but I wasn’t very present. My mind was running, guilt eating me up inside. I had to say something. I asked him to join me outside while I smoked.
“Dave mate, I saw your missus the other day in here” I began.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Um. She was with someone. A man…” I continued.
“Ah” his face dropped. “Simon. Her friend”
“Friend?”
“....No, not really. I know he isn’t her friend”
For the first time, David seemed small. His big personality shrivelled, his shoulders drooped and chin sank to his chest. The man was tired.
He asked me what happened. I told him what I had witnessed, that I was sorry to bring it up. He waved it off like blokes do.
He told me how she had cheated on him with this weasel before, but she had promised it was over and they were trying to move on; hence the date the first time I’d met him.
“I’m so sorry mate” I said again.
He finished his beer, shook my hand and went on his way. I wouldn’t see him again.
A week later, another Saturday night in full swing.
In walks the Country Club Cunt.
Ralph polo, same chinos, bright red jumper tied in a catalogue-perfect knot. He’s got a face like a smacked arse and stomps up to the bar directly in front of me.
Bring it on, bellend.
“Hi mate! Haven’t seen you in awhile!” I grinned. “What can I get you?”
His face shifted to and fro. The anger he was harbouring twisted his muscles into something possessed.
“Whatever’s good. Rum.” he stated.
“I got you bro” as I reached high for my top shelf. “Rum old fashioned, coming up”.
I slowly built, stirred and presented his drink. Double shot of Ron Zacapa 23 year old, splash of angostura and orange bitters, housemade kaffir lime syrup garnished with a spray of citrus zest and served over hand-chipped spherical ice.
“$42 please”
He took a sip as he handed me his card.
“So, Sam, was it?” he asked the question he already knew the answer to.
“Yep” I smile as the machine beeps.
“Tell me. What’s the bartender’s code around here?” he probes.
I laugh. “The what?”
“You know. What happens in a bar, stays in a bar.” He says confidently.
“Yeah, that’s not a thing bro. You’re thinking of Vegas.”
“Why did you tell Dave?!”
“Because David is my friend. You aren’t.”
“I would have come in here every night and spent money. We’re very loyal people!” He shouted.
I laughed harder at the audacity.
“Fuck off, Simon.”
I saw the pair of them a couple of months later, drinking together in another Newtown bar. However this time the atmosphere was decidedly different. There was no flirting, no laughing. No playful touching of the hands on the table.
She scrolled on her phone as he laid his empty tumbler glass next to another empty tumbler, motioning for the wait staff to take another order.
His chinos were creased. Hair slightly less kempt.
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