Ok, lets start with the first fucking piece of information. We are not fucking mixologists. We are just fucking bartenders, we are lesser human beings, we are not worthy. So, you must be thinking, what is the bloody difference?
Well to start off, you work 6 days a week and at least 12 hours a day under the worst boss in the fucking world; a certain Mr. George. That cunt is fucking drunk half the time and pissed the rest of the time. Once you start work, you get about one hour to get some food to keep you going, and the rest of the time you will be running around doing all kinds of prep work and trying to meet every single whim and fantasy that George has.
No self-respecting mixologist will do the things that you will have to do on a daily basis. Mixologists are God’s gift to the fucking earth. They are born with a silver bar spoon in their mouth and start stirring Negronis as soon as they start crawling. They are also popped out from the womb with amazing bow ties, and immaculately matched vests and suspenders. All mixologists have to do is to stir one drink for 10 minutes in their first job and they are ready to become a head bartender and innovate the most amazing molecular cocktails ever created.
You little-apprentice-shit-of-a-human-being will be lucky to touch booze during the first year of working for George. But we can guarantee that you will be getting touched fairly heavily (qualitative and quantitative) by Mr. George to make up for that.
The average day starts with you getting shouted at for doing the setup wrong and then once more for doing it right and making Mr. George look incompetent. This is followed by listening to the daily liturgical chronicles of the average-over-achieving-cunt-customer complaining about all the great misfortunes that life has seen fit to inflict upon his/her perfect being.
The weekends are especially awesome, there is never enough staff as all the really good people are now mixologists. (Only the unworthy are left to wallow and die at The Spiffy Dapper.) There are too many fucking customers. Like really, can’t you come on a less busy fucking day? And at the end of the day you get to break down every single part of the bar and clean it until the cows come home.
The most beautiful part of the job is when you squeeze the lemons. Unlike other bars, you don’t just get to cut and squeeze the lemons. At spiffy, you get to peel every single lemon by hand, squeeze them by hand, then filter and bottle them with dates. And you know what, you get to do that to about 4 cartons of lemons every week. Oh wait, it is even more awesome when George stands next to you and tells you how inefficient you are while regaling you with tales of when he was a master lemon squeezer at The Cufflink Club. He usually follows it with some crap about the beauty of simplicity, focus, and shit like that. But then again, compared to all the rest of the shit, squeezing lemons in the back is the best place to be.
If you ever manage to make a drink, then you will be constantly taunted about things like lack of speed, unbalanced flavors, lack of style (Seriously, fucking style?) and the fact that you are horrible at garnishing.
You will never get respect, you will never be treated with love. You will be underpaid and overworked.
In short, there are no careers to be had with The Spiffy Dapper. Go be a mixologist somewhere else you fucking nitwit.