Learning To Drink Whiskey

I went to college at the University of Nevada Reno (UNR). It is pretty common for kids growing up in Las Vegas to head north and kids graduating high school from Reno to go to UNLV. UNR was awesome. Until meeting Erin, it was the best years of my life. From writing for The Sagebrush, playing rugby, interning at the state legislature, travelling, running for ASUN president, working at a Greyhound bus station, barbacking and getting a degree in political science, going to UNR was the best decision in my life. It was a chance to take advantage of affordable in-state tuition and still move away from home. I spent the first two years in the dorms (Lincoln and Nye Hall) and moved into the soon to be labeled Rugby House for my third and most of my fourth year. It was a dumpy bungalow across the street from Mackay Stadium’s parking lot and we took full advantage of the house for every home football game.

While my time in college might not have been productive, I was very busy. Between spending time in the classroom and the school paper, travelling on the weekends to rugby tournaments and working at a variety of restaurants, I always had something going on. I had a great circle of friends, teammates and co-workers. I was learning something new every day and I loved living in Reno. It was a cool town with an edge. The best way that I can describe it today is if Salt Lake City and Las Vegas had a one-night stand and accidently had a baby, her name would be Reno. The Biggest Little City in the World was close to Tahoe, offered all of the advantages of casinos (cheap drinks and buffets) and was filled with enough rednecks to toughen up a chubby kid from the Vegas suburbs. Name another college that has a 90-foot clown less than two blocks from the college president’s office? I went to the Harvard of the West and if I had to do it all over again, I would choose the University of Nevada Reno every single time.

It was a full life with the exception of dating. At first, I used to rationalize that I didn’t have time for a girlfriend. It wasn’t until I was going on my third year of college did I realize that I had absolutely no game. I was cursed with no bank account, no wardrobe and questionable hygiene at best. It also didn’t help my chances when I alienated half of the potential dating pool by writing a column calling sororities organized whorehouses and labeling anybody from Northern Nevada a gapped-toothed redneck. The rare girl that reluctantly went out with me was in for an evening at a dirty spoon called The Gold ‘N Silver Inn and drinks at The Beer Barrel. I was the anti-Don Juan. I couldn’t figure girls out to save my life. I was awkward, nervous and covered in sweaty palms. It didn’t help that I didn’t have a car and she would often have to give me a ride. It didn’t stop my enthusiasm for asking girls out but I became a lot more accustomed to coming home alone and hoping into a cold shower.

However, it wasn’t always my fault. I remember this one time during the summer of my fourth year that I took a girl out. Instead of shoveling a $3.99 breakfast down her neck, I took her to a restaurant that actually had napkins. We went to a movie and got a drink later and things were working out really well. So well, in fact, that she wanted to see where I lived. We drove back to my house only to find my roommates plastered. Across the street from the house, there was a carnival in town and they were giving away free tequila. My date and I went to check out the amusement rides and food stands when we came across the free booze. I was aghast. She was ecstatic. We ordered two and I let her finish my shot. I could barely put it into my mouth without heaving. We spent the rest of the night riding the Tilt-A-Wheel while she kept slipping away for another free shot.

I eventually got her back to my bedroom but it wasn’t under the conditions I was hoping. She passed out on her belly with her head over the side of the bed. She spent the rest of the night and most of the morning horking up all of the free booze. What did she drink? It was a strawberry-flavored, creamed based tequila called Tequila Rose. Simply put, it’s not just the worst liquor on the planet but yet another reason I couldn’t get laid in college. I felt like even when all of the stars were lining up with me, I still couldn’t close the deal because my date looked like she just slipped into a diabetic coma. People say they often remember their first fill-in-the-blank moment. Well, to this day, I remember my first and last Tequila Rose. All the worst, I remember how it smelt going in and out of a young, confused co-ed.

There was a time in my life when I couldn’t drink whiskey. It was called in utero. In truth, it took a little bit of practice to be able to put down a shot simply because you’re not supposed to be able to knockback shots of bourbon like Richard Burton at age 19. My best friend in college, Fitz Whaley, used to give me a lot of garbage because I couldn’t shoot Jack Daniels. He had the calm drunkenness of a Jack Kerouac when we went out and was able to slowly slurp down a horsechoker of Jack like it was mother’s milk. Whiskey burned and tasted like fermented wood. I knew there was something nefarious in whiskey when upon ordering one, I instantly became nervous. I was afraid of barfing all over the bar and looking like a wet rag in front of my friends.  Furthermore, I knew even at a young age, no good comes from being able to chug Old Grand-Dad and there were some skill sets that I didn’t need to have that early in life. It wasn’t until taking that girl out for free Tequila Rose and bumper cars did I start to re-evaluate how bad that super sweet booze was for you. I made a vow to myself to stop ordering Kamikazes and White Russians after watching her make the walk of shame out of my bedroom.

It took time but I developed a taste for whiskey that can only be satisfied with whiskey. Big glasses of jungle juice with fourteen types of fruit schnapps and Everclear became absolutely disgusting when I started to have the self-esteem to drink something decent. I know why I used to like flavored liquors. It is because my palette hasn’t been deadened enough to enjoy a Scotch. Drinking a bunch of Cactus Juice coolers was the only way I knew how to cope a buzz without getting sick. I wanted to catch a drunk like the next guy. The problem is that the next guy was somebody drinking a boat drink in the middle of the winter in a desert. The day that I put down the Apricot Brandy and hoisted a Jameson was a good day.

That is not to say that there isn’t a place for these kinds of drinks. I have made a good living slinging drinks that seem to belong in the parking lot of a high school prom as oppose to a nightclub. I might be wary of flavored liquors but in lieu of having the actual mixers to recreate the flavors, why not use the artificial flavors? It is vastly easier to use Stoli Vanilla then to cut and press fresh vanilla beans. Citrus vodka and soda is quicker to make than squeezing the contents of a bushel of lemons. And Watermelon? What the Hell does watermelon even taste like? Metaphysically, watermelon taste like summer. In a bar, watermelon taste like a fermented Jolly Rancher. Good watermelon is a ripe red color that is firm, crisp and sweet. Watermelon liqueur, on the other hand, is a pale pink that mimics the flavor of raspberries and vomit. If it wasn’t for the full catalog of flavored Absolute, Bacardi, Stoli and Grey Goose, I would never make a drink for a guest that they liked.

The problem with most drinkers today is that they don’t like liquor. Cocktails were invented a hundred years ago because the liquor being distilled tasted like something out of a drained radiator. You needed to mix it with fruit juices or sodas simply in order to choke it down. Booze was wood grain alcohol cut with water and a variety of agents to help mask the horrific taste of the bathtub gin. Fortunately for us, the 21^st Amendment was ratified and distillers are able to make products that don’t lead to blindness. The problem is that they tend to make only stuff that should be served at a carnival. Cream-based, strawberry-infused tequila have their place but it’s not in my life. That potential train wreck has left the station years ago and I am not in the business of trying cinnamon or black cherry-flavored whiskeys or rum. Regardless of gender, at the club, people tend to drink things that are sweet and palatable. It has to be smooth or they would rather not drink at all. Granted, the majority of drinks that I pour are draft beers, glasses of wine and standard drinks (i.e. vodka and tonics, Long Islands, rum and cokes, etc.) but we do serve a lot of drinks with questionable flavors: cherry, melon, pear or grape. Too often, it seems that we’re just putting an ever increasing sized funnel down our neck and drowning it with sugary crap. In an era where booze has never tasted better, the vast majority of my guests are insisting upon a drink that is described as a Tall, Strong and Fruity: filled with brightly colored liqueurs that leave your teeth gritty and your bottom aching.

The problem is that I work in Salt Lake’s largest club and the volume of business we push through the club doesn’t allow us a chance to handcraft cocktails per order. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy: the guests want something that is cheap, delicious and will get them drunk. We just want to sell as much as possible. I am probably not helping my cause by continuing to pour out AMFs at such a rate that my left arm is stained blue most of the time. I am a turn-and-burn bartender that values speed over creativity. So, even when I am given the challenge of making a really interesting drink, I often fall short because either I don’t know how to make it or know what goes into it.

For example, we were slammed on Saturday and this young guy in a tweed jacket had been patiently waiting for his turn. When I finally got to him, he ordered a Hendricks and tonic. Hendricks is a small batch cucumber-infused gin made out of England. For my money, it is simply the best gin on the market and probably my favorite liquor after Maker’s Mark and John Powers. It mixes well with soda or tonic and is simply delicious over ice with half a lime. It’s the kind of drink that makes me want to recolonize India, ride an elephant and wear a lot of khaki. As I was reaching for the Hendricks from the back bar, he asked me if I had any cucumber or ginger. I told him I didn’t and he graciously said it was okay. He would just have it with some tonic. I thought of two things: one, he’s right. We should carry cucumbers and ginger for fresh made cocktails. We’re a relatively fancy bar with a wide variety of liquors. Why aren’t we focusing on making drinks that are both creative and refreshing? Two, doesn’t this hipster piece of shit see that I am busy and I don’t have time to muddling every third drink?

I think what bothers me about making these craft cocktails is the fact that we are limited in how to make them. Because we haven’t committed to this style of bartending, it makes little sense to do a half-assed job of it. It is impractical to have a full kitchen behind the bar with fresh herbs, house-made mixers and matching flavored liquor for each Berg-ed bottle. Utah’s liquor laws limits how much hooch we can pour and often it requires some pretty interesting ingredients we don’t carry. I think we are the rule as oppose to the exception with our drinks. It is really hard to set the bar high when customers don’t make it easier for us to start exploring new techniques and styles of drinks simply because they act as if they have never been in a bar before. Why waste walnut extract in a Manhattan if your guest has never tasted whiskey before? It is infinitely easier to float a Midori on top of a margarita and tell the customer that it is Green Iguana and I created it just for you. Maybe it’s time for me to start celebrating the 3.2% Bud Light draft and a JagerBomb as the official drink of Utah. They’re easier to pour than a muddled Old Fashion.

