Drink Masters: A Rant

I was watching a show on Netflix called, “Drink Masters” where a dozen bartenders compete for a large cash prize and the coveted title of “Best Bartender Out of the Twelve We Chose to Compete in this”. I couldn’t help feeling, as I watched this program, that I’ve been away for a long time.

There were so many contestants with pink or blue hair that I thought someone was selling cotton candy. I guess they have to enhance their appearances because most of them live their lives working in a very small area and in relative darkness, much the same as a veal. They are chronically-depressed mole people. They are drug pushers that you have to tip. I could go on.

And, their piercings were plentiful and cheap. I really don’t want a person who has attacked himself that many times to have any contact with my food or live in my neighborhood. As for drinks, I feel the exact same way but that feeling will dissipate halfway through the first drink. In my humble, yet infallible opinion, if you want to stand out among bartenders… GET A TAN.

I don’t know quite how I feel about bartenders as a group. They have people skills; but, they dispense a substance that makes you want to punch people in the face for looking at you. Kind of a conflicting message… like that Christmas when your mom got you a pony and your dad gave you a box of pony poison. You ask for Sherry, but she never comes. Angostura bitters really AREN’T THAT BITTER.

But, drink technology is STAGGERING: Foams, distilled essences and a lot of liquid nitrogen. They even made micro-cocktails on that show. Micro-cocktails are Jello that you can get blitzed on. Gone are the days of the inner city bartenders whose only tools were a bar rag and half a pool cue that was used to distill the essences of any trouble-makers. These old guys spoke words so wise and true that we almost always regretted ignoring them.

And, what does the next generation of bartender sound like? Sadly, the term “gibbering idiot” is no longer politically correct, especially since Gibberine Idiot was elected to the U. S. Senate. Needless to say their conversations are as shallow as a drop of water on a dime. A real bartender didn’t talk about his hair, nails or a line of skin care products… he talked about the boxing matches and really nothing else until he put a shotgun in his mouth one New Years Eve. I don’t mind the young bartenders enjoying life but do they have to rub it in our faces?

Each round of the show is divided into two or three parts. In the last part, the bottom two or three compete with one another to decide the loser. This means that the judges get twice as many cocktails from the bad bartenders as they do from the good ones. I think having two rounds works well because you might assume your favorite is just having a bad day or the judges don’t like gay Armenians with retina-piercings; but, when you watch them fail in the second round you kind of lose your empathy. After all, it was his idea to take essence of vanilla, mix it with carrot juice infused gin and cracker infused ice cream for a flavor so odd that the judges took it as a personal insult. You say, “Later, loser” and start cheering for the middle-aged lady with the tattoo of a rat on her neck.

But, those who know me might be a little confused because I DON’T DRINK. Well, I don’t spend three hours stuffing a veal roast with chestnuts and lima beans and then braising it overnight but I’m still gonna watch Julia Child do it. I’m living vicariously through her and the bartenders. I would never have the courage to dye my hair pink and pierce the skin on my forehead; in fact, the idea would probably never occur to me at all. I do still remember the great joys of trying to use chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant after finishing my second zombie. After my third zombie, I was lying in the backseat of my car looking up at the ceiling, which was unfortunate because I was supposed to be driving the car at the time. That’s what I loved: Nice powerful drinks so fruity and sweet that you could slam one back like a quart of Gatorade.

Served to me by a guy with a bar-rag and half a pool cue.