From corporate to barman, what I learnt
It was December. And I was bored, fed-up and had absolutely nothing to do, as the world was about to shut down for the festive season. Out of frustration, I vented to a friend of mine who suggested that I should just work behind a bar for the holidays. She promised I would love it.
Me? Behind a bar? I had never so much as poured a pint of beer, let alone served someone before. That would not work for me; but I mulled over it for a few days and thought, fuck it, why not?
Ok, I lie, I was a "bartender" once when I was 18, for about 24 hours in a seedy little pub. Far from quaint, it did, however, come complete with the vomit-on-the-floor motif, the drunk pillock in the corner, creepy lampshades, a dirty dog with a limp and the convenient wall-to-wall ashtray. The owner, a crude little man, by the name of Don, decided to come in that day and fire everyone, including the managers, kitchen staff and of course, the bartenders, all for being "useless bastards".
That's it... that’s as far as my hospitality career extended.
Nevertheless, my friend had arranged for me to meet her friend, Gemma, who was one of the managers at the time for my "new December bar gig".
I had my interview, admitting to her that I had never done this before (I was not going to tell her about "Dirty Don's"), but I was willing to learn.
Done.I could start the following day as they needed the staff. And what a day it was.
Thrown into the deep end, pouring pints, running around attempting to make cocktails, ending up with "craptails", not having an idea as to what I was doing, at all. I was pouring things into glasses hoping it would at least look like a Mojito.
Frustrating colleagues to wit's end, by asking too many questions, being annoying, fumbling around, incredibly clumsy, always being in the way and causing absolute mayhem. Well, that's how my colleagues like to remind me.
I was not used to the crazy pressure, the hustle and bustle and constant activity.
What did I know? I had run companies before, my own, or the ones which I had been headhunted to run or resuscitate. This was all new to me.
From National telecommunications, IT companies, automation systems all the way to cinema consulting; dealing with names like BMW, Siemens, Mittal, Dolby, Cinemeccanica and IBM.
That was all gone. I was now taking orders from someone half my age to cut limes while responding to “a pint o' lager, mate”.
What a contrast, and I absolutely fucking loved it.
For once, I could pull a day's work, go home and leave work at work. No emails, no reports, no litigations, no financial reports, no proposals, no meetings and certainly no customer account handling.
Work stayed at work.
It was difficult at first, yet challenging. Not difficult because of the workload, but for the contrasts. I was once very spoilt. At work I had PA's, at home I had helpers.
To give an idea of how spoilt I was; I had a staff pool of 4 working at my house in South Africa at one time, one of which was my maid, Martha.
Bless her, she looked after me, especially during my divorce. She doted on me and took care of me, voluntarily cooked for me, kept me healthy and ensured that I was always kept in pristine condition while I was battling emotionally.
She would even ensure that my alcohol intake was monitored, just in case “I lost my way from Jesus” as she put it. Even women who would come to visit me were scrutinized on their intentions, looks or attitude. God help me or the poor visitor if they did not match up to Martha's expectations, of which she made it plainly and verbally clear if she did not like or approve of someone.
When Martha went on holiday for a week, it was long enough for me to have trashed the house beyond recognition – no one could visit, my house was on lockdown - it was that bad. Had my mother seen this state, she would have disowned her feral child.
My house was in utter disarray, to the extent that I had eventually run out of cups, glasses, Tupperware and just about any other container which I could possibly use as a coffee cup.
Those days I would visit my dear friend, Ogy, every morning for our usual morning coffee. Ogy, who ran his business from home, would sit with me and chat about politics, women, relationships, divorce, weather, cars, sports, life and crap while enjoying both company and coffee.
One particular morning I was desperate, so while we were in his kitchen, I walked straight to his kitchen cupboards and took out 6 mugs.
“Ogy, I am taking these for a few days”. He immediately responded, “Martha on leave?”
“Yip” I replied.
He knew me all too well and just laughed, shook his head and continued with our chat.
