Confessions of a Bartender: A Halloween to Remember

Confessions of a Bartender is a new monthly column by an experienced bartender who’s worked at a half-dozen noteworthy, scene-y bars in New York City and Los Angeles over the past dozen years. He’s stirred (and shaken) things up at three spots that’ve made the The World’s 50 Best Bars list, another which requires a secret password for admission…the sorts of places where celebrities, models, titans of industry and other A-listers mingle. He’s seen it all, and he’s eager to share it with you here.

I was out all night shopping for my costume. You know the drill: maximum cost, minimal covering. Bonus points for exposed nipples.

As this is the first installment of Confessions Of a Bartender, I suppose I should take a moment to introduce myself. In the interest of maintaining past relationships and preserving future employment opportunities, I shall simply refer to myself as “Bartender.” By way of curriculum aqua vitae, I have spent the better part of my adult life behind, in front of, and on top of bars (though “adult” is referring to my chronological age, as my mind is most certainly still in the throes of puberty). I have worked in A-list nightclubs, renowned cocktail bars, Michelin restaurants, 5-star hotels, celebrities’ private homes, big music festivals…you name it, I’ve gotten people drunk there, and most likely been drunk there myself. At each stop on my journey, I have seen things that are inspiringly depraved, hilariously deboucherous and unabashedly libertine. That said, I’ve always done my best to toe the line between fun and felony. I am a professional, after all.

Now then, with introductions out of the way, let’s jump back into the cornfield maze of nonsense that I’ve always loved so much, and is one of the wildest nights of the year in any bar: Halloween.

As a kid, I knew Halloween the way most people did — a fun time to dress up, grab a pillowcase, fill it with candy and eat said candy until you were vomiting rainbows. That has not been the case as a professional bartender.

During my very first year living in New York, I was invited by some friends to “attend” the Halloween Parade that comes down 6th Ave and ends in the West Village. I say “attend” because one does not just go to this parade; one must summon enough courage to battle through a veritable moshpit of leather and skin that surely must feel like the holding cells of ancient gladiatorial arenas. My eyes were opened.

Cut to over a decade later. A friend gives me a call telling me that his crew would be bartending a legendary Halloween party and that he needed an extra set of hands. New York is the city of “having a guy,” and this friend was my guy. Naturally I jumped at the opportunity. The party took place at the Grand Prospect Hall in Brooklyn, pretty out there for a Manhattan boy like me. To describe it in full would take the duration of this article, and most of the next, but suffice to say, this venue is essentially the Adams Family mansion on HGH and shrooms.

At the pre-service meeting, we were told under no circumstances are we to serve anyone without a wristband no matter how badly they plead with us. Gatecrashers were expected from as far away as Brazil (I’m not sure how they knew that we were going to be receiving crashers from the southern hemisphere, but far be it from me to question the man giving the briefing, who happened to be dressed like a falcon.) Luckily this never came up, as the entire local precinct seemed to have been brought in to maintain the perimeter, and everyone who saddled up to the bar had a wristband.

You know you’re in for a good time when the doors don’t open until 9 p.m., and an even better time when nobody shows up until 11. This gave the boys and I a solid two hours to remind ourselves what Redbull and Vodka tasted like (awful), and for the 60mg of Adderall to kick in. It may sound excessive, but it’s a professional necessity when you are dealing with a crowd of 12,000 ravers at 3 a.m.. Ravers who, based on their clothing, seem to have forgotten that it was late October in New York. More fishnets than a North Sea trawler, more harnesses than a rodeo, more nipples than a dairy farm (yes, I am aware that technically cows have teats/udders…allow a man some poetic license).

The DJ in the main hall (we were in an annex to the side) started working the crowd into a frenzy around 1 a.m. The bass was hitting everyone with full body vibrations, and you could tell it was having its…intended effect. My barback left his post on more than one occasion to assist several young ladies with their costumes and to, shall we say, powder his nose.My friend and I remained in our posts, slinging drinks until the wee hours of the morning, absorbing the chaotic revelry unfolding around us. As an aside, flashing the bartender for free drinks is not a particularly useful tactic when everyone is a few pieces of dental floss from being fully naked. Just saying.

As we broke down our stations and wound our way out of the labyrinth, the air was so thick with the smell of sex you could almost taste it. I passed two half-naked lads so exhausted from dancing that all they could manage was leaning on one another in a blissful slow dance near the back of the room. Then again, it could have been the Molly.

I made my way out of the mansion at 6am, walking down the street and across the Prospect Expressway, figuring rightly that it would be easier to get a car farther from the venue. And as the new November sun was just peaking over the horizon, with my car a few minutes away, I took a deep breath, smiled to myself, and bent over, heaving what felt like enough alcohol to drown the sorrows of ten men into the planter box on the sidewalk.

Another successful Halloween in the books. See you here next time…