The woody, legendary little bar where he worked, to the right of the reception desk, had been closed forever - though there was a cat-flap at the bottom of the door, to where the lovely house cat, a Maine Coon called Mathilda, who enjoyed lounging on the desk, retired whenever over-enthusiastic guests stroked her too much - and all that was left was the denuded, deracinated, declassé and ridiculously expensive "Blue Bar" accessible from the street.
When I was almost 30 - in the mid-eighties - this suave, philosophical and witty bartender, on my first visit to the Algonquin, introduced me to the joys of well-made Martinis, Manhattans, Old-Fashioneds, Whiskey Sours, Aviations and, for my very first time, Margaritas. For which, very understandably, I shall be eternally grateful.
He was tall and slim - I'd say in his late forties - very distinguished, well-spoken and literary, with a fascinating and much-travelled life. Among his quirks were using a drop of Pernod in an improvised "pipette" (a straw) to enhance his Martinis (something I still do to this day) and keeping what was left in the shaker after making a cocktail, to fill up when you'd had a sip or two. He called this "the dividend".
I went back to the Algonquin three or four times and I won't pretend he wasn't the main reason for my staying there - I even resisted when the Royalton, just across the street, had opened. His conversational "nous" and his worldly intelligence were as stimulating to me as my best Oxford tutors'. Like all expert bartenders, he welcomed every client as if they were the only human beings who not only enjoyed but sincerely and direly needed a cocktail. There was no special treatment, though every one of us felt special.
Every afternoon, around five, I'd enter the bar and place myself in his hands while he chose "sequences" of classic cocktails (he was an expert at this, being able to serve four different cocktails in an increasingly agreeable crescendo, with no unpleasant effects or drunkeness) and regaled me with his observations of the world.
He wrote a long, riveting article for "Esquire" about the bartender's art but, a few years later, when I managed to return to New York, the Algonquin had been bought by some Japanese corporation and then by some equally faceless American chain, the small woody bar he worked in had been shut forever and my most unforgettable bartender, to borrow the classic Readers' Digest phrase, according to the obnoxious plastic martini guy, had passed away. I suspect the fact that I didn't tip him (didn't drink the Martini either, as he refused to mix it in a proper mixing glass) may have had something to do with it as, just before I asked about the now mythical bartender, I caught him whispering "Cheap!" to his similarly uncouth colleagues.
For years now I've searched for that article - if only to remember his name (which I'm almost sure was David something, but we all know the havoc that memory allows) and honour him properly and the role he played in my life, not the least of which is the weekly cocktail column I write for the "Diário de Notícias", Portugal's oldest daily newspaper.
Perhaps some older eGulleteer can help me track him down - or someone with access to the complete "Esquire" archive. Perhaps not...
Still, I'd very much like to hear similar stories of extraordinary bartenders who have opened your eyes, taste buds or minds with their expertise, patience and generosity. I shouldn't wonder a lot of them are quite young - only three years ago, the chief bartender at 58/58, the New York Four Seasons Hotel bar, a cheerful, superbly gifted Trinidadian ex-boxer called Chris, gave me and my wife a fortnight-long crash course in late 20th Century cocktails - to lasting effect, bless him.
This post has been edited by MiguelCardoso: 14 May 2004 - 08:22 AM
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