I was just not bothered to wash cups or clean the place, not out of privilege or out of obstinate defiance of duty, I was hardly ever home, so I just didn't care, to be honest. I just needed to see through two more coffee days…
Needless to say, the day before Martha returned, I had cleaned the house from top to bottom. I knew that if she saw how bad the place was, she would lose her shit! I didn't want to end up getting a lecture from her - everyone feared Martha, including me. She had that old school, African motherly love and sternness about her, with which you do not mess about. She believed in discipline and “cleanliness is next to godliness”.
Roll on to the bar job. After being that spoilt, I was now washing glasses, wiping counters, mopping floors, taking out the trash, clearing plates and picking up mushy food from tables.
God, it was liberating.
I became a clean freak! I actually found pleasure in cleaning... but this is partly thanks to my cousin, Angelo, and his wife Vickie, with whom I was staying when I first arrived in London. Bless them for their patience!
I now enjoy cleaning to the point where I could voluntarily just clean someone's kitchen for the hell of it. There is something satisfactory about "getting in there" with a toothpick in between those pesky taps.
Not to say that my mother didn't teach me well, no! She had been raised in a very conservative and strict household - there was no way she was raising a chauvinist son. I had to learn how to iron, sew a button, clean, cook, bake, hem my school trousers and at one point learnt how to knit.
This, of course, all changed as I got older and conveniently forgot my skills.
Who am I kidding? I had cash, I had the status, I had the title, I was just lazy…
Fair to say, that I came to the bar with absolutely no hospitality skills. Although most of my family had owned or ran prestigious restaurants, my uncle Armando, for instance, was a renowned chef in his day, even my grandfather owned one of the largest and most popular restaurants in Salisbury now Harare, (Zorba's, if anyone cares to know). All the way to my cousins who successfully run and manage Michelin-rated restaurants.
Me? I was absolutely useless. Bless my bar manager, Helen, for her patience when I asked her once "how the fuck does this mop machine work?" - I had no idea how to use it!
I gained a new respect for anyone working in hospitality. It's a hard job. This respect manifests itself when I go out these days and start cleaning the table myself. I just feel uncomfortable about someone cleaning up after me now.
It's a demanding job, hospitality. Albeit, it was not the hardest job I ever did. No, working as a trench digger and cable puller as an apprentice was the worst – now that was hard work.
Nevertheless, these people work hard for long hours, all to ensure that each and every customer who walks through the door has the best experience and the best service, ever. And always with a smile, no matter how shitty their day has been, they still smile. It's just sad to see when some customers have absolute disregard for waitrons.
I learnt to take orders... cut some limes, change the keg, restock the bar, deliver this to table 4, check the tickets. Granted, I have never assigned a task to anyone that I could not do myself; however, I was always “the boss”, and it was liberating that for once I did not have to carry the burden. It's a glamorous title being the boss, but it's a heavy title to carry.
I became humbled and learnt to appreciate the small details. Especially when you receive a genuine compliment from a customer for "doing a great job". It humbles you, even more, when you also notice the appreciation from your colleagues for “doing a great job”, too.
Then again, it's not always peachy. There are those moments where you have to deal with an absolute asshole, but you can still find some restitution. Pretentious pricks who walk in; no hello, no please, no thank you, and treat you with utter disregard or contempt.
“Gin and Tonic!”, while they flip a £50 note on the counter. The pleasure is all mine when it comes to giving their £40.50 change... in small notes and coins. With a smile, of course, followed by a polite “thank you” as you hand them a handful of legal tender, apologising for the small change.
There is something symbolic about a ponce of a man in a smart suit who is now walking about with a bulge in his pocket and clanging away sounding like a cowboy wearing new spurs…
New skills... Mixing cocktails, pouring drinks, dispensing beers, crafting cocktails, imagination, attention to detail, taking food orders and knowing what the fuck quinoa is. Then there are the perks of this job when tasting the new dishes on the menu. Whoever heard of cobnuts?
