I’ve been behind the bar, full time, for the past 23 years. Which means that almost half my life has been spent making drinks. And yet, somehow, I still love it.
I manage two bars in the same building downtown in Portland, Oregon: Clyde Common and Pépé Le Moko. We’re probably best known for our cocktails, executed every night by a tight-knit crew of talented bartenders. Old Fashioneds, barrel-aged cocktails, boozy milkshakes, and whiskey fortified Amaretto Sours, are what most people think of when they think of our bars.
And to be fair, fancy drinks are what most people envision when they think about a bar these days. But when I think about work, I focus on the in between: those little moments that exist in the place where the built environment ends and the human experience begins. That in-between place is the hardest to describe to people who haven’t spent their lives in a bar, so it’s probably best shared through words and images.
Last year, I began to teach myself photography as a way to make better images of cocktails for my website. But more and more, I’m finding myself drawn to those hard to describe in-between things that keep me coming back to the bar, decade after decade.
All of the following images were shot by me with a 1989 Nikon F4s 35mm camera, and developed and scanned by Blue Moon Camera here in Portland. In order to most accurately share with you how I see my world, these images have been spared of any digital manipulation, other than some cropping and straightening.
The above image was shot on Portra 800 film.
For me, this image captures the frenzy of tending bar. A skilled professional bartender uses his or her body’s muscle memory to make drinks without having to think about each motion, while at the same time constantly scanning the room to see what else needs to be added to the continuously running to-do list in their head. That list is constantly being re-prioritized as items are added to and subtracted from it.
Every shift is a frantic ballet where everything is on the verge of crashing down, but somehow is kept afloat by the staff’s ability to do what Angela is doing here: being both mentally and physically agile enough to do many, many things at one time.
Shot on Kodak Portra 800 film.
It’s not much, but it’s home. The liquor room at Clyde Common is so much more than where we store our booze. It’s my makeshift office, it’s our locker room where we change, and it’s also one of the only quiet places in the building where you can close the door and be alone for a few seconds. I think everyone who works behind a bar understands the importance of that last bit.
Shot on Agfa Vista 200 film.
One extremely busy Friday night, Heather received this departing note from a guest who seemingly wanted to simultaneously remind her that life indeed is short and that we should always remember to breathe—all the while subtly suggesting that if she were better at her job she might have a better handle on managing the large crowd.
We keep this up on our bulletin board as a reminder to be more like Heather: she’s incredible at her job because she doesn’t stop to put her needs ahead of the guest’s. And as a reminder that while some people might take delight in hurting your feelings, your bar team is always there for you, even if that means teasing you a little by posting your least favorite note.
Our tiny walk-in cooler does more than just keep the beer cold. In the summer, the building’s old air conditioning system doesn’t work super well, so we all keep a fresh change of clothing in there for after work. When you’re done, you disappear into the cooler, strip down, and put on a clean, ice-cold t-shirt and shorts while you sip a bottle of beer. It’s one of the most refreshing things ever created.
Shot on Portra 800 film.
At each bar, we share a Google calendar to track shift changes and schedule meetings. But we also keep a paper calendar in the back that we use as well. Last year’s calendar at Pépé Le Moko was called “Extraordinary Chickens” and had all these great photographs of cool chickens. So rather than toss the whole thing at the end of 2018, someone took a few of the more attractive chickens and used them as decoration for the back hall where we store the wine.
Shot on Agfa Vista 200 film.
Similar to how a goldfish supposedly grows to the size of its bowl, every bar and restaurant needs just a little more space than they have. Clyde Common is probably the largest restaurant I’ve ever worked in, and yet somehow we’re still forced to find creative uses of the space we were given.
These deli quart-containers, home to various spices and other dry goods that we use in the bar, are tucked above the doorway to the liquor room. And yes, if you close the door with enough force, one will inevitably fall on your head.
Shot on Kodak TMAX 3200 film.
Most places with long-term staff have a sort of house loyalty to their preferred work footwear. You’ll see places where everyone is in Crocs. Others are devotees of Shoes For Crews. But at my bars, we’re Dansko people.
The back hallway at Pépé Le Moko is littered with staff Danskos. I don’t know exactly how we distinguish which ones belong to us, but there’s this innate ability we all have to recognize our own in a pile. I imagine it’s similar to how parents recognize their own newborn babies: most of it is visual, but smell is definitely one of the senses employed.
Shot on Fujicolor 200 film.
Clyde Common is located in the same building as the Ace Hotel, and the hotel has a photobooth in its lobby. Over the past twelve years, our coworkers have jumped in there (often after a post-shift drink or two) and recorded their final shift for the bulletin board in the stairway. We walk or run past it dozens of times a night, and it’s always a nice reminder of so many friends who have come and gone over the years.
Shot on Agfa Vista 200 film.
After one of the busiest Thursday nights we’d seen in a while, the bar died down and suddenly we were left with just a few friends and former coworkers at the bar. I grabbed my camera and ran upstairs to the mezzanine to capture this moment of Benjamin wrapping up the last call orders. This last gasp of the night, surrounded by friends while you leisurely pack up the bar, is one of the moments bartenders live for. Not every night ends like this, and so we relish them when they do.
Shot on Kodak Portra 400 film.
A decade ago, we all talked about how we could make an honest career out of tending bar. Back then, the conversation was about longevity, compensation, and taking the quality of our work seriously.
Out of the nine bartenders who work in the building, three of us are over 40, two are married (not to each other), one is engaged, and most of us are in stable, long-term relationships. It’s no longer a question of whether or not tending bar is a sustainable career: now it’s simply another component in a good and happy life. This was always the end goal; I feel like we’ve made it.
Shot on Kodak TMAX 3200 film.
Sometimes longevity is torn from us. On February 18th of this year, our former longtime wine director was suddenly taken by a very aggressive form of cancer. I’ve never felt the restaurant the way I felt it the next day: stricken by grief and hopelessness. Nobody knew what to say, we just occasionally stopped what we were doing, hugged each other, and cried.
In a very small silver lining, the Portland food and wine community came together the following week to throw her a wake like no other and to raise money to help her family with their medical debt. And at the same time, the night was a warm reminder of what we all have in common: that intimate knowledge of the in between, the things that keep us coming back to the bar, decade after decade.
Shot on Portra 800 film.
