She takes a half point off for the Manhattan recipe because I got the garnish wrong. I also misidentified American whiskey with Kentucky whiskey. Got all the glassware right, and two were for extra credit (woo-hoo!) but got the Zombie and Scorpion confused. I also didn’t have a good answer for the question “What are the two ways to make champagne?”
She’s totaling up the score. I can’t really tell because her writing is so crazy. “Ready for the results?” she asks, smiling. She looks a bit too happy.
I nod, feeling a pang in my stomach, although her expression is encouraging. Maybe I did well after all. Then again, I see pen marks all over the pages. Now that would suck. I mean, I know I can take the test again next week, but still…it’s knowing you failed. “So you need to get a 90% to pass,” she reminded me. She hands me my test. “You got an eighty-nine.”
I grab the test and look it over. It was so close that it was just frustrating. All that hard work studying, all that time… There’s no way she could let me slide?
“You can take the test next week,” Betty says, as if she heard me ask the question aloud.
As I drive home I think about Bartending School. I don’t know if I want to take the test again. It took me so long to get to this point, all that studying all over again seems hopeless. Maybe bartending just isn’t for me. My memory sucks, I’m totally clumsy and am always dropping things… Maybe I’m just supposed to stay on the other side of the bar.
Perhaps if I continue my research, I can figure out a way to use this knowledge to my advantage. The good news is I know how to make and order 89% of the drinks I’m supposed to know to be a full-fledged bartender. And in any other world, that’s not a failure, but a success.
To read further into my many (mis)adventures, go to my blog at sweepeabartender.blogspot.com.

Betty emerges from the back and sees me. “Hey, you ready?” she asks.
“Ready as I’m gonna be,” I tell her, hoping she’ll give me some words of encouragement.
No such luck. “Three people have failed today already,” she declares.
“Huh,” I respond, wondering what the hell she was trying to do to me.
“Okay, here’s your test,” she says. “You have an hour.”
I settle in at the bar and get out a pen, wishing that this is a real bar and I could take the test while drinking Long Islands.
The first and second page are a nightmare. “Under the name of each drink, write the exact recipe along with the type of glass and garnish. Do not include instructions such as shake or stir.” And there it is: 36 drink names with 5 lines under each. I’m so screwed.
But I actually feel like I have it until I see these three drinks: Zombie, Hurricane, and Scorpion. I always get those mixed up! I skip to page 3.
“Identify the glassware.” There are cartoonish pictures of each type of glassware, and I fly through the section. Pretty simple, as I predicted. On to page 4.
“Identify each type of alcohol.” There’s a list of different types of booze, from Amaretto to Zima. Next to each name you have to write if it’s a liqueur, beer, gin, whiskey, brandy, or whatever. There are about 10 different whiskey brands, but I can’t keep straight which is Canadian, which is American, which is Kentucky. Things are not looking good.
I keep mentally chanting “I have to get at least 90%…”
Do you think I made it? Stay tuned to find out if I did.

Did you know there are four steps to making some whiskeys? And two ways to make champagne? Me neither… When the hell am I going to need to know most of this stuff as a bartender? When is someone going to ask for a Long Island Iced Tea and what the history of brandy is? Just doesn’t seem practical. But since I don’t have a choice, I have to develop a plan of attack.
Plan B has now developed into three steps:
1. Research – must go out and try all sorts of different drinks. It’ll definitely help me remember what they each are. And it’ll be a helluva lotta fun, too.
2. Procrastinate – since I have no strong desire to work a second job, I’ll have to put it off as long as possible. At least until the credit card company threatens me.
3. Cram like a mamajamma – last resort. If step 1 and 2 aren’t enough, I have to just sit and study all this stuff until it’s all I can think, breathe, eat, and drink.
Although Research to some extent has been continuous since high school, I plan on Researching into the holidays for best results. Of course, the more research I do the more brain cells with valuable information disappear. It’s a vicious cycle, but I’ll fight through it and keep you Sorry Drunks updated!
Cheers!

To start off, I have to explain the layout of my apartment. My bedroom window overlooks a beautiful view of the carport and the apartment dumpster. So not only do I get the delectable scent of exhaust fumes and filth, but I get to hear the nightly drama that always seems to take place in the parking area. Each of these exchanges make up what I like to call “Dumpster Drama.”
This evening’s drama actually starred me in the leading role as “Drunk Girl,” which is why I felt it would fit perfectly with the rest of these sorry drunks. I was walking from Cheesecake Factory where I had just imbibed 3 of their fantastic Long Island Iced Teas (they make theirs with their homemade lemonade instead of sweet and sour – so good). I was smart enough to be walking home instead of driving (it’s only a couple blocks from my apartment) with this guy I’ve been dating. He walked a little bit ahead of me when we turned the corner down my completely unlit street heading to above-mentioned carport. I must’ve made some yelp noise because when he turned back, I was on the ground. I mean, that’s how quickly it happened. Yelp, turn, boom – I’m on the ground.
I happened to fall in a pile of dirt, too, which was a particularly sticky kind of mud. Not just your ordinary run-of-the-mill dirt. No this stuff STICKS. It got on my shoes, my jeans, my hands… I was covered in it.
So I look up at my date and he has this bizarre look on his face. I’m completely confused at this point – still reeling from falling, slowly realizing how drunk I am, trying to count backwards the number of Long Island Iced Teas, and cautiously adding up the ounces of alcohol in each (which I learned in Bartending School, thankyouverymuch). And he’s got this strange look… It is then, as the thick fog of tequila, triple sec, vodka, rum, and gin clears, that I realize he’s calculating in his head the proper moment when he can start laughing at me.
…And CURTAIN.
(BTW…for all you wondering, each drink had a total of 2 1/2 oz. x 3 drinks = 7 1/2 oz. total)
For more Dumpster Drama, go to Sweepea’s Lounge.

She also tells us there are ways that bartenders can make customers look stupid. If you order a tequila shot and the bartender asks “You want training wheels with that?” you should say yes, despite how lame it sounds. Training wheels on a tequila shot means your bartender will put a lick of salt on the rim of the shooter and garnish it with a lime. This way you don’t have to sprinkle salt on your wrist and make a mess. (It’s also called a Mexican Call Girl.) However many people who are asked this question reply no, not knowing that it’s a pretty cool way to take a shot of tequila. (Unless you are desiring a body shot…then you would not want training wheels, or you’d miss the whole experience.)
Just remember that the bartender knows what is going in your drink, and can always find a way to embarrass you if you’re being a jerk. And besides, if a customer is really annoying, we as bartenders always reserve the right to refuse service. Not only that, we have the right to throw your drunk ass out the door.
However, by the time class has ended I decide that – given my current financial situation – I will do just about anything for a good tip. Give me a 20 and I’ll do your stupid bar trick. You want a Show-Me Martini‡? You got it, kid.
Tonight’s drill time: 7 minutes, 9 seconds – all drinks done right. Yee-ha.

Just as I’m about to reach a new level of frustration, a couple of guys walk up to us. “Can I buy you a martini?” the tall one asks. But all I can think of is where the dry vermouth bottle sits in the well. Do I want it electric or nuclear? What’s the stupid garnish on those? It’s too much to think about so I decline and shoo them away.
Finally I’m talked into trying the Liquid Kitty’s version of the Mai-Tai. Two Nine-Lives Mai-Tais and a Singapore Sling later I realize that studying drinks so intently makes my whole perspective on alcohol askew. It’s driving me crazy. This is supposed to be my weekend for chrissakes and all I can think of is Bartending School!
Being on the other side of the bar brings a whole new outlook on drinking. People are counting on you to make their drinks the way they expect them. Not only do you have to know what the hell they’re asking for, but how to make it taste right. I’m starting to think that I can’t do this, that it’s too difficult to make so many people happy. Plus my memory sucks – how am I going to remember 200 drinks and all the different alcohols? And do it all correctly in 7 minutes or less?
I’m feeling overwhelmed so I skip class. I stay home and try to find something – anything – to make my brain stop calculating the formulas of cocktails. I settle on VH-1 and zone out on “My Fair Brady.”
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to enjoy alcohol like I used to. It’s a miserable thought.
Last drill time: 6 minutes, 50 seconds, but I think I made my Tom Collins with whiskey instead of gin.