I left Reno in 1997 and haven’t returned with the exception of attending my sister’s graduation from medical school. It is a distant memory but still my fondest. I miss drinking at the Beer Barrel, Little Waldorf, The Breakaway and Big Ed’s Alley Inn. I missed getting my teeth kicked in every rugby game I played and above all, I miss the friends that I met during college. It was a formative time and one that I often use as a measuring stick for any other experience. I am going back to Reno for The Mudshark’s reunion show on the 14^th of October and attending UNR’s Homecoming. I am excited. I am looking forward to meeting up with old friends and putting down some drinks. Tequila Rose isn’t in my future but I’d be a liar if I said that I am not a sucker for Stoli’s Raspberry and lemonade. There are limits to my hypocrisy…

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin or follow his Tumblr feed. Become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.

My Own Private Utah: Tales of Booze, Underwear and Germans

He was 6’5” tall, shirtless, wearing cargo shorts and sandals. With long shoulder length sandy hair and full beard, he would have fit in perfectly on the boardwalk in Ocean Beach with his lean surfer-like physique. However, he was in the middle of my bar being told by my doorman, Aron, to either get his shirt back on or to shove off. It wasn’t even 9pm yet and the bar was filling to capacity. I came around the bar to help get control of this guy when I saw him pushed Aron. We hooked him and dragged him kicking and screaming out the front door in quick order. Shaken, I returned to behind the bar and was asked by my fellow bartender, Rebecca, what happened. I told her it was nothing except for the fact that we just 86’ed Jesus Christ from the bar.

Saturday night had snuck up on us and we were digging in for a busy night. Downtown SLC was buzzing with activity after the Salt Lake Undie Run. Across the street from Keys On Main, at the Gallivan Center, more than 3,000 people gathered in their tighty-whiteys, bras and panties to try and set a Guinness World Record. But more than that, they weren’t just running to set a world record. They were running to send a statement that Utah isn’t as uptight as most people think. Watching all of the scantily-clad participants walk past the bar, I couldn’t stop thinking that we need to seriously solve all of the world’s problems because I am getting tired of running 5Ks. Of course Utah is uptight and conservative as people think it is. Think I am wrong? They didn’t have the Undie Run in Provo. I like the idea of the streets being lined with half-naked people trotting around in their unmentionables. It is a vast improvement over the clans of Juggalos and gaggles of Polygamists that gather along the streets but if you want to send a real message: hold the run in La Verkin. I’d be interested to see how many people would show up in Manti in their BVDs to protest the conservative nature of Utah. Nonetheless, it was a hoot watching the flood of joggers in their skivvies heading south along Main Street.

Utah is pretty uptight but it makes for the best substrate for some of the wildest things I have ever seen. If a bunch of stuffed shirt Mormon Republicans weren’t running the state, who would give two shakes that a very large group of half-dressed people were running from the capital to the Gallivan Center? No Chris Buttars, John Valentine or Michael Waddoups?  No Undie Run. I know Buttars would appreciate that. There is no way he could run the ¾ of a mile to the Gallivan Center without a sports bra. The two messages that seemed to dominate the conversation during the Undie Run was Utah’s drinking laws and not permitting same-sex couples from marrying. Our liquor laws stink but there is no way most of the people participating in the Undie Run didn’t use any liquid courage to get ready to put on some of those outfits. With my body image, I would need to knock back a bottle of tequila and buy a bag of birdseed to put on a banana hammock. The only run I ever do to show opposition to Utah’s liquor laws is to the liquor store Monday through Saturday. My social protest is to always have a bottle in the liquor cabinet.

The people running for same-sex marriage were going down a rougher road. Currently, only six states allow same-sex marriage in America and I can’t imagine Utah filling their ranks anytime soon. I think the state is inherently homophobic but thankfully, Salt Lake City gets it. Domestic partnerships recognition in the county is not just fair but a step towards equality that all people deserve. Gays and lesbians are our friends, family and neighbors. The fact that heterosexuals are threatened by gays marrying is a black eye for this country and 100 years from now, history won’t be kind to those that actively ban their desire to be treated the same as everyone else. I can think of ten reasons why gays should be allowed to marry: one, they are tax-paying citizens who live legally in this country and are entitled to all of the benefits that citizenship offers all of us. Two through ten: so they will shut the fuck up about wanting to get married. There are a lot more important things we need to work on in this country than worrying about same-sexes marrying. The NBA is still in a lockout and we need our best people to get the players and owners to come to some sort of agreement. The fact that I can’t stop staring at the muscular hunks walking around in their boxer briefs is a small price to pay to have a complete NBA season.

Needless to say, there were a lot of things happening on Saturday and ejecting the Lamb of God from the bar was the perfect calm before the storm. We had been busy all week and I made the mistake of wishing the night was over before it began. The key to bartending is working clean, fast and deliberate. You need to know where everything is at all times and be able to reorganize in the middle of a busy shift. I try to put on an air of confidence behind the bar but in reality, I am acting like Raymond Babbitt in my head. We were running a promotion for Jack Daniels birthday with $5 shots of his Single Barrel bourbon. The bar was decorated in silver and black streamers and tons of promotional posters. The piano players had a mound of swag to giveaway and the staff was all dressed in a JD T-shirt. Sounds simple enough but I am such a creature of habit that I immediately hated having to wear the Jack shirt and use the new napkin holders. Before you think I started banging my head into the bar yelling that it was three minutes to Wapner, I was able to pull myself together. I am a fuddy-duddy to change. I like having everything in its place and to the chagrin of those working with me, I often change my mind in the middle of a shift. To that, I apologize to all of my co-workers for being a neurotic mess.

The night started with a thunderclap. In an instant, the bar was filled to capacity. It was the normal cast of characters with birthday parties, bachelorettes, anniversaries and company get-togethers. Add the unusual element of a large percentage of the crowd wearing their underwear and I knew we were going to get our asses handed to us. The drink of choice on Saturday was the Lady Gaga (strawberry and coconut rum with cranberry and pineapple juice). We probably poured 200 of them. My favorite moment of the night was when this urban cowboy with a thick plug of tobacco in his lip ordering a Bud bottle and a Muumuu Galaxy. It took us a beat to figure out what he wanted. His special lady friend sent him to the bar for a Lady Gaga and he somehow forgot what he was supposed to bring back. In the end, he just wanted something to shut his wife up with. And gay people aren’t allowed to marry?

You know it’s a good night when the bar is filled with half-naked protesters and angry, drunk, old Germans. After spending the last weekend in Zion, I had had a compacted ass-full of Germans. If we had been listening to a Rosetta Stone on the drive down I would have been able to tell them to look out on the trail and get the Hell out of my bar. It’s a shame that Germans take more advantage of our national park system than we do. In the sea of customers, four middle-aged Germans were able to belly up to the bar and start belittling me. I guess back in the Deutschland, treating the bartender like Poland is the best way to get a drink. Demanding Coronas and shots of Jagermeister, it was the Zimmerman Telegraph all over again. There’s nothing scarier than a big mustached man barking in broken English that he and his colleagues need more Jagermeister. I was easily seven people deep at the bar and my time was being completely monopolized by guys would have turned me into a lampshade sixty years ago. They were oblivious to the other guests in the bar and kept slamming the bar whenever they needed another drink. It was both annoying and terrifying. The only thing keeping my head above water was the fact that they were ordering simple drinks. Popping bottles and pouring shots are the easiest drinks to make. Moreover, they had a tab and I was racking up a big drink ticket. I only had to endure the goose-stepping jerkoffs for an hour. They signed their tab and bid me a Guden Nacht with a tip of four dollars on $96. For the record, WWII is only 66 years ago. It’s never too late to remind the Krauts who won the war and re-firebomb Dresden again. So it goes. 

Not every customer was a decedent of Nuremberg Trials. Some were homegrown terrorists. I had a striking, large man in a MMA T-shirt and jeans. He made Brock Lester look like Ryan Seacrest. He was the size of a refrigerator and drank beer with reckless abandonment. Slamming drafts and shots of whiskey, he wanted me to explain to him why he can’t have a double. When I am slow, I will spend all night dissecting Utah’s liquor laws but when the bar is packed, the music pumped and customers screaming drink orders at me, I am not giving a doctoral thesis why you can only have a single. Outside of his choice of fashion, I think the guy’s problem was two-fold: he was alone at Keys On Main. I work at a great club but it isn’t much a singles joint. People move in packs and lone wolves tend to have difficulty meeting new people. When you don’t have anyone to talk to, the bartender naturally becomes your friend. Second, I don’t think a man of his stature is accustomed to being told to calm down and wait your turn. I’m built like John Candy circa Summer Rental and he probably thought that I was ignoring him. He angrily demanded his tab and left this:

I am not in the business of ignoring people. I am in the business of prioritizing my customers so I can serve as many people as possible. I might not be able to pour you a double but bringing Ron Paul into this? Not cool. Should we have had five more bartenders? Maybe but we were putting out so many drinks that if somebody had to wait literally one minute (sixty seconds) for a bottle of Coors Light, I can live with them being frustrated. The real problem of the night is that nobody brought any cash. Everyone was paying for their drinks with a credit card. If they had started a tab like the Germans, I would have been able to move faster but when I have to cash-n-carry every single transaction I become a slave to the credit card machine. If you ever want to know why the bartender who is moving smoothly, quickly and efficiency isn’t getting to you at Keys On Main take a look to the people on your left and right. One of those knuckleheads is demanding to pay for a single drink on a credit card because they’re afraid to start a tab. If you are unable to start a tab because you have the short-term memory of a Golden Retriever, bring cash to the bar. You become the problem with service when the bartender has to run your card every round. Women are bad but men in their early 20s are the worse. I think it’s a combination of not having any money and thinking there is suaveness in dominating the bartender’s time. The only people who were exempt from my wraith on Saturday were participants in the Undie Race. The last thing I wanted to put into the register was a pube-covered twenty. For these people, I graciously accept credit cards all night.

