Let me give you a slow comfortable screw against the wall. How about a blow job, followed by a screaming multiple orgasm? Careful though, sometimes I get confused and you might just end up with a slippery nipple.
I can mix you any of these drinks. Last month, I graduated from the American Professional Bartending School, which has locations in Illinois, New York, New Jersey and California. You may have even seen the semi-condemned building where I took classes downtown on S. Wabash Avenue. As you pass by it on the El, you’ve probably caught a glimpse of the flashy red neon sign that blinks: 1-773-BARTEND. Quality advertising for a quality profession.
For three long weeks, five days a week, four hours a day, I learned the secret craft of mixing drinks. Every day, I would take the elevator up to class, travel all the way up to the eighth floor and then down again to the seventh floor because of a programming error. On more than one occasion, students got stuck in the elevator. The Chicago Fire Department became a regular sight down at South Wabash Avenue.
When you first entered suite 706, you couldn’t help but be bedazzled by the multiple bar setup and endless rows and rows of liquor bottles filled with colored water. Actually, the lead paint-based colored water was worse for you than the alcohol itself. You were greeted by their Asian administrative assistant, who is a bartender herself and a thong underwear model. She showed them off all the time during class. For $700, you entered a world many indulge in but few can manipulate. You entered the world of highballs, shots, martinis and sours.
Then there was Jerry, our instructor, a cross between Tony Danza and Archie Bunker, who had a Godfather mumble that kicked in whenever he would review material for our test. A professional bartender, Jerry was our inspiration, everything we dreamed of becoming. His teaching style included reading notes taken straight from the book, making sexist jokes and ogling the female students.
One time Jerry even taught us how to make our own leMonday, lime and orange wedges. Of course, we had to provide the supplies. How else could they afford it with the tuition I paid?
Another time, we watched alcohol awareness videos featuring cheesy situations and actors who didn’t make the cut for infomercials. “Can I see your ID please? Oh, golly gee, I’m afraid you’re not 21, and I cannot serve you alcohol. Would you like a Coke?”
He’d give us only two 10-minute breaks per session. By that time, most of the students stampeded out the door and down to the street to smoke. For some reason, most bartending students are chain smokers. But it did allow for bonding outside the front door, as trains whizzed by above and homeless people harassed us with sales of StreetWise.
For our final test, we had to make 15 drinks in 10 minutes. If you thought economics finals were hard, obviously you’ve never tried to pour and garnish a drink every 40 seconds while Jerry breathed down your neck. And after we passed, we took advantage of their job placement services. The Keg better watch out. Here I come!
Besides an appreciation for liquor, the class gave me a greater pride in my Polish background. You see, I learned the Poles, not the Russians, invented vodka in the early eighth century for medicinal purposes. After my 60 hours of bartending training, this is one Polish physician who can heal thyself.
