Fernet: Italian for mmm-mmm good
I thought I knew a lot about booze until I became a cocktail server. I fell into the job by accident. Just home from three months in Europe, I went to The Best Bar in the World one night to have drinks with K. After a few rounds, our usual server asked if we knew anyone looking for a job. My reply: "Me." I was broke, desperate and drunk. I started the next night.My first night of work, Cyn told me the job would change my life. And it did. Gone were the days of productive mornings (or early afternoons, for that matter). I officially became a creature of the night, working until 3 or 4 a.m., walking home, cash in my pocket and high on life, as the sun began to rise over the cityscape. I met all sorts of interesting people. The newly engaged, the party goers. The escapists. Baristas who would down two beers on their "lunch" break. The dejected and rejected, looking for a little solace. Artists and musicians and thespians (oh, how I loved when they would get drunk and make out with one another. Even off they stayed in character). And then, there were the regulars.
There was the Man with the Big Book, always reading, sipping coffee and nursing a brandy. Occasionally, he would bring his wife in for dinner and they would talk endlessly about the latest novels and which classics she would teach at a nearby college that term. But every night, wife or no, he would hold down the corner of the bar like it needed him.
And there was the Man with the Big Brain, who can tell you what song was No. 37 on the Billboard Charts in 1969.
There was a woman (whose name is not important, not that I know it anyway) who would come in at least once a week with her husband and order a drink called Fernet Branca. The first time I helped her, I had no idea what it was (something that happened often in the beginning; there are as many drinks in the world as there are people), but I played along. That's what I would do, nod and smile and run to the bartender and hope he/she knew what I was looking for. They did, of course, because The Best Bar in the World has the best bartenders, the kind who'd pour a drink for the customer and a taste for me. They'd say, "You have to know you're product."
I will call this woman The Giver of Fernet.
When I moved to the East Coast, I couldn't find it anywhere. And I missed it, so I convinced my new bartender to order a bottle. When it arrived, I was beside myself. Most of the staff was dying to know what the fuss was about, so we all got a taste. The sting of the semi-sweet, medicinal liquid took me back to crazy nights, shots at the bar, falling in love, dancing with myself.
But everyone else hated it. Everyone, that is, but me. And this guy.
posted by JJN @ 11:20
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