Even better are the courses and tastings you get to go on; gin, rum, beer, wine, whiskey. It all starts off being enthusiastic and professional in the beginning, a few samples and tastings later and you're now thinking, drinking and talking like a motherless pirate.
Perks right?
And who could forget the extreme vegans? Busting my balls for the next 15 minutes on how they chose this lifestyle, why they chose it, the health concerns, spiritual motives and moral reasoning. No conversation is complete without a barrage of questions asking me: how is the food prepared? where is the food prepared? where is the food stored? and what is my moral stance to animal cruelty? Next is asking me to describe each and every single ingredient and condiment the bar has to offer.
All this, when I simply asked, "Hi, what can I get you?"
Patience is what comes to mind, along with keeping yourself composed. Especially when 4 wines later the same hard-core animal rights activist vegan is now ordering "Hip Lady" cocktails by the dozen, (knowing full well that there is egg white in it)... while splayed out and enjoying what comfort the leather couch has to offer!... Patience! Most times it would be better off just acting like you're a foreigner, about to go full retard, or even better… "I just started today" when asked too many questions.
Besides the weird and wonderful clients, there is also the weird and wonderful colleagues I've had the pleasure to work alongside. Friendly, fun, high-spirited, kind, helpful and absolute party animals!… Good colleagues who have now become good friends!
Funny thing about those in hospitality; people seem to look down on their status without knowing that behind that apron could be a professional. An actor, a writer, an artist, a musician, an entrepreneur, those that are doing something with their lives. There are others who will be the future attorney, engineer, scientist or doctor. And then there are those who like me, who came from professional careers and sought a change. A personal friend of mine, for instance, completed law, only to leave her endeavour of becoming a judge after she found her heart in hospitality. A judge!
I missed this part in growing up and would recommend hospitality to EVERYONE to experience this at least once in their life. The skills and talents you learn, both interpersonal and socially, they are invaluable that no education could ever buy. It has to be experienced.
How are my cocktail skills now? Let me make you a Whiskey Old fashioned...
Read more articles on TaintedGuava.com.
Me? Behind a bar? I had never so much as poured a pint of beer, let alone served someone before. That would not work for me; but I mulled over it for a few days and thought, fuck it, why not?
Ok, I lie, I was a "bartender" once when I was 18, for about 24 hours in a seedy little pub. Far from quaint, it did, however, come complete with the vomit-on-the-floor motif, the drunk pillock in the corner, creepy lampshades, a dirty dog with a limp and the convenient wall-to-wall ashtray. The owner, a crude little man, by the name of Don, decided to come in that day and fire everyone, including the managers, kitchen staff and of course, the bartenders, all for being "useless bastards".
That's it... that’s as far as my hospitality career extended.
Nevertheless, my friend had arranged for me to meet her friend, Gemma, who was one of the managers at the time for my "new December bar gig".
I had my interview, admitting to her that I had never done this before (I was not going to tell her about "Dirty Don's"), but I was willing to learn.
Done.I could start the following day as they needed the staff. And what a day it was.
Thrown into the deep end, pouring pints, running around attempting to make cocktails, ending up with "craptails", not having an idea as to what I was doing, at all. I was pouring things into glasses hoping it would at least look like a Mojito.
Frustrating colleagues to wit's end, by asking too many questions, being annoying, fumbling around, incredibly clumsy, always being in the way and causing absolute mayhem. Well, that's how my colleagues like to remind me.
I was not used to the crazy pressure, the hustle and bustle and constant activity.
What did I know? I had run companies before, my own, or the ones which I had been headhunted to run or resuscitate. This was all new to me.
From National telecommunications, IT companies, automation systems all the way to cinema consulting; dealing with names like BMW, Siemens, Mittal, Dolby, Cinemeccanica and IBM.
That was all gone. I was now taking orders from someone half my age to cut limes while responding to “a pint o' lager, mate”.
