Odd Jobs: Chloie goes behind the bar at Grill One 5

A writer walks into a bar… OK, so this time it’s not a joke; it’s a job. I’m bartending at Grill One 5, located at 15 S. 6th St. The owner, Mike Reilly, has told me to arrive at 4:30 p.m., wearing comfortable shoes. I’m introduced to Rich Trippler, bartender extraordinaire.

Since quitting his job as a counselor for juvenile delinquents eight years ago, Rich has been bartending, spending three of those years at Grill One 5. He holds degrees in psychology and philosophy.

Rich gives me a tour as we prep for the night. Memorabilia line the walls alongside cigar boxes that hearken back to the days when the grill was a cigar bar. Behind the bar are books, such as The Lincoln Library of Essential Information and 100 Years of Major League Baseball, used to settle arguments among patrons. Through the kitchen, it’s a tight squeeze past the stove and down the stairs to a stock room housing alcohol, the ice machine and a walk-in fridge.

Rich shows me how to arrange the well, call and premium levels of alcohol.
I admit I know more about drinking cocktails than about mixing them. Rich points to the specials board. “Mike doesn’t tell us what the specials are; he likes us to guess from the clues on the board,” Rich says. The board reads, “Some days are better than others,” a phrase from an old Michelob advertisement.

Back behind the bar, Rich pours a scotch and soda for a regular. A gun with several buttons allows soda, tonic, water and lemonade to be shot into a glass. The alcohols are poured from bottles with spouts attached. Rich explains that a two count, on a full pour, should equal a shot glass. He demonstrates with a bar glass and then pours the liquor into a shot glass . Perfect.

It’s my turn. I attempt to simultaneously pour gin and shoot tonic. This gives Rich an opportunity to explain about one of the most valuable things in bartending: clean bar towels. Grabbing a towel, I soak up what didn’t make the glass.

Jesse, a waitress, commiserates with Rich about the evening’s slow start. They chalk it up to the mild weather. Josh, a four-year veteran of Grill One 5, arrives. Rich is mixing a White Cactus, a popular drink he introduced to the bar. These bartenders keep about 300 recipes in their heads. Their ability to simultaneously mix drinks, tally prices and make small talk makes my head spin.

There is great camaraderie between staff and patrons. The customers include a mix of gameday newcomers bedecked in black and gold, young 20-somethings dressed for a night out and casual regulars who know the bar staff like family. Some have been coming here for years; some are pleasantly surprised by their new find.

Josh introduces me to Ed, John and Jim, three good-natured regulars who explain how they’re responsible for winning the Cold War. The fragments of conversation overheard while working at a bar, both in and out of context, are crazy. There are business deals, jokes, personal confessions and pick-up lines swirling amidst the laughter. Sometimes, Rich explains, he has trouble sleeping because he’s trying to finish the stories in his head.

Josh says to Rich, “Bud and Bud Lite just arrived.” Sometimes they know patrons by their drinks and not their names. I’m given the lowdown on drink orders. They joke, “If anyone orders an amaretto sour or a vodka and Red Bull, go ahead and card them.”

The second room is filling up, and the kitchen is hopping.
Attempting to pop the cap off a Bud, I break the top off the bottle. Rich confiscates my bottle opener for a while. Josh sends me to the kitchen to put in an order.

Rich passes me the little Buddha Hoti, the Zen patron saint of bartenders, which sits on a shelf behind the bar. I read the history. It must be working because I get my bottle opener back.

It’s four hours till we close. I’m not sure I own a pair of shoes comfortable enough for me to stand for nine hours. My hands are waterlogged from all the glassware I’ve washed. The next two hours are a whirl of taking drink orders, recording tabs and making change. Tips are thrown into a pile by the register. Apparently it’s bad luck to count the tips before the shift is over. “If they’re bad, it’s bad for morale,” Rich says. “And if they’re good and things are slowing down, you just want to go home,” Josh adds.

I’m doing well with the tap until it spits foam at me. I try again. It spits harder. There is now a stream of beer foam dripping from my right armpit. “Rich, what does it mean when the tap spits at you?” I ask. His reply: “Time to change the tap.”

After the kitchen closes, things slow down. We wash the rest of the glassware, wipe out the ashtrays and gather bottles and boxes for recycling. Sometimes the best part of a job is the pay, sometimes it’s the people you work for or with, and sometimes you just want to go where everybody you serve knows your name. Rich and Josh are that good. And for me, the best part is that I don’t have far to go for a really good drink at the end of the night.