Early spring, 1987, a chill in the air. The River Café is quiet on this late Monday evening. With only a few tables left in the dining room and an empty bar, it was time to sit and have dinner. I was seated at my usual table, right beside the podium, which allowed me to view the entire dining room and bar, should something or someone need my attention.
The barkeep that night, who we will call J, was the longest tenured, oldest, and considered the head bartender. He was antisocial, generally uncongenial to guests he disliked, unfriendly to the staff, and suspicious of all new hires. In all my time there I’d never gotten a drink from him. Nor would I ask for one. When he was behind the bar, the only way of getting that needed cocktail was when he went to pee and one of the other bartenders could slip you something. I don’t think he spoke to me the entire first year I was there.