One of the things that I am particular proud of at Keys On Main is that we offer a very respectable selection of wine available by the glass. Most clubs just offer two selections: red or white. We have a nice collection of varietals and I have been told the wine is pretty tasty (that shows my knowledge of wine when I use the word “tasty” to describe it). They are appropriately priced at $6 per glass and we usually give a good sized pour. My biggest problem with wine service is making sure the glass itself is clean before I pour a Pinot Noir or Sauvignon Blanc into it. When did women’s lipstick develop the staying power of acrylic enamel? Getting lipstick off of a wine glass is harder than getting lacquer out of a shaggy dog. I say enough is enough. If you insist on wearing three layers of lipstick, you are now officially required to use a straw when having a glass of Cab. If I have to hire a scrum of barbacks to sandblast the glassware to remove your make up, you are not allowed to place your lips on it. The next step is pouring it into plastic cups and none of us want that.

The entire night was a sea of waving hands, screaming voices and chaos. I constantly checked in with Becky to see if she needed help but she held her head above water the entire night. A natural gunslinger, Becky put the night in a chokehold. We hit speed bumps throughout the night: running out of glassware, ice and garnish but were able to recover with the help of all of our co-workers. The back of our bar looked like a swamp with all of the trash and water that didn’t find the garbage can. Bartending takes on an almost violent note when you were as busy as we were. Customer service is cranking out drinks not making the guest feel warm and fuzzy. If I was working a cigar bar, my behavior would have been completely out-of-line but in Salt Lake’s busiest club, jabbing a finger into somebody’s chest and asking what they want becomes the modus operandi. To do anything less would be bad service.

I poured right till 1am. That miraculous moment of last call finally came and I was pouring the last drinks of the night and closing out the last tabs. The last tab of the evening belonged to a well-dressed woman nursing her eighth Michelob Ultra. She was arguing with her friend on where they were going for food when her friend demanded to help finish her beer. She took one of my cocktail shakers and poured half of the beer into it. She raised it to her lips and promptly spit up across the bar. The last drink I had shaken out of that cocktail shaker was a Pickled Weenie: tequila and pickle juice. I almost horked when I smelled the glass. Trying to keep her composure, she started to eat maraschino cherries like bar pretzels and turned a shade of green reserved for cocktail olives. The lesson learned here is to know when to say when and don’t touch the bartender’s equipment.

I was covered in sweat and the remnants of the evening. I could have squeezed out my shirt and sold it as a Kamikaze if I had to. My arms were dyed blue from the Curacao and my glasses looked like I was hit in the face with a bag of flour. My knees were sore and my lower back felt like I was hit with a 2x4. You would think it was a horrible experience but it was why I love bartending. I love the flow and speed of the job. It involves massive amount of problem solving while keeping your cool. The bar was overrun with every sort of person in the Salt Lake Valley and I think we did an exceptional job is making sure everyone had a fantastic evening. Sure, I felt like I just got down wrestling a drunken grizzly bear for five hours but at that moment, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living.

I think if people want to know that Utah isn’t as uptight as it is perceived, they should try working the service industry for a period of time. You don’t need to go for a run in your panties to know that Utah is pretty amazing place and there are some nuggets of coolness that can’t be found anywhere else in the country. Take it from me: I kicked Jesus out of the bar and I still had a great night.

Ben Raskin can be found bartending at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin or follow his Tumblr feed. Become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.

Remembering The Narrows

I was surprised how much had changed.

I suppose this is an odd thing to say about Zion Nation Park considering that the area surrounding the Virgin River is well over 150 million years old. We were down in Southern Utah for a much needed weekend retreat. Our friends, Matt and Kat, had invited us to stay with them at their St. George condo and to make day-trips into Zion National Park for a series of hikes. I was excited to have a couple of days off from Keys On Main and to revisit Zion after a 25 year hiatus. I love my schedule and the work at the bar but I was beginning to fall into some bad habits at the club: namely, I started to hate every single person who walked through the doors. I needed a break and when the opportunity to go hike Zion came up, I jumped at it.

Loading gear, food, beer, wine and liquor into the truck, we headed south to St. George. Our plan was to hike Angel’s Landing on Saturday and tackle The Narrows on Sunday. Bookended with two nights of boozing and eating, our four day trip had all the makings of a great adventure. Our last outdoor adventure outside of Salt Lake City was in Moab last year, where we decimated Arches National Park. Camping alongside the Colorado River, we were able to hike every trail in Arches minus Klondike Bluffs. The weather was horrible (blazing hot with unbearable wind bursts) but Erin and I had a wonderful trip. In addition to seeing some of the most iconic images of Utah, we learned a lot of what not to do on camping trips. My biggest takeaway? I don’t need to ever drink a pint of Sunny Brook Blended Whiskey. Ever.

This trip was different. The only camping we were doing was in the casita at the condo. We had all of the necessary equipment for both hikes, plenty of water bottles, food and good hiking shoes. Our friends had rented us river hiking boots and hiking sticks for The Narrows. There was no bargain basement whiskey on this adventure—only premium tequila for post-hike margaritas. We had planned the trip down to the last detail including where we were going to watch the Utah/BYU game that night in St. George.

I have been to Zion NP twice before. The more recent trip was a friend’s wedding that allowed us only a little bit to hike the very beautiful but not very challenging Emerald Pools. A short 3-mile round trip hike to the waterfalls and crystal pools was probably the best the wedding party could tackle considering the well placed hangovers with the majority of the group. My first trip to Zion, however, has been ingrained into my memory and will never be erased. I was 12 years old and living in Las Vegas. My Boy Scout troop had planned a trip down The Narrows—a perilous 16 mile hike down the Virgin River over slick river rocks. The vast majority of the hike is in knee-deep, swift moving water over bowling ball-sized basalt rocks with no escape in the 1,300 foot gorge walls. The walls of the canyon are overwhelming both in their natural beauty and inherent danger. Flash floods and falling rocks could easily turn any hike deadly.

As a kid, I was very excited about the hike. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into. I blindly signed up for the hike thinking it was going to be a quick jaunt down a river followed by campfire S’mores and sing-a-longs. Moreover, my mother had bought me one of the coolest things of all time: a framed hiking backpack. Stretched over an aluminum frame, it was a clunky pack with space for a sleeping bag and a couple of water bottles. I was told prior to the hike that I would need to make sure that everything was sealed against the water in case I fell into the river. I spent the nights prior to leaving for Zion wrapping and rewrapping my limited gear in Ziploc and garbage bags. I even test my wrap on my heavy cotton sleep bag by throwing it into the swimming pool. I was ready for anything that a chubby, suburban kid from Las Vegas with limited outdoor experience would encounter. Simply put, I was ready for nothing. My mom had given me a Subway sub for my lunch and dinner and I think I had a couple bags of candy for snacks. My water supply was carried in a washed out gallon milk jug and I was wearing Chuck Taylors. My backpack weighed as much as I did and I had no idea how I was going to get dry at the overnight campsite. Yet, my enthusiasm outweighed by caution and I figured as long as I didn’t lose my pocket knife, I should be fine.

We caravanned to Zion and camp outside of the visitor’s center the first night. Waking up early to a meal of sausages and biscuits, I figured there was no challenge that could not be bested. Sausages often have that effect on me. To get to the top of The Narrows, we took a shuttle through the Zion-Mount Carmel Tunnel to Chamberlain Ranch. From such a humble building, we began our trek through The Narrows. It was smooth sailing at first. We didn’t have to wade through the river yet and I was still comfortable with a belly full of sausages and the confidence the hike would be over before it began. The scenery was breathtaking. Even for a Vegas kid, it was hard to not recognize how jaw-dropping lovely Zion is. Between the Ponderosa Pines and Junipers, the trail was lined with all sorts of wildflowers, shrubs and cactus. It was exciting to be on my own, far away from friends and family, and hiking quietly in the most beautiful place I had ever been.

I wasn’t very close to my fellow scouts. I was a member of a predominately LDS Boy Scout troop and being the odd guy out, I wasn’t as active as the rest of the guys. I figured if I could go on hiking trips and participate in the weekly meetings to play games, I could do without the church related activities they did the rest of the week. Besides, I didn’t want to go to church on Sundays or be a Mormon. Out on the trail, it made no difference nobody really talked to me. I was moving along at a good clip and really enjoying my experience. For the first day, we hiked halfway down The Narrows, sporadically dipping into the water to cross particular portions of the trail. We made it to the campground around dusk and set up for the night. I ripped open all of my gear, putting on dry clothes and ravaging through my Subway sub. I don’t remember when I went to sleep but I am sure I slept like a log. I was tired from hiking and not resting much from the night before.

I woke up early and stated repacking my stuff. While eating whatever candy I had left, I figured since I didn’t need to worry about my stuff being dry, I sloppily loaded pack. We had a little under eight miles to hike down the river and I mistakenly thought the worst was behind me. We set out early and I quickly realized that I had made a fantastic error. Sure, I didn’t need to sleep in a dry bag but I certainly didn’t need to hike the rest of The Narrows with a water-soaked sleeping bag. My already heavy backpack became unbelievably heavy after my first slip into the river. My sleeping bag turned into a sponge holding half of the Virgin River as I gingerly scampered across slick river rocks.

Instead of taking in the natural beauty of Wall Street with its various color-changes under sheer cliff walls, I was grimacing into the river trying not to fall for the umpteenth time. Every step became a challenge and I was falling dangerously behind. I was sloshing through the water all the while my bag became increasingly heavier. I didn’t have any friends, sausages and any idea how much further I had to hike. Minutes turned to hours and I was constantly slipping into the Virgin River, banging my shins and becoming soaked to the bone. What should have been the most beautiful stretch of river turned into a sea of tears as I tried desperately to maintain my composure through the most physically agonizing trip I had ever been on.  Miraculously, I knew that I was getting close to the end of the trail when I started seeing hikers from the bottom up intersecting me and telling me it was just a little bit further. It felt like a cruel joke because every turn in the river just led to another bend. The walls of the canyon prohibited having any sense of when the trip was over. For the last hour, I constantly contemplated throwing away my beloved backpack and just limp to the van. Sure, I wasn’t molested by my Boy Scout scoutmaster but I would have traded a little diddling to be back in the van heading home. Fortunately, I didn’t have to make some sort of Faustian deal to get out of the river. By nightfall, I had made it to the Temple of Sinawava. Saturated in river water, blood and self-pity, I was happy to be done and ready to go home. The adventure of a lifetime had been a miserable experience.

