Bartending: At the Masters vs. During the Masters

Usually, when I tell people I lived in Augusta for six years, the next question out of their mouths is something about the Masters. Inevitably, they’re perplexed that I don’t know more about it. These people are morons. Asking a question like that of someone who just happens to live in Augusta is like asking a Canadian how he makes his maple syrup, or saying to an Alabama resident “So… cousin sex.” Never mind that I only really lived here for about a year and a half; my family’s address was in Augusta while I was in college, and it was much easier to say that’s where I was from. If you know where or what LaGrange is, either I know you or you’re a horrible person, or both. Here’s what I know about the Masters: golf. That’s about it. Also, that a couple of brown dudes (see Singh, Vijay) and the concept of mixing lemonade with sweet tea gets old white people giddy to the point of conniption. No, my view of the Masters has been from behind a couple of different bars: one pretty much at the tournament itself (a catering company that hosted international attendees at stupidly large houses), the other the Soul Bar. There are certain advantages and disadvantages to working at each, which I’ve broken down in this handy guide for all you aspiring Augusta bartenders. On a related note, my condolences for your shattered hopes and dreams.   Clientele: At the Masters The house that we set up in to host our guests was set back off of one of those weird, curvy-ass cobblestone roads behind Walton Way. It was four full stories, with at least three bedrooms and two baths on each one. I think the housekeeping staff even put solid gold poop in the toilets as an enabler. The place looked like the setting of an Agatha Christie murder, and oh my god could these people have been the killer. They were rich enough to the point of suspicion. The wealth wasn’t overt, but still obvious if you knew what subtleties to hunt for: a half-flash of Girard-Perraguax wristwatch under a sport coat sleeve, a platinum grille that said “Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems.” The bar was stocked with Patron Silver, Woodford Reserve, Chivas Regal, Maduro cigars and the fancy wine with a cork.   Favored Drinks by Ethnicity Japanese businessmen: Heineken or scotch. Mafia dons from Boston named Carmine: Soda water with lime (it was Lent). Mafia dons from New York named Carmine: Soda water with “lime” (“whiskey”). California tanning moguls: Patron with a twist. Australian J. Crew models: Foster’s (I swear to god I’m being serious).   Clientele: At the Soul Bar If the Masters crowd can be likened to that one formal dinner per year where all the fraternity dudes have to dress up and behave — and I think it can — then the downtown bar crowd during the Masters is like every other day of a frat boy’s life. These are the tournament attendees who either can’t quite afford the aforementioned amenities package, or else wandered drunkenly off and ended up downtown. There were so many khaki shorts, pink polo shirts, and Ray Ban sunglasses, it was like four different Miami timelines sharing an awkward moment. Watching them mix seamlessly with my usual dreadlocked, neck-tattooed clientele was actually pretty rewarding.   Favored Drinks by Ethnicity That one semi-Italian airline executive: Black-and-tans with Guinness and Sierra Nevada. Everyone else: SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!   Tips: At the Masters Everyone seems to think that the stereotypical “rich person who doesn’t tip well” is an impossible juxtaposition, in that there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. News flash: Rich people got that way by being stingy, thrifty and probably a little bit underhanded. It’s why I assume that, if you make more than a quarter million per year, you’re responsible for my pets dying, and also Twilight. Fortunately, there are two circumstances under which richies’ wallets tend to yaw a bit wider. This is one of them. It was mostly men at the catering house, and when that many affluent males congregate, they like to one-up each other in terms of their wealth. Eventually it turns into more of a dick-measuring contest than a boys’ shower room after weight training class in high school, and only slightly more homoerotic. You, the schmuck standing behind the roller-bar in a white shirt and black vest, are the beneficiary, as executives, CEOs and soybean barons increase their tips two, five and tenfold, all the while smirking at each other with their eyes. It’s like they’re trying to buy you, and it’s awesome. I raked in about $1,000 that week, and all I had to do was stand around and watch a bunch of midlife crisis cases make gorilla noises.   Tips: During the Masters This second one should be a no-brainer, but let me refresh you. Getting drunk does a couple of things: It unearths and magnifies an individual’s true self (see above) and it lowers inhibitions. Sometimes, this can result in unfortunate manifestations, the kind that get you a 50-yard restraining order from cupcake bakeries and zoos. Your clients’ propensity for pastry rape is, however, none of your concern, as you benefit from their increased inability to distinguish $10 bills from $1 bills or to properly place decimals in the “tip” section of their credit card receipt. You, of course, will have been encouraging this by making them stronger and stronger drinks. Enabling? Maybe, but they’ll appreciate it, and it’ll build your rep. It’s the main reason I’m mentioned five times each on Yelp and Rate My Professor.    You Might Also Like: