(in the style of Shouts & Murmurs)
Who am I?
Well, some have called me the fifth best bartender in Brooklyn. Northern Brooklyn, to be precise. I invented the award winning, “The Somewhat New Old Fashioned.” It really captures my aesthetic. You know, like a cigar smoked backward, but in a good way.
I like to start my evenings with a lemon cleanse. It’s essentially a good bar scrub down, but instead of soap sudded wet rag, I opt for ripe lemons, halved. I drag them end-to-end across the birchwood countertop, and dabble some grey sea salt in even sprinkles to ensure the acidity doesn’t ruin the wood. Some like to call me a Modern Mr. Clean.
I run my bar like a woodshop, in prison. Customers who try to speak to me before they’re spoken to…well, let’s just say I keep my eyebrows bushy and glasses thick for a reason. And no, the reason is not to just complement my already striking Americana features. I’m told with those shades on, the eye roll and twitch can barely be told apart. Some say I look like Ryan Gosling when I stare at them long enough.
As of September, once sweat stains on beige vintage shirts go out of vogue, I mandate suspenders among all bar keeps. Irregardless of gender. Androgyny is sexy on a woman, though I’m quite strict about shaved armpits. We’re not running a French brothel after all.
For music, I used to spin through mixtapes I made for my ex-girlfriend, which I then gave to my new girlfriend. It worked out well for a while. I took those white envelope labels and covered “Veronica, I adore thee,” with “Veronique, you’re my jam.” The names are so close that you can barely tell. About a month ago, V #2 left me the box of tapes (oh yes, these are cassettes for the record…pun intended). The stickers were peeled off, and new recordings had been taped over. It began with a cacophony of atonal sound that really was evocative, you know in that Icelandic rock meets Schoenberg kind of way. Once Veronique’s profanity kicked in, I knew this was #NSFW.
But then, the Edison classic light bulb in my head turned on. I thought it might elevate my career as a liquidating persona to send the one with our sex recordings to Gawker with the suggested title, “Fifth Best Bartender in Northern Brooklyn Stirs Up a Hot Mess.” I’m still waiting for the story to run, though they say it was really moving.
Oh, my bad.
What did you say you wanted?
We don’t make Manhattan’s here.