I am happy to report my second trip through The Narrows was much better. Instead of sliding across rocks in Converse, we had rented river boots with neoprene socks. We only hiked from the bottom up but we were able to cover the three miles to the beginning of Wall Street in great time. The change in my attitude and level of preparation was dramatic. Instead of stifling tears, I joyously bounded through the water and chased down every turn. We were in great spirits the entire time. My only complaint about our hike through The Narrows on Saturday was we didn’t have the foresight to leave a couple of beers in the truck for the drive home.

Our trip to Zion wasn’t without hardship. While nothing compares to my first time down The Narrows, my ascent to Angel’s Landing was a bear. If I had to surmise my ability as a hiker, I would compare it to an old dog that has the spirit but not the legs to climb a mountain. Angel’s Landing is by far the most stunning hike in Zion and the most treacherous. After climbing a couple of miles through switchbacks to Walters Wiggle, we made it to the base of Angel’s Landing. To get to the top of Angel’s, you have to climb a half mile along the ridge lined with protective chains. I was beat but I made it to the top. The view was spectacular and I even saw a California Condor gliding through the vast canyons. Amazing.

In the end, it was a much needed vacation. Big thanks to Matt and Kat for being gracious hosts. It was nice taking a break from work and getting out of Salt Lake. One of the best parts of living in Utah is that there are so many natural wonders to explore. I think sometimes we forget that Utah is absolutely amazing. If you think I am wrong, ask the army of Germans who invade Southern Utah and take full advantage of all of our national parks. Four days in Zion is enough for me to sling drinks for the next four months.

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin or subscribe to his Tumblr feed. Become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.

Snoop Dogg Missed His Flight

After all these years in the public spotlight, I would have thought that Snoop Dogg would be more responsible. After partying in Las Vegas the night before, he was unable to catch his plane and ended up cancelling his concert at Gallivan Center last Thursday. I was aghast when I got to work. Main Street was crawling with every form of stoned white trash from a 200 mile radius. It was a weird combination of people wearing too much cheap gold jewelry, football jerseys and over-sized baseball caps. The women dressed like it was a cattle call for back-up dancers for Snoop’s next video: ridiculously short cut-off jeans, low cut shirts and make-up that looks like it was applied with a shotgun.

I opened early to try and corral a couple of the concert goers. As I was unlocking the door, a mad dash of visibly anger people stormed to the bar. Snoop Dogg’s inability to make it to Salt Lake in time had a devastating impact on his fans. They flopped down at the bar, demanding shots of tequila and cold, cheap beer. Cursing his name, they couldn’t understand why he couldn’t make it to the show. I told them that I was surprised too. I had recently saw, Soul Plane, and I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just fly himself up to Utah. They were not amused. For two hours, the bar was flooded with customers and they were trying to drink Snoop Dogg up to Salt Lake. I try not to revel in other’s misery but as a result of Snoop cancelling, he had successfully ruined two girls from Burley Idaho night. They had driven down the three hours to SLC in their whoriest costumes and were expecting a night of gin and juice. Instead, they sat quietly at the end of the bar, gently crying into their pints of Bud Light as their mascara ran down the sides of their chubby cheeks. Damon Runyon couldn’t make that up.

It’s been a rough week. Starting with Snoop’s show cancelling and ending with me covering Monday’s shift, I had been in a sour mood. The first rule of bartending is that if you don’t want to be there, don’t. Customers feed off of your energy and if your mind is somewhere else, they will put you through the ringer. The problem is that being in a bad mood is almost a self-fulfilling prophecy—the harder you try to snap out of it, the more you slide down the rabbit hole.

It doesn’t get talked about enough but bartending is a taxing exercise. I am on my feet for a good eight hours a night. I am not able to take my dinner sitting down or have two 15 minute breaks during my shift. Need to take a leak at 11 o’clock? Better hold it because the bar doesn’t shut down because you have a small bladder. The volume level is high, the lights are dim and the energy of the room is draining. It’s hot, physical and demanding. Customers don’t care how uncomfortable you are when they order a drink. Complaints come in not the other way out. All they care about is how fast, cheap and good what they order is. Alcohol transforms even the calmest most mild-mannered secretary into Tawny Kitaen after a couple of Red Bull and vodkas and the guy who came in looking like Don Draper usually leaves looking somewhere between Tank Abbot and Gary Busey. Even on the best nights, the room always feels like it is on tilt with the possibility of something disastrous coming around the corner. Stretching, aspirin and Gold Bond Powder become your best friends on a Saturday night. It’s hard missing out on weekend parties and activities (I don’t remember the last poker night I went to), not being able to take my girlfriend out on a Friday night and going to bed at 4am because I need two hours to calm down after slinging drinks for seven hours.

But it is a good job. It’s the apex of the working class. The money pays the bills, the work keeps me mentally sharp and the nights I spend behind two feet of concrete bar become fodder for columns and future customers. I like setting up the club, preparing my mise-en-place and patiently waiting for the rush of thick-fingered, rookie drinkers. There’s no better moment than looking throughout the club and quietly muttering to myself that I am ready to pour drinks for the 101^st if they happen to come through the door. Every night behind the bar is chockfull of potential. I guess what bums me out is when nights are squandered with customers who seem to go out of their way to put me into a tailspin. Subconsciously, they are playing a game of chicken with me to see who will tell the other to “fuck off” first. From rattlesnaking me, slapping the bar and yelling my name, it’s a juggling act of slinging drinks and smiling through gritted teeth as middle-aged, first time Utah drinkers try to see if they can get the upper hand on me. The problem is that those guests who are troublemakers compose less than 10% of the business but command a massive 90% of my energies. The date night couple who know what they want and know how they are going to pay for it are not the problem. It’s the self-important knucklehead who wants to know why we don’t carry his grandmother’s homemade apricot wine (true story) that makes me check the want ads when I get home.

If pouring drinks was like feeding coal into a furnace, I’d be the Casey Jones of bartenders but the work is delicate and requires a great deal of knowledge and finesse. It involves engaging the guest, figuring out what they want, pouring it properly and making them feel good about spending more money on a drink than the cost of a Happy Meal. I can pour as fast as anybody in Utah but people’s indecision makes for a metric shitload of speed bumps throughout the night. That’s the challenge of the job and trying to drive over those speed bumps at full speed all night, every night is the goal of every barkeep. What made this week so difficult was there were more speed bumps thrown at me than on a deaf kid’s street.

The single biggest thing that I can’t control at the bar is what people order. It is measurably easier to pour a shot of Jim Beam than to make a blended daiquiri. Hell, opening a bottle of beer is quicker than pouring a draft. I might suggest an alternative drink to try and save time but at the end of the day, if I have the ingredients I’m making what you order. I like being challenged with different drinks and learning about new cocktails. The problem is that I am hyper-vigilant about the next guest’s drink thereby making me to try and steer people into something that is quicker to make. If there were nobody else in the bar, I’d be happy to make Mojitos until we both thought we were in Cuba. However, this week, I didn’t have that luxury.  The bar was packed and they were thirsty. This week was one long series of blended, shaken, muddled, layered, sugar-rimmed diabetic-fest. I don’t remember making so many Lady Gaga’s (strawberry & coconut rum with cranberry and pineapple juice) ever and I don’t remember having to play the always appreciated Stump-The-Bartender game so many times.

I had three guys who looked like they just got back from an elk hunt who were ironically trying to drink every girly shot in the bar. Providing they just drank what I poured for them, there were no problems. It’s when they got on their cell phones and started coming up with their own shots did we run into a massive speed bump. Out of nowhere, they ordered three Scooby Snacks. Cream based drinks suck. Suck, suck, suckidy suck suck. I don’t know if it because I have always considered milk products to be tantamount to liquid beef or because cream fills the channels of my bar mats leaving me some semen-colored mess I have to look at for the balance of the night. It’s gross, super-high caloric and dangerously low in alcohol. I’m sure Ben and Jerry sell a higher proof ice cream than a Scooby Snack. The problem is that girls and guys who can’t shoot whiskey love Copper Camels, Creamsicles and Buttery Nipples. More than that, Scooby Snacks are one of those, “Oh, what is that?” drink. The spigot of Scooby Snacks was turned on by these knuckleheads and I found myself in the weeds all night shaking a bunch of cream and Midori for anybody who saw the pale green shot.

As bad as it is making drinks you dislike, there is nothing worse than somebody wanting a Lincoln-Douglas style debate when the bar is three people deep. I had a group of photographers who came in on Friday who would have thought all I had to offer was a bucket of diesel and tonic water. They were in town for the Dew Tour and were testy probably because they weren’t allowed to nurse off the beer taps like a new born calf. They were pissed because all of the tap beer was 3.2% and they didn’t know how to order a double. There are ways to get a double in my bar but you need to know how to order it. While some of them happily ordered vodka and tonics, the balance of them grimaced at our good selection of beer with discontent. I love it when people think the beer is too weak but they don’t have the stomach to do a shot of Maker’s Mark. I tried to find some common ground with them by offering them one of our Squatter’s Hops Rising. I thought a 9% double IPA would be the ticket but after ordering them, they complained that they were too strong. Instead of admitting that they really wanted was a Shirley Temple, they began to complain about the influence of Mormons in the state and their inability to get what they want in a bar. How Brigham Young got brought into the conversation is anybody’s guess.

What bothers me more than anything is when some ne’er-do-well from Virginia or Timbuktu starts telling me that it is different from where they’re from. Really? Utah isn’t like North Carolina? I would have the living tar kicked out of me if I went to Orlando Florida and raised a stink that they didn’t have a Tabernacle Choir or a Wasatch Front along the drive to Disney World. What kind of myopic dumb-sticks are populating this country? Does everyone’s collective IQ drop by 25 points the moment they travel into the 801 for the first time? How can titans of industry and young Turks transform into sniveling babies crying for their bottle the moment they enter my bar? Verbally pistol whipping Mormons while you anguish over the size of your cocktail doesn’t do anything for me. I am more likely to ask you to leave then double up on your drink. Furthermore, you don’t have a black-belt in complaining about being in Utah. I do.

