Customer Reviews

Cosmopolitan: A Bartender's Life

5 star:		(6)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(4)
2 star:		(6)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Toby Cecchini's lavish and loving descriptions of alcohol really make you want to have a drink; in fact, I'm a beer-only guy, and found myself hankering for a martini or Manhattan while I read Cosmopolitan. Not with the author, though, who maintains the effete and disdainful tone of a French snob throughout. There isn't a single instance in this book's 238 pages where a $10,000 word and/or a French turn of phrase wasn't substituted for the $10 version, regardless of the fit. This was as goofy as it was distracting, and I can't imagine it endears the smarmy author to anyone who reads this.

Case in point: "I always marveled at the élan with which he pulled off that simple action; my efforts at duplicating this maneuver always end with me bludgeoning the recalcitrant glacier mercilessly as chips fly helter skelter." Um, call me crazy, but isn't that a mite highfalutin to describe watching someone chip ice? And while describing the staff at a restaurant where he used to work: "Even now, at the remove of more than a decade, it is easy to conjure, but difficult to summarize, the atmosphere of that floor, its peculiar combination of superfluous terror and incestuous, striving kinesis." Pal, the only reason it might be "difficult to summarize" a bunch of the interaction between a bunch of waiters, cooks, and bartenders, is because you're trying too hard. The last time I saw this much use of the word "lovely" was when I brought our daughter to my grandmother's senior center,

It gets worse. There is an obnoxious Europhilic tone throughout Cosmopolitan, as if all Americans are yokels undeserving of the drinks he pours (sorry, "the gustatory libations he decants")- Cecchini fantasizes of his dream bar, which among other things, only accepts Euros; he refuses to serve a Cosmopolitan to a customer who asks for a "Cosmo"; he sizes up customers approaching his bar, and thinks through some gift of human insight he knows everything about them from just their walk or drink order; he describes a wine argument with a friend, during which Cecchini referred to a Pomerol as a Pommard- the friend gloated about it for two years (anyone call for an Ambiguously Gay Duo?). There are many instances when Cecchini describes standing behind the bar and observing his customers from a pompous distance, having a laugh or a shake of his head at the human condition, as if he's so above their depredations because of the two foot wall of oak between them.

On the plus side, this guy clearly loves his craft, and brings enough experience and perspective to the table to keep his audience interested. I wouldn't have thought there were this many aspects to discuss about bartending, and was pleasantly surprised by the wealth of topics: the adulation met by workers at a city hot spot; the difficulties of entering the NYC restaurant business (this book is a cautionary tale against getting in the New York food game); the process of stocking the bar's alcohol in a way to ensure only those crowds you want; the art of being a good listener without getting too involved; crowd control; interesting and unpredictable barflies; and the chemistry necessary between two bartenders working the same shift.

Cacchini almost redeems himself with a couple of uncharacteristically humble stories at the end: the first describes his morbid curiosity and horror at hosting a raunchy bachelor party at his bar, and his struggles to get closer to observe the action, while at the same time maintaining professionalism. The second involves a trip to Europe, stumbling into a family-run bar and getting swept up in a week of unconditional hospitality. These two anecdotes aren't enough, though, to bring this snob back to Earth.

Cecchini should have gotten out of the business years before writing this book. Yes, he has a knack for using big words in hopes of bringing this book to a more literary level, but he should have stuck to finding better stories instead. As a regular at two bars in Los Angeles, I have personally seen funnier and more interesting moments than Cecchini. He's so hard-boiled and tired that he barely seems interested in his own anecdotes. I don't mind bitterness, in fact the more the better, but without a sense of humor in telling the story, he doesn't make this a fun read. My fantasies of bartending are shattered forever. Fun as a concept, not so fun (or interesting) to read.

This book was a huge disappointment for me. I found his macho take on bar culture non-observant, but too critical. Anthony Bourdain wrote a rave about a book that discourages smoking in bars??? The guy is never shown without a Marlboro hanging out of his lips. I found this book pretentious and at times monotonous. The cover is fun, but it is not representational of the work.

His perspectives on the mechanics of making drinks, setting up a work space, and in particular on several recipes are very interesting and valuable. The majority of the book consists of anecdotes about various parties he has worked, and IMHO they mostly fall into the "I guess you had to be there" category.

Definitely a problem with pretentious vocabulary. Trees are sessile, customers are not.

I read this book in one sitting on a Saturday night and it made me wish I had gone out and drank Manhattans instead. (This is a compliment to the author) Having spent fifteen years in the service industry both as a bartender and waitress, I found the stories in this book a bit boring. I was looking for some laugh out loud accounts and really good stories. I found the book a bit depressing, although I have to say that I have a lot of respect for the author and can fully relate to his tales. I would recommend this book to anyone who has worked in this business.

I love memoirs and when I had heard some buzz on this book I went ahead and picked it up. I read it fairly quickly and when it was over I felt down and unsatisfied. Cecchini's writing tries too hard to be literary and isn't straightforward enough. A