Some stories stand with us because of when we hear them. I talked about that a little bit in my blog about The Sun Also Rises, but I think it’s even more pertinent here.
I received my copy of Brad Thomas Parson’s Last Call as a late Christmas present from my best friend in January, 2020. A lot of things happened that month. I flew down to Florida on the first, made a couple permanent life decisions it’s still unwise to speak freely about, had a wonderful meal with her at a steakhouse, visited my alma mater, went out to bars with friends, saved a dog on the side of the road, and flew back home. A few weeks later I went to a concert in New York City, and visited, among others, Death & Co. and Angel’s Share. In between I went almost weekly to Boston, visited the art museum, had a couple dates, sat in a wonderful little tea shop, rode the subway. I was back in New York soon, for a wine conference held at the Javits.
Few people visited the table full of reps from Emilia-Romagna.
We knew what was happening there, vaguely.
We heard the stories coming out of China, read on our phones as we ate out.
We had that fatal American optimism, even then, because, of course, these things don’t happen here.
And then, about a week after I returned from the trip, the world, ours at least, turned upside down.
And I was left watching an industry I joined out of passion, a love of making others happy and comfortable, and genuine fascination with the art and culture, enter its apocalypse.
That I should have received a book whose focus is on closing time, industry wisdom, mortality, and history at a time when all of those things would themselves become the focus of my career a month before these changes struck is as much a comfort as it is chilling.
It would have been impactful either way, and the best friend who gave it for me knew that. I don’t think she knew that its impact would be nigh biblical.
Now, my job at the moment is more bartender-adjacent than bartender itself. I mix drinks, I help develop them, but I’m more comfortable on the floor of a restaurant than behind the bar. (My coworkers will tell you that the comfortability here is relative, but we’re coming up on only my second year in my position so I would appreciate a cut of slack). I never thought, I still don’t think, that I’d be quite cut out to be a bartender proper, for the same reasons I never went into cooking as a career.
But I have mad respect for what a good bartender is capable of.
At its heart, Last Call is a love letter and meditation on the state of what now has to be called the pre-COVID world of bartending. It’s an examination of the history that built the modern craft cocktail movement, the personalities and philosophies as dispirit as bottles on a shelf, and reflections on death and the end. There’s a kind of dramatic irony reading it at the moment, knowing that all of these interviews and perspectives were taken before the industry was thrust into survival mode. To hear things like:
“’The skull image over the Ticonderoga Club is kind of our strongest bit of iconography,’ says Best. ‘The idea is more Roman than Masonic. Memento Mori. We’re all mortal. We’re all going to croak. Let’s make the most of it and enjoy every moment.’”
“’…When I sit down at the end of the night, enjoying the company of others and preparing to head out the door together, we each have our own individual stories, and this moment seems like a parallel to the approach of our final rest. After each shift, somewhere a bartender doesn’t make it home. As the bar closes down, somewhere a patron never makes it back to his bed. These are hard truths, and as we count down to our final shift, we must be grateful for our fortitude, yet careful and aware of our own fragility.’”
“…Why wait to share all of life’s wisdom on one’s deathbed? Share it daily. Live life with meaning.…’”
“’An old-fashioned is nice because I take my time sipping it. And if it’s going to be my last drink, believe me, I’m going to take my time drinking it. It’s not something I’m going to shoot and be done with. My last meal would be a cheeseburger and fries, and an old-fashioned would go great with that. I’d have all my favorite things in front of me.’”
I won’t spoil all of the lines here, because obviously I want you to read this book. What makes the weight of its words greater is because we’re on the other side of this. We know what was coming their way.
I wonder what people reading this when they’re at the other side of whatever things we never saw coming.
Is that a little melodramatic? Probably, but we’re talking about life and death here. It’s an uncomfortable topic, sure, and as I’ve mentioned before melodrama and romanticizing are two of my personal coping mechanisms. Writing’s another. I’ve written sixty-five thousand words since the start of January (okay, they’re rewrites, but still).
My friends will sometimes joke that I write like I’m running out of time.
Well, of course, I am.
We all are.
Maybe that’s why I appreciate this book so much, but then, it does neither romanticism nor melodrama intentionally. There’s a natural romanticism to a well-made cocktail, to say nothing of bottles of wine, and plenty of real drama that the melo isn’t even required, even if some of the personalities naturally trend in that direction.
There’s the natural beauty of life, and sometimes it can only be seen when we think about death.
Out of the need to get my own opinion here, it happens that I share my choice of last drink with Ryan Kim.
“Kim is in his early twenties and perhaps a bit too invincible to go all-in on the commitment to his one final drink, but he tells me if he had to choose, it would be the aptly named Death in the Afternoon. ‘I was thinking about what spirit would make me happy if it was my last drink and that would have to be absinthe,’ he says. …But further thoughts on mortality will have to wait because game four of the World Series is about to start, the Dodgers are playing the Red Sox, and Kim, after all, knows his priorities.”
Even if you’re not big into drinking, I’d recommend looking at this book at least once. Mix up something nice, responsibly, and settle in for a night with some of the chapters. Maybe, when you’re done, you’ll notice the taste of food and drink a little more the next time you have the chance, or your songs will sound nicer, or the sun will feel warmer. I can’t say for sure, but I think we do a disservice to life if we don’t reflect on its end from time to time. This book helps, and it helps because it focuses on an industry where people are the center, creation is the fun, and, nowadays, survival is the goal.
But, at some point, it’ll be about living again.
And maybe this book will help you narrow down your priorities.
Or at least to stop, sip, and savor life.
I don’t know.
But it helped me.