There isn’t a prerequisite for Mormon bashing if you live in Utah. I consider it more of a hobby than a lifestyle. However, asking me to beat down my fellow citizens just because they pray to some sort of weird Space Jesus while you’re ordering Ketel One and sodas isn’t part of the job description. The most dangerous fight to break up is the one between two brothers—they’re more likely to turn on you the second you intervene. For me, that is my relationship with Mormons. I have lived with them for the majority of my life and much like a rattlesnake handler, I know how to safely handle them. Yes, they are weird. No, I don’t randomly bash them because they make it hard to get a double at the bar. Sure, they have horns, multiple wives and won’t be allowed into normal Heaven when they die but they are still my co-workers, neighbors and occasionally, friends. Here’s the deal, out-of-towners: you don’t live here and you haven’t burned enough calories living in the Deseret Empire to adequately bitch about the role of the LDS Church and Utah’s liquor laws. Spend more time in Salt Lake City than a weekend ski vacation and maybe I’ll listen to you carp on our state politics. Until then, put a cork in it, enjoy your drink and watch the show.

Customers like this make the night so douchey one would think that Nickelback was the house band. I hate it when I want to open hand slap every fourth customer. How am I supposed to kick my sour mood when even the Jack and Coke you ordered isn’t what you want? Booze isn’t the only thing that I am selling from behind the bar. I am also selling a good time and for the love of God, how come most people can’t meet me in the middle? Do people really have such well-placed blinders that they can’t see that they are not the only customers in the bar? It’s challenging enough to keep up with the flow of the night without some pseudo-travel writer trying to rank the best bar experiences in the country. Yes, Utah is limited in its selection of booze and how it is served but it doesn’t mean that you can’t get drunk. Think I am wrong? Look to the guys drinking Scooby Snacks out of a woman’s slipper.

See what happens when Snoop Dogg misses his flight? I never thought West Coast rap would have such an impact on my life. Instead of a carefree weekend of pouring vodka and cranberries, I was in the dog pound the entire time. Sorry about that. Something I constantly remind myself of when I am having a bad shift behind the bar is that last call will always come. It might be too early for out-of-towners but it will eventually become 1 o’clock. A couple of days away from the club reminds me how much I love bartending and I start ramping up to get back to slinging drinks. Something I never forget, however, is that pouring one gin and grapefruit juice is enough. Contrary to popular opinion, gin and juice isn’t a very good drink.

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin or his Tumblr feed. Become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.

Behind The Zion Curtain

The Zion curtain is being redrawn in Utah and a lot of people are not happy about it. Recent changes to the liquor laws in Utah are going into effect soon and none more offensive than the Zion curtain. For those of you who live outside of Utah, the Zion curtain is a screen, barrier or opaque piece of glass that prohibits patrons from watching alcoholic drinks being made. Found in restaurants, the Zion curtain makes sure that children don’t hear the clinks of martinis being made or draft beer being poured. It separates bartender from his customers and hides him in a closet to make your drinks. According to State Senator, Michael Waddoups: “Listening to the shaking of drinks and the sights can make drinking attractive. That’s one of the reasons that restaurants should not look like a bar.” He’s afraid it will encourage underage drinking and overconsumption. Unfortunately, I hate agreeing with the uber-conservative senator from Taylorsville but the sight of a drink being made is very attractive to me.

I first discovered the Zion curtain a decade ago when I moved to Salt Lake and was a bit confused by it. I didn’t understand why there was so much separation between the customer and the bartender in restaurants like TGI Fridays or the Olive Garden. In the end, however, it didn’t matter: I still got my mug of beer or glass of wine. It seemed like a lot hoops to jump through in order to get a drink but providing I got what I wanted at the end of the parlor game I played with the restaurant, I didn’t care. Some people did and they petitioned to have it removed a couple of years ago. It didn’t make a lick of difference to me. Whether my gin and tonic was made in front of me or in a dungeon by a buck-toothed gimp, I didn’t care unless they forgot my lime wedge.

Utah is different and that’s a good thing. It’s not supposed to be New Orleans or Las Vegas. Hell, it’s not even supposed to be Cheyenne or Denver. There is a unique history and charm to this place and what positives it offers to its citizens and visitors isn’t detracted by having to have your cocktails made behind a screen. I think people should be more outraged on how bad the food is at a Chili’s than not being able to watch their margarita being made. The best restaurants in Salt Lake don’t do table side bartending and the fact that there isn’t traditional bar service at most restaurants shouldn’t cause boycotts from eating out. To those opening restaurants in Utah and don’t think the rules apply to them, give me a call sometime and I’ll tell you about the three years I ran The Woodshed. They take booze service in Utah serious even if it feels like a kangaroo wrote the laws.

There are about four inches of rules and regulations determing liquor law in the State of Utah. I wish I could whittle away all of these laws into three: don’t serve people under 21 years of age, make sure everyone pays for all of their drinks and make sure the sale taxes are paid to the state. There. In 28 words, I just solved all of Utah’s liquor problems. Now that this is behind us, let’s move on to fixing the real problems we face in this state: employment, social services, protecting the environment and ending the NBA lockout.

The problem is that nobody can leave well enough alone. I disagree with the majority of the liquor laws in Utah as much as the next drinker (providing the next drinker likes Irish whiskey and cold, cheap yellow beer) but I knew the laws when I got into the business. Utah is different than other states in the Union because they have this pesky, loud population called Mormons that do not like hooch. Mormons are buzz-kills and they want to make sure the rest of us are miserable because some golden plates read through a peep stone said no doubles, happy hour or ladies night. In their defense, they were here first and they run the state in one form or another.  Utah is a Mormon state but not a 100% LDS providence. The will of the community should be reflected in the laws but knuckleheads like Senators Waddoups and John Valentine of Orem are way over their heads when they start making laws about liquor. If you can’t shoot whiskey, you sure-as-shit shouldn’t be making laws about it. You should have had something to drink stronger than Dimetapp when making decisions regarding alcohol sales in a state that prides itself on tourism.

All of this Zion curtain talk doesn’t impact me at Keys On Main. Our liquor license allows us to pour drinks as if, wait for it, we’re a bar. As far as I am concerned, it is these kinds of debates that make people from other states think that Utah is chockfull of radical bomb-throwing polygamist. We’re the second-coming of Carrie Nation with anti-saloon leagues popping up on every corner. It’s a shame that every time we make national news it’s because of some crack-pot liquor law or high profile kidnapping. However, if we are going to be the laughing stock of the country let us at least fight about something that would make a real impact in the state. Here are a handful of things that I would like to see changed in Utah’s liquor law and culture in my lifetime.

Full strength beer on tap. For the life of me, I can’t believe at one point in time I actually defended 3.2% beer. Sure, Utah brewers make delicious tap beer and I am not faulting their efforts but I am certain that they have brewers that can easily re-fit any brewery to make full strength beer. The real impact of not being able to serve full strength beer on tap is that there is a de facto prohibition on beers that we can sell. Because Stella Artois doesn’t make a 3.2% version of their beer, there is no way I can legal pour a draft of Stella at Keys. Most beers made throughout the world could never be poured in SLC simply because they don’t meet the arbitrary 3.2% standard. It’s a shame because a lot of beers available both in a bottle or tap have different flavors. Newcastle in a bottle tastes like sea water. Newcastle on tap tastes like heaven. It is laughed out loud funny how stupid this rule is. If you don’t think people can’t get drunk off of 3.2% draft beer, don’t visit any bar in Utah at any time. The vast majority of over-served patrons are hammered off of beer. They just push their bladder to the limit every time they hit the club.

Selling cold beer at the liquor store. They sell full strength beer in bottles and cans in Utah but you have to go to a state run liquor store to buy it. That’s fair. It’s inconvenient but at least I can still buy Pacificos and Sierra Nevadas. But here is the bitch in the bunch, they don’t sell it refrigerated. They are sold out of cases in the middle of the liquor stores at room temperature. Huh?!? What are they afraid of? That I am going to pop the top off a Labatt’s at the cash register and go driving around town looking for under-aged children to molest? The guys in the white panel vans who need liquor courage to do this don’t need cold beer. Guys like me who like to pick up a six-pack on the way to a family barbeque do.

And while we’re at it, how come they can’t sell a six-pack of Coke and an eight pound bag of ice at the liquor store? Would it kill the DABC liquor stores to sell smokes, a Penthouse and a bag of Cheetos? It’s ridiculous that you can’t buy cups or mixers at the liquor store. Its back to Mr. Panel Van: do they really think we’re making margaritas in the car for the long drive home? Those who drink and drive are going to do it anyway and making me drive to three places to get everything I need to make a proper Manhattan at home just makes me want to open one of those warm beers for the drive. If liquor stores are operated for profit, they should maximize their profits by offering secondary products that people who willingly purchase. Think of how much time I would save if I could buy a carton of Kools, a handle of vodka and a Barely Legal in one stop? Hours.

Clean up the liquor store at 200 West & 400 South.  Since we’re talking about liquor stores, how come the busiest liquor store in the State of Utah looks like something out of Berlin in 1945? By volume, this is the busiest liquor store in the state, yet I feel like I am in the movie Blade Runner any time I go on a beer run. I’d feel safer buying a bottle of Jameson from a camel trader in Beirut than going to this liquor store at night. Of course out-of-towners have a bad impression of how we sell our package liquor when they have to step over drunks, winos and panhandlers to get a bottle of merlot. As a rule of thumb, if my mother can’t go to a place unescorted without me loaning her a .38 Special then she’s not going. For the record I want to be perfectly clear on this one point: “Mama, you are not allowed to go to the 200 West & 400 South liquor store alone. We’ll go together or you’ll have to do without any Dewar’s White Label.” Sweet Pete, have you ever seen the liquor store on a Saturday night around 9:30? It makes the Gathering of the Juggalos look like an open air bible study class. Shoppers are frantic trying to get enough booze to survive till Monday. The Store is painfully under-staffed with surly cashiers and distracted cops more interested in nabbing shoplifters than protecting them on their way to their cars. It smells like wet garbage all the time and it’s filled with the worst representations of the state. They have built a couple of nice stores in town but isn’t it time we have a superstore in downtown Salt Lake that doesn’t require a shirt made from Kevlar and a can of pepper spray? I’ll buy your warm beer. I get it that you don’t sell ice. In return, can you let me buy my booze in an environment that doesn’t make me regret my purchase?

Public transportation past last call. Keys On Main is located in the heart of downtown Salt Lake City and is directly across the street from the Gallivan Plaza TRAX stop. So, those who want to avoid drinking and driving or finding a parking spot should be able to take TRAX home to the club. But when the last train leaves at midnight and the bar doesn’t close for another hour, what good does it make for taking TRAX? For every dollar that liquor sales put into Utah’s general funds, they can’t run buses and trains to at least 2am? How about those in the service industry who are dependent upon public transportation? I know trains and booze are not directly related but think how much better things would be in SLC if you could hit the clubs, party all night and get home safely without ever getting behind the wheel of a car? How much better would the roads be? Less DUIs and the cops could focus on stopping real crime in the city. What I like most about this argument is that it is a chance for the legislature to think about problems in the community in different terms. In taking a new approach to making Salt Lake more hospitable for locals and visitors, I think we could eliminate a lot of the imagine problems this state suffers from.

Too many laws, not enough thought. My ultimate suggestion is for both sides of the liquor debate to take a deep breath and count to ten. Every single year, the liquor laws in Utah are debated and changed—sometimes for the better, other times for the worse. A lot of the time, it feels like they are fighting over the rules just for the sake of fighting. They squabble over the rules the same way Bighorn sheep act during a rut. Well, enough is enough. I am calling upon a three year moratorium for any changes to the laws. Just like any good whiskey needs to age in an oak barrel before being drinkable, Utah needs to stop making ticky-tacky changes to the laws every twelve months and really determine the direction they want for booze in the state. And the same goes for the lobbyists petitioning the State Legislature to turn Utah into Nevada. I support the work of the Utah Hospitality Association (UHA) but if left to their own accord, I can’t help but think they want to turn SLC into Marti Gras. Granted, the laws in Utah are goofy but we’re still able to pour drinks, buy bottles of wine and do shots. Utah is very conservative but that hasn’t stopped me or the thousands of people I serve every week from getting drunk. Both sides of the debate need to get some perspective of the impact of their actions have upon the sale of alcohol in the state and there is no way to get this perspective when everything is in constant motion. The state legislature needs to stop tinkering with the liquor laws if only to observe the impact of their decisions.  Selfishly, legislators should stop making laws for three years just to annoy the hell out of the UHA. Nothing irritates an annoying child than ignoring them.

It’s time for another Beer Summit. Senators Valentine and Waddoups need to swing by Keys On Main to have a beer with UHA President, Trenton David, and Piper Down owner, David Morris. In a perfect world, over pints of Guinness and Shirley Temples, I am sure they could come to some sort of agreement. Part of my job as a bartender is to settle arguments and I think when presented with both sides of the dispute, I can come to a decision. This probably won’t happen but I would still love to pour those drinks.

Ben Raskin can be found behind the bar at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin, his Tumblr feed or become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.

(Montana) State of the Union

School is back in session and that’s good for business. The summer doldrums are over and the city’s storefronts are covered in large ‘U’ paintings. The days are shortening and the nights are getting cooler. It’s the best part of the year. For such a horrible winter, wet spring and mediocre summer, I am ready to get to fall and the best part of living in Utah. My summer had highs and lows. We were able to get the yard and garden into great shape this year. It’s amazing what you can do when you sell a bar—you finally have time to clean up your house. We did some hiking, ate some great barbeque, rode bikes and hung out with friends. On the downside, I had a wandering catalytic converter problem, got hit by a car and suffered through every Twilight Series concert. Bartending was good this summer but I owe that mostly to out-of-towners and bachelorette parties. I am ready to get back to pouring drinks for locals. The worst the weather, the better the business. Bring on the fall and bring on the college students.

Like the sparrows returning to San Juan Capistrano, the bars see a wave of college students with recently cashed UHEAA loan checks. They’re healthy, fashionably dressed, happy to be 21 and drinking in a bar with their friends. The weight of the school year is still a week away and the beer is cold enough for them to forget that college is hard. Even though they cash-n-carry every transaction, they are pleasant enough and it is relatively fun enough slinging drinks for them. I have enough grey in my beard to good-naturally taunt them for not having cash or talking out of their asses. It’s a fun position to be in and I’ve seen it for the last ten years. With the exception of having to recreate some cocktail they had on vacation or deal with customers who have been hitting the Car Bar (drinking in their vehicle), it’s a good time of the year.

I debated calling this column, “Don’t worry about Tyler graduating,” because there is an endless stream of Tylers to replace him. It seems like every other customer is named Tyler, Josh or Matt. For the ladies, they run in packs of Jessicas, Ashleys and Brittanys. Every parent in 1990 should have stopped taking their cues from Friends and 90210 when naming their kids. They also should have taught their kids how to communicate.  If we dug up Ray Charles and plopped him in the middle of this pandemonium of parrots, all he would hear would be an audible tsunami of “Dude!” and F-bombs.  He would have considered his reanimation as being equally a crime against nature and very annoying.

There’s a difference between bartending in a club and a bar. Clubs are fast-paced, loud and fluid. Bars tend to be places where you can hunker down and drink in the company of friends and often the bartender. Slow play versus gunslinging. Slow play is working the bar, talking to all of the customers, getting to know your regulars and generally looking like Coach from Cheers. Gunslinging is turning your ball cap backwards, pouring as quickly as possible, yelling at your guests to “shit or get off the pot” and trying to turn as many customers as possible. I prefer slow play but I’ve made my living as a gunslinger for a long time. Keys On Main is a gunslinger bar on Fridays and Saturdays and if it’s a good week, I don’t get a chance to slow play at all. If it’s a great week, I get to do both.

Thursday was one of those nights. It was the home opener of the University of Utah’s football season. The Utes have recently joined the reformatted Pac-12 and the excitement of the possibilities was buzzing throughout the valley. The Utes had drawn a sacrificial lamb in Montana State for their inaugural game in the Pac-12 and every Utah man, woman and child was awaiting the slaughter. You couldn’t have thrown a rock and not hit somebody wearing a red Utes shirt. Trust me, I know—I threw a dozen rocks on my way to work. I was told that I was allowed to wear University of Utah gear to work on home football games. Instead, I elected to just wear my normal weekday uniform on Thursday of cargo shorts and black Izod. I am a Utah man in zip code only. My allegiance is to the University of Nevada and you can’t have two mistresses.

I’m not a huge football fan. I always preferred baseball. I never played football in high school and I wasn’t particularly interested in watching it as a kid. Growing up in Las Vegas, I was much more interested in looking at my father’s parlay cards and making my picks. At the end of the day, all I cared about was wins/loses. Football was academic, pure and simple. I cared more about a team covering the spread than who won or lost. Because Las Vegas is such a transient town, there was a strip mall bar that supported every team in the league. I always wondered how you support a team when your town supports all of them. Al Davis had moved the Raiders to Los Angeles when I was in high school and I associated the ubiquitous black and silver jerseys at high school with gangster rap. What can I say? I was a wuss growing up. When I went to college at Reno Nevada, I became a Wolf Pack fan simply because I had school spirit and I liked drinking in a parking lot. Tailgating trumped sitting in the student section at Mackay Stadium. After graduation, I stopped watching football with the exception of the Super Bowl or if I was fighting a Sunday hangover. I found fantasy football less healthy than heroin and since living in Utah, I preferred spending my Sundays up in the mountains or puttering around the house.

However, I do know where my bread is buttered when it comes to game day. And on Thursday, I knew it was going to be with the Bobcats of Montana State. It goes without saying, Keys On Main is not a sports bar. Hell, we don’t even get ESPN on the television. Before they moved the TRAX transfer station from Gallivan Plaza to Courthouse, we used to get people leaving Rice-Eccles on their way south to Sandy but the days of people pre-loading at the club before a game are essentially over. I knew we’d be awash in Montana State fans by the end of the night because we are located to all of the downtown hotels. For somebody without a dog in the fight, I knew that I was going to have a chance to pour a lot of drinks.

Montana State is located in Bozeman and from their citizen’s mouth to God’s ear, it is heaven on Earth. I’ve never been there before but I can imagine it being beautiful. What parts of Montana I’ve been to is jaw-dropping majestic. After Alaska, I always consider Montana to be the last frontier in the Americas. My impression of the average Montanan is burly, jean wearing, hard drinking and fiercely independent with a dusting of cowboy poetry. They’re tough without arrogance. When you live in a state that occasional gets August snowfall it’s bound to toughen you up. Glacier National Park is amazing and Missoula is a great college town. You can't get a better beer buzz than in West Yellowstone and their borders protects a large part of the United States from Canada. America would be better with more Montanas and less Floridas.

The boosters from Bozeman arrived in a slow trickle but quickly became a flash flood. They were decked out in yellow and black T-shirts, Montana State hats and smiles from ear-to-ear. Utah might have beaten them 27-10 but Montana State took it to the Utes in the second half and they came to celebrate. The point spread was 28 ½ and Utah looked pretty beatable in the third and fourth quarter. The Bobcats won the moral victory of surviving the Utes and their fans were at Keys On Main to rejoice Montana State’s solid showing. I went from to not having a soul in the bar at 10pm to having a mini-Bozeman in the blick of an eye. They drank Miller Lite and Coors Light like it was going out of fashion and took their Crown Royal with water. The piano players quickly realized that it wasn’t going to be a normal night. The show became less dueling piano and more like saloon minstrel. They played their catalog of standard tunes while the Montana State fans swung dance and took shots of Jim Beam.

I got the same sort of complaints when they first came into the club: your beer is fake, can’t get a decent drink, how come I didn’t have to join a private club and so on. I try to be diplomatic with the customers but their T-shirts told me that they weren’t going to become regular guests. I took my cocktail shaker and banged my cocktail spoon against it like a chuck wagon bell and told them the deal. With a captive audience of about 30 people, I told them how we were going to do it this Thursday night. Order what we have, paid for what you order and don’t complain about Utah. Complaints against my club would result in getting kicked out. They nodded in unison and I iced the cake by telling them that for one night, Keys On Main was a Montana State bar. They roared in approval and the party began.

They were a really fun group of people. Even though I had my back against the wall pouring beers and shots (hey Utah, take a note: they drank shots of whiskey not Red Headed Sluts), I had time to switch between gunslinging and slow play. I traded jokes with the group and talked about the football game. I didn’t get a chance to watch it but they filled me in on every detail of the second half. There was a pure sense of pride as they talked about their team. They were genuinely proud of the Bobcats accomplishments and were elated on how well the game ended. Moreover, they weren’t sore losers. For every pro Bobcat comment someone wished the Utes the best of luck in the Pac-12. It was a special kind of night. Sure, they were drunk and were on their way to installing a well-placed hangover for the seven hour drive back to Bozeman but it was innocent and fun.

I think what I liked most about them is that in a way I was one of them. I grew up in the suburbs of Las Vegas but I really came of age in Reno. When people ask me where I am from, I always say Nevada because I like having roots in both the northern and southern parts of the state. Live in Reno long enough and you pick up some hick habits. And maybe that is what I liked about them. We’re all hicks. We all live in the intermountain west. I figure people from Northern Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, Western Colorado and Montana are all pretty much the same. There is both good and bad folks in this part of the country. I believe that we share a lot of the same values and characteristics. In one form or another, we all think of ourselves as a cross between Kit Carson, Picabo Street and Robert Redford.

My favorite moment of the night was at last call. They had been drinking like demons for a couple of hours when I took the last order of the night. I poured 15 plastic cups of Bud Light for the remaining guests in the bar to drink while I started cleaning up. They paid for it on a dozen different credit cards (I guess they have more in common with the average U of U student than I thought) and got to work downing the last beers of the night. One guy who had been jawing my ear off all night about our liquor laws gave me a going away fist-pump and proceeded to palm four cups of beer. He was heading to the door for the long walk back to the Grand America Hotel. My door guy, Aron, stopped him and told him that he couldn’t leave with an open container and he would have to drink his beers in the bar. The guy was incredulous. He couldn’t believe that he wasn’t allowed to leave with beers. I was impressed not because of his limited knowledge of state law but that he actually could carry four beers from the bar to the door. My max is three plastic cups and how the Hell was he going to be able to drink them on his five block walk without spilling them all over his shirt? I was half-tempted to let him try. He begged and pleaded but Aron held strong. He begrudgingly went back to the bar and polished them off over the next hour.

The last straggler left right at 2am. We locked the doors and returned Keys On Main back to a University of Utah bar. The bar looked like a bomb went off and we cleaned for the next hour before heading home. It wasn’t my best night. I might like Montanans but they’re mediocre to okay as tippers. Quantity over quality saved my night but it was one of those rare nights I would have bartended for free. I met a wide group of people from Bozeman who travelled a long distance to support their team. They came from all walks of life: nurses, students, miners, writers, insurance salesmen and college administrators. A real mixed bag. My favorite customer of the night son was beginning his freshman year at the University of Nevada and we talked about the pros and cons of going to school in Reno. I told him that my time in college was the best period of my life and I hope his son has a similar experience. Time in college is the best and I am looking forward to the upcoming weeks to sling drinks for U of U students. It’s a good period in one’s life and I hope a handful of them recognize it.

I started writing a column my senior year in high school when Mr. Wright convinced both the principal and my parents that instead of expelling me for inappropriate school essays I should work for the student newspaper. I guess submitting a story about losing your virginity to your 11^th grade English teacher isn’t that hot of an idea. The first story Mr. Wright published of mine was about collecting butterflies in a field across from the football practice field. See, I told you I never really liked football. I won columnist of the year for Clark County my senior year and I took this recognition to college. At Nevada, Marcel Levy gave me a weekly columnist spot for the school’s paper, The Sagebrush. Under Marcel’s tutelage and prodding from my fellow columnist Matt Black and best friend, Fitz Whaley, I wrote Raskin’s Rhetoric for four years. I enjoyed every deadline and every moment in the Sagebrush offices writing about the nuances of college life. There’s nothing better than having a release valve to write about whatever you are thinking about during the best years of your life. But for one reason or another, when I graduated I stopped writing.

It took meeting a reporter from The Salt Lake Tribune, Bill Oram, to remind myself how much I enjoy writing. He introduced me to the wonders of Twitter and from there I stumbled onto Blogger. Blogger reminded me of what it was like being the Sagebrush offices even though I was sitting at my desk at home. It’s funny how things can take you back. I started writing this column as a way of talking, discussing and sharing everything I see from behind the bar. Life as a bartender is a rich mine to pull a lot of observations.

I have been trying to publish a column out once a week but it's really hard to find time to write. Life has a way of getting in the way of the things that you enjoy doing. Moreover, I realize that to be serious about talking about life in Utah and pouring drinks for a living, I need to honor a couple of things. For starters, thank you to everyone who has read the column. I am seriously appreciative of every download and for every comment made by the readers. Every single comment, both positive and negative, has made it all worthwhile. I realize that I am long on story and short of grammar checking but I will work harder to edit the columns before I post them. Second, I need to be more regular with my postings. Starting next week, I will be putting out two columns a week starting on Tuesday and Friday. The Tuesday column will always be about the previous week’s shift at Keys On Main or other aspects of bar life in Utah. Friday will be about anything that tickles my fancy. I would like to have a format to talk about other aspects of my life or things that are impacting us in Salt Lake City. Finally, I started a Tumblr feed to start posting pictures of all of the knuckleheads and bozos I pour draft beers for. Sometimes more can come from a photo than writing about it.

I don’t expect to ever get paid one plug nickel for writing this column but if you like what you read, please tell a friend. I am really appreciated at the number of readers and I will try to keep bringing the funny from behind the bar. If you have any questions or ideas for stories, please comment and I will get back to you. Making Manhattans, Mojitos and Martinis is easy. Writing is hard. Let’s try and see if we can make writing a column as easy as muddling an Old Fashion.

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Friday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin, check out the Tumblr feed or become a Facebook fan at Behind The Bar.

No Time For Backup

I slid across the hood of my squad car and withdrew my sidearm. It was 300 to one. I kept thinking it was pretty good odds. The Fraternal Order of Police was having a convention in Salt Lake City and Keys On Main was getting the brunt of the business. There were over 5,000 out-of-town cops wandering the city and they were in search of strong drink and action. Descending upon my bar like a pack of mad dogs, they proceeded to drink me out of house and home in no time. A sea of men flashing their badges demanding service awaited me the moment I opened the doors and I quickly rethought my odds. Thursday night wasn’t going to be won—it was going to be survived.

When I am behind the bar, I like to think of myself as the sheriff of the club but I had a roomful of people who would quickly disagree with me. I was treated as if I had a gram of heroin and a zip gun in my sock. They had short-tempers, loud voices and dead eyes. The drink of choice was bottles of Coors Light and Miller Lite because they weren’t going to get suckered into drinking that wussy 3.2% beer (the joke was on them—both of these beers are 3.2%), Seagram’s VO, sweet vodka-based drinks and for some reason, a lot of Apricot Hefeweizen. While their body types ranged from fit-to-fat, short-to-tall, donut-to-diet in one form or another, they all sort of dressed the same. They were all wearing some casual uniform of a graphic T-shirt from one of their local bars or a collared golf shirt, cargo shorts and loafers without any socks. At the height of the night, when I had a chance to look up and survey the room, I was instantly reminded of Ralph Stedman’s drawing of the narco-convention from the second half of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

My two takeaways from the night were that cops are cheap and loud. They act like a ditzy blond who wants everything bought for them and have a voice register that only bartenders and Labrador retrievers can hear. The fact that as a group they could yell my name for five straight hours is only matched by their love of cheap, cold yellow beer. I work alone behind the bar on Thursdays with only my trusted friend and colleague, Aron, minding the door and helping me with dishes. I knew that the night was going to be brutal after the previous evening. They came in force and threatened to come back. It felt like they brought reinforcements.

Now, before some SWAT team kicks in my door and arrests me on a trumped up charge of libel, I want to go on record that I like cops. With the exception of rapping along to an NWA song, I rarely speak begrudgingly of police officers. I view them as partners with the community and an essential tool to keep crime to a minimum. I honestly think that the overwhelming majority of police officers are decent, honest and intelligent enforcers of the law. Moreover, it is essential to have a good relationship with the police if you are operating a business that sells alcohol and every single encounter I’ve had with cops at the bar has ended positive. Sure, there are a handful of knuckleheads on the force but find a profession that doesn’t have a couple of buffoons.

I like a man in uniform and so do you. Tell me you’re not strangely fascinated with their Batman-esque utility belt filled with guns, tazers, handcuffs and batons. Even the mostly grossly obese police officer looks good in their uniform. Squad cars are cool providing you’re not in the back of one and there is no vehicle more badass than a Harley-Davidson Road King Police Special. Even plain clothed police are cool with their sidearm tucked tight into their side and a badge hanging off their belt. We love John McClane, Riggs and Murdock, Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle and Barney Fife.

With that said, I don’t hang out with cops socially. I have only a handful of police officer friends and I am usually oblivious whether or not somebody is a cop when they come to the bar. This certainly wasn’t the case last week. Instead of polite conversation about where people are from and what can I get for you, I was told three things upon immediately greeting someone: I am a cop; Salt Lake has a lot of homeless people; and you’re drinks suck. So much for what can I get you?

The vast majority of the police were from Connecticut, Oklahoma, Ohio and Kentucky. There were a couple of stray dogs from other districts around the country but these four states composed the majority of the business. They formed intensely segregated groups around the bar choosing only to mingle with members of their own state. They were practicing the drink buying game that bar owners love and bartenders hate. They were buying rounds for their tables but were suffering from sticker shock when I would drop a $54 bill on them for each round.