No real martini* should ever be shaken.
Betty explains that when making a martini, you put ice in your mixing tin. Then you add an eighth of an ounce of dry vermouth. Next is the most important ingredient of all. The vodka. In the tin you pour one and three-fourths ounces of it. And only the classiest of martini drinkers want the best vodka. (She suggests Grey Goose as an example of a top shelf brand.)
“Now here’s the tricky part,” Betty says, with great suspense. I glance around the room; the guys are expecting another slam against their idol. “If you shake the tin holding that quality vodka, the ice will melt with it, bruising your martini.”
Instead you’re supposed to take a bar spoon and stir it gently. Gently! Don’t want to bruise the martini. Yes, a real martini should never be shaken. Always stirred.
“James Bond is a pussy,” Betty concludes, “because he wants the ice to melt in his martini. He likes it watered-down and weak.”
Wow. Harsh. I’m learning that being a bartender is critically judging people’s choice of cocktail. I don’t know if I can do that. I always tell the bartender “I’ll have a Vodka Collins – with the cheapest stuff you’ve got.” Guess I still have a lot to learn.
By the way… tonight’s drill time: 10 minutes, 25 seconds

I know going into Bartending that I’m stepping into a predominantly male field. But I had no idea walking in that the teacher and I would be the only girls in the class. One of the guys quickly approaches me and introduces himself. He says his name which I immediately forget, and outlines his stats within the first five minutes of our knowing each other: he’s single, lives nearby, and has no kids. Chatty Charlie then goes on to tell me how he used to make bank at his last job, but left it to learn bartending. “Just to try something new,” he adds. I consider telling Sir Talksalot to just give me his 8×10 glossy and leave me the hell alone, when our teacher Betty introduces herself.
Betty’s in her early 30′s and she’s been bartending for over 8 years, mostly at studio events. She gives us a short lecture on the house rules. No food or drink. Smoke outside. Study hard. She gets sidetracked and goes on about Oliver Stone and how he’s a bad tipper. She must have forgotten that in L.A. it’s no big deal to have met someone famous, because she goes on to tell us how Oliver hit on her once his date went to the john.
Her anecdote finished, we’re given a manual with all the recipes we’ll need to know… a total of 200. Before I can start feeling overwhelmed, Betty’s telling us to get behind the bar and mix some drinks. The only drink I’ve ever made before this is popping open a can of beer, and now I’m supposed to be making Black Russians, Godfathers, Rusty Nails, and Blowjob shots.
The liquids we’re mixing with are fusions of various coloring and water. We don’t get to taste the drinks we make, unless we want a mouthful of paint and food coloring. Just getting used to where everything is takes too much thought. There are bottles in the well in front of me, all my mixers in the juice jockey, a variety of glasses to make any drink, and all the call alcohol bottles that make up the back bar.
After practicing for an hour Betty turns down the rock music blaring throughout the room. Time for us to do drills. She’ll yell out four rounds of drinks, three drinks in each round. She’s timing us to see how fast we can make them. To graduate, we will have to make all 12 drinks in 7 minutes or less.
She cranks the music back up and yells out the first round. I barely hear her over the noise. I think she said she wants a Dirty Mother, a Kamikaze shot, and a Brave Bull. I’m trying to remember the order of the alcohol bottles in my well and what’s in each drink. At this point it’s hard to even remember the three drinks themselves. But the timer is going. People are bumping into me to grab bottles from the back bar and to get more ice. It’s completely insane. But at the same time I’m thinking how totally cool this all is.
Eleven minutes and forty seconds later, I call out “Time!” Betty tells me my time and I look around. I’m one of the last ones to finish.
Chatterbox approaches me to ask me what my time was. I assume that this means he’s done pretty well. “Eleven-forty,” I tell him. “Oh, I got eight-twenty,” he gloats.
Damn. Well, we’ll see how far I get playing with the big boys… But for now I’ll have to remain in last place.