What a contrast, and I absolutely fucking loved it.
For once, I could pull a day's work, go home and leave work at work. No emails, no reports, no litigations, no financial reports, no proposals, no meetings and certainly no customer account handling.
Work stayed at work.
It was difficult at first, yet challenging. Not difficult because of the workload, but for the contrasts. I was once very spoilt. At work I had PA's, at home I had helpers.
To give an idea of how spoilt I was; I had a staff pool of 4 working at my house in South Africa at one time, one of which was my maid, Martha.
Bless her, she looked after me, especially during my divorce. She doted on me and took care of me, voluntarily cooked for me, kept me healthy and ensured that I was always kept in pristine condition while I was battling emotionally.
She would even ensure that my alcohol intake was monitored, just in case “I lost my way from Jesus” as she put it. Even women who would come to visit me were scrutinized on their intentions, looks or attitude. God help me or the poor visitor if they did not match up to Martha's expectations, of which she made it plainly and verbally clear if she did not like or approve of someone.
When Martha went on holiday for a week, it was long enough for me to have trashed the house beyond recognition – no one could visit, my house was on lockdown - it was that bad. Had my mother seen this state, she would have disowned her feral child.
My house was in utter disarray, to the extent that I had eventually run out of cups, glasses, Tupperware and just about any other container which I could possibly use as a coffee cup.
Those days I would visit my dear friend, Ogy, every morning for our usual morning coffee. Ogy, who ran his business from home, would sit with me and chat about politics, women, relationships, divorce, weather, cars, sports, life and crap while enjoying both company and coffee.
One particular morning I was desperate, so while we were in his kitchen, I walked straight to his kitchen cupboards and took out 6 mugs.
“Ogy, I am taking these for a few days”. He immediately responded, “Martha on leave?”
“Yip” I replied.
He knew me all too well and just laughed, shook his head and continued with our chat.
I was just not bothered to wash cups or clean the place, not out of privilege or out of obstinate defiance of duty, I was hardly ever home, so I just didn't care, to be honest. I just needed to see through two more coffee days…
Needless to say, the day before Martha returned, I had cleaned the house from top to bottom. I knew that if she saw how bad the place was, she would lose her shit! I didn't want to end up getting a lecture from her - everyone feared Martha, including me. She had that old school, African motherly love and sternness about her, with which you do not mess about. She believed in discipline and “cleanliness is next to godliness”.
Roll on to the bar job. After being that spoilt, I was now washing glasses, wiping counters, mopping floors, taking out the trash, clearing plates and picking up mushy food from tables.
God, it was liberating.
I became a clean freak! I actually found pleasure in cleaning... but this is partly thanks to my cousin, Angelo, and his wife Vickie, with whom I was staying when I first arrived in London. Bless them for their patience!
I now enjoy cleaning to the point where I could voluntarily just clean someone's kitchen for the hell of it. There is something satisfactory about "getting in there" with a toothpick in between those pesky taps.
Not to say that my mother didn't teach me well, no! She had been raised in a very conservative and strict household - there was no way she was raising a chauvinist son. I had to learn how to iron, sew a button, clean, cook, bake, hem my school trousers and at one point learnt how to knit.
This, of course, all changed as I got older and conveniently forgot my skills.
Who am I kidding? I had cash, I had the status, I had the title, I was just lazy…
Fair to say, that I came to the bar with absolutely no hospitality skills. Although most of my family had owned or ran prestigious restaurants, my uncle Armando, for instance, was a renowned chef in his day, even my grandfather owned one of the largest and most popular restaurants in Salisbury now Harare, (Zorba's, if anyone cares to know). All the way to my cousins who successfully run and manage Michelin-rated restaurants.
Me? I was absolutely useless. Bless my bar manager, Helen, for her patience when I asked her once "how the fuck does this mop machine work?" - I had no idea how to use it!
I gained a new respect for anyone working in hospitality. It's a hard job. This respect manifests itself when I go out these days and start cleaning the table myself. I just feel uncomfortable about someone cleaning up after me now.
It's a demanding job, hospitality. Albeit, it was not the hardest job I ever did. No, working as a trench digger and cable puller as an apprentice was the worst – now that was hard work.
Nevertheless, these people work hard for long hours, all to ensure that each and every customer who walks through the door has the best experience and the best service, ever. And always with a smile, no matter how shitty their day has been, they still smile. It's just sad to see when some customers have absolute disregard for waitrons.
I learnt to take orders... cut some limes, change the keg, restock the bar, deliver this to table 4, check the tickets. Granted, I have never assigned a task to anyone that I could not do myself; however, I was always “the boss”, and it was liberating that for once I did not have to carry the burden. It's a glamorous title being the boss, but it's a heavy title to carry.
I became humbled and learnt to appreciate the small details. Especially when you receive a genuine compliment from a customer for "doing a great job". It humbles you, even more, when you also notice the appreciation from your colleagues for “doing a great job”, too.
Then again, it's not always peachy. There are those moments where you have to deal with an absolute asshole, but you can still find some restitution. Pretentious pricks who walk in; no hello, no please, no thank you, and treat you with utter disregard or contempt.
“Gin and Tonic!”, while they flip a £50 note on the counter. The pleasure is all mine when it comes to giving their £40.50 change... in small notes and coins. With a smile, of course, followed by a polite “thank you” as you hand them a handful of legal tender, apologising for the small change.
There is something symbolic about a ponce of a man in a smart suit who is now walking about with a bulge in his pocket and clanging away sounding like a cowboy wearing new spurs…
New skills... Mixing cocktails, pouring drinks, dispensing beers, crafting cocktails, imagination, attention to detail, taking food orders and knowing what the fuck quinoa is. Then there are the perks of this job when tasting the new dishes on the menu. Whoever heard of cobnuts?
Even better are the courses and tastings you get to go on; gin, rum, beer, wine, whiskey. It all starts off being enthusiastic and professional in the beginning, a few samples and tastings later and you're now thinking, drinking and talking like a motherless pirate.
Perks right?
And who could forget the extreme vegans? Busting my balls for the next 15 minutes on how they chose this lifestyle, why they chose it, the health concerns, spiritual motives and moral reasoning. No conversation is complete without a barrage of questions asking me: how is the food prepared? where is the food prepared? where is the food stored? and what is my moral stance to animal cruelty? Next is asking me to describe each and every single ingredient and condiment the bar has to offer.
All this, when I simply asked, "Hi, what can I get you?"
Patience is what comes to mind, along with keeping yourself composed. Especially when 4 wines later the same hard-core animal rights activist vegan is now ordering "Hip Lady" cocktails by the dozen, (knowing full well that there is egg white in it)... while splayed out and enjoying what comfort the leather couch has to offer!... Patience! Most times it would be better off just acting like you're a foreigner, about to go full retard, or even better… "I just started today" when asked too many questions.
Besides the weird and wonderful clients, there is also the weird and wonderful colleagues I've had the pleasure to work alongside. Friendly, fun, high-spirited, kind, helpful and absolute party animals!… Good colleagues who have now become good friends!
Funny thing about those in hospitality; people seem to look down on their status without knowing that behind that apron could be a professional. An actor, a writer, an artist, a musician, an entrepreneur, those that are doing something with their lives. There are others who will be the future attorney, engineer, scientist or doctor. And then there are those who like me, who came from professional careers and sought a change. A personal friend of mine, for instance, completed law, only to leave her endeavour of becoming a judge after she found her heart in hospitality. A judge!
I missed this part in growing up and would recommend hospitality to EVERYONE to experience this at least once in their life. The skills and talents you learn, both interpersonal and socially, they are invaluable that no education could ever buy. It has to be experienced.
How are my cocktail skills now? Let me make you a Whiskey Old fashioned...
Read more articles on TaintedGuava.com.
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