Those who were without a state ordered as if it was their first time in a bar. Even though the bar is filled with intoxicated patrons, beer taps, bottles of liquor and wine, they looked at me as if all I sold were beaver pelts and radiator hoses. Without exception, this was the sequence of service. They would wait impatiently for me to get to them as I was struggling to keep up with their fellow patrons, have absolutely no idea what they wanted to drink when I got to them, tap the bar nervously as if I forgot what they ordered and finally fumble through their wallet looking for a $3 or $7 bill to pay their tab. Once again, know what you want, know how you’re going to pay for it and shove off. The last thing I need is to play eye-hockey with you after I dropped your drinks off.

You can’t have a real bar story unless there is a woman. Fortunately for us, we had one. It started with a very simple question: What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything? The question was asked to a statuesque redheaded woman who probably stood a shade under six feet tall. She was fair-skinned, skinny and had tight curly red hair that went down to the middle of her back. By all accounts, she was a pretty woman. She drank Strongbow Dry Cider and shots of Jameson. I was surprised when I carded her that she was only 23 years old. She had an “old soul” about her: confident, strong and free-spirited. She sat at the end of the bar and struck up a conversation with one of the Connecticut police officers. She had a major disadvantage when she walked innocently enough into the club: she happened to be on a road trip from LA back to Connecticut. She never stood a chance. The cop, trying to be coy, asked her what the meaning of life is. Failing to get the right response from her, he asked me and I responded, “42.” I was quoting Douglas Adams and I happened to answer correctly. She immediately shouted that my answer was bullcrap and I agreed. The point of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is bullcrap but it still makes for a great read. Instead of rolling with the punches, she took this opportunity to challenge the police to a drinking competition. I don’t think I need to tell you how this ended.

I know for a fact that the most popular beer in the United States is Bud Light but surprisingly enough, the cops had a strong disdain for it. They’re drink of choice was Coors Light and Miller Lite. After two straight days of drinking us dry, we eventually got to the end of these beers. This is when pandemonium was introduced into the bar. Grown men who carry a badge and a gun for a living were dragged to their knees in shock and disappointment. I honestly thought that the room as a whole was going to walk out but they bit the bullet and moved to Bud Light bottles. But for Bud Light ordered, there was a glance shot at me that read, “I know he’s holding out on me. I’d love to get him into a windowless room.”

Here’s a little bar math for you: what do you get when you have 300 cops in a bar? 300 concealed weapons. No matter how bad things got, no matter how much I wanted to open-hand slap every fourth customer, I knew that there was a .38 Special strapped to their ankle. For the next five hours, they were drinking with the reckless abandonment. I would have tried to slow them down but they were armed and dangerous and on a mission. And the worse of the bunch were drinking things that I wouldn’t have touch back in junior high. For as tough and gruff as they were trying to be portrayed, they sure drank a lot of Apricot Hefeweizen. I want to put a particularly fine point on this observation: they drank a lot of Apricot Hefeweizen. Sure, Squatter’s makes a fine fruit-flavored beer but after a couple of gallons of it, I would be so sick I don’t think I’d have the strength to beat a confession out of a suspect. Moreover, they really enjoyed drinking one of our house drinks, The Lady Gaga. The Lady Gaga is made with strawberry-infused rum, Malibu coconut rum, pineapple and cranberry juice. Granted, this is a tasty drink but my idea of a police cocktail is a mug of Irish whiskey and a cigarette. The fact they were killing boat drinks in SLC on a Thursday night made it hard for me to take them serious.

Contrary to what most people think, I really like our dueling piano show. I think the guys playing the piano are incredible talented and I am well aware that without the show, I wouldn’t have the good problem of having a roomful of drunk cops. I get asked every night if I get tired of the show and I answer honestly that I rarely hear the show. I am usually so busy that I don’t get a chance to listen to the music. Sure, like most people who hear Billy Joel, Elton John, Journey and Bon Jovi four nights a week, 52 weeks a year, I get tired of some of the same songs but for the vast majority of my guests, it is the first time they’ve seen the show. Just because I’m tired of “Benny and The Jets (for the record, Benny in this song is a girl),” doesn’t mean I have to act put out that they play it every night. Moreover, on occasion, something special happens on stage. I get a front row seat to an incredible experience and get to witness something that has never happened before.

On Thursday, such a thing happened. For a brief moment, I actually had caught up to all of the cops. Everyone had a full drink in their hand, the dishes were washed and I had a chance to catch my breath. Grapping a drink of water, I heard the opening riff to one of my favorite songs, Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues.” I can’t help but think it might be Elton’s best song and his rendition with Mary J. Blige is the saddest most gut-wrenching version I have ever heard. I looked quickly up to the stage to watch one of the piano players begin belting out a great song when my vision was blocked by the tall redhead. She was sauntering across the stage seductively, tousling the hair of the Connecticut cops and gyrating to the song. Before the first verse was even over she had successfully turned the most powerfully emotional Elton John song into a poll dance. Slapping the stage with her hand and whipping her hair back and forth, she did everything short of stripping down to pasties before the end of the song. Needless to say, she was quickly cut off after that dance.

When they weren’t drinking 3.2% beer, tall strong and fruity cocktails and Apricot Hefeweizen, they were knocking back Seagram’s VO. I honestly believe after pool tables nothing has caused more fights in a bar than Seagram’s VO. It is the perfect combination of rotgut and shame in a bottle. The last real fist-fight I got into occurred almost ten years ago when I got too drunk on Seagram’s VO and Coke and decided to take on the entire door staff at the old Port ‘O Call. With a belly full of cheap charcoaled-flavored whisky, I told an army of meatheads that if they’re looking for trouble they just found it. They dragged me outside and beat the stuffing out of me. Ever since then I have always called Seagram’s VO Fight Sauce. The hair on the back of my neck always stands on end when somebody orders one and I caution the cops Seagram’s VO is known to bring out the worst in people. It fell on deaf ears.

Per usual, once a VO and Coke hits the tables, the room becomes a madhouse. The inmate running the asylum was an officer from Kentucky. He was squat and rude. With bad tattoos, a flat-top haircut and no sense of humor, he had finally become the focus of my disappointment with the room. For three straight hours he had done nothing but bad-mouthed Utah, Salt Lake City, Keys On Main and our state’s liquor laws. He was bitching about not being able to get a decent drink in this state and was telling me for the fifth time that back in Kentucky, he wouldn’t have to spend a dime on his drinks because he was a police officer. I’m an immigrant to SLC and I have chosen to make it my home. For better or worse, I live in Utah and the last thing that I will tolerate is some hateful tiny-tike from Kentucky bitching about my community. He came up for his umpteenth VO and Coke and I told him that if he makes one more snotty comment about SLC, he’d find himself out on the street.

Incredulously, he stood back and went to my doorman, Aron, to complain. Aron listened patiently as the cop complained about everything. I could see Aron breathing calmly and sizing up this whiner. Figuring enough is enough, I went over to them when I heard the cop tell Aron that there is eight of them and only one of him. Did he just say that?!? Did he just threaten us?!? Are we going to be going fisticuffs with a bunch of cops?!? In the span of one breath, I envisioned the bar exploding in violence not unlike the moments before the shootout at the OK Corral. Granted, the odds were stacked a little bit higher against us than 8 to 2 when you factor in that the fact that almost everybody in the bar is a police officer and I’m sure they still like a good hog-whipping even while on vacation. He brushed off of Aron and sat down. I looked bewildered at Aron and he gave me a knowing smile that yeah, he just threatened us. Fortunately, calmer heads prevailed but in one brief moment I thought I might be living every skaterat’s fantasy of beating up a bunch of cops without fear of getting arrested. They would have made mincemeat out of us. Still, something had to be done. When he came back to the bar for his umpteenth+one VO & Coke, I told him he’s had enough. You haven't lived until you've cut off a cop in a bar and told his friends that he is 86ed.

Through everything, we made it to closing time. At one o’clock, I was trying to tell them that I am done serving. Cinderella becomes a pumpkin at one in Utah. And it wasn’t like there wasn’t adequate warning. The piano players called out “Last Call” no less than three times and I was putting the bottles away as quickly as I could as the witching hour approached. Utah law mandates that all alcohol needs to be locked up by one o’clock and that there is no more service after that. You are given an additional hour to finish what you’ve ordered but there are no more drinks poured after the booze is secured. For people who work in law and order, you’d think that I was running some elaborate joke on the police. They honestly couldn’t believe that Utah’s last call was a full hour earlier than their state.

Instead of manning up and take their party back to their hotel room, they started negotiating with me. If they negotiated people off ledges as well as they did for beer, I would hate to walk on their city’s sidewalks. I told them that I have rules to follow and shame on you trying to make me break them. I asked for their badge number because I wanted to file a complaint. Once again, no laughs. What bummed me out more than anything was the fact that there were a bunch of smuggled beer and mini bottles in the bar at the end of the night. When we were cleaning up after all of the police officers had shoved off, the bathroom garbage cans was filled with empties that we don't sell. Even cops smuggle booze into bars.

My war cry in the middle of a busy shift is “Wrecking Ball!” I came up with it about a year ago when I stared down a bar full of customers and jokingly told them that the only way I know how to bartend is like a wrecking ball. Anytime I get a better than average tip, I yell out “Wrecking Ball!” as both a thank you and a warning to the other bartenders that I am stuffing the tip bucket that night. Well, on a night like this, I guess 4% became a wrecking ball when your customers carry a badge. When I was doing the money at the end of the night, I think I finally knew how Rodney King felt. I know they’re civil servants but after five hours of getting my teeth kicked in maybe they could have helped pay for my dental work. I honestly believe that Mormons are better tippers than cops and that’s saying a lot.

As far as I am concerned, Salt Lake City PD and the Utah Highway Patrol are cool. These people deserve a beer on the house for what they do for the community. And in fairness, most of the cops in the bar on Thursday were decent enough but a bad glazed donut can ruin the box. I guess when you’re so accustomed to getting what you want without question hearing “No” from a bartender can really put you in a tailspin. I’ll let them in next time providing they check their gun at the door and ease up on the Apricot Hefeweizen.

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesdy through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin or become a fan of Behind The Bar on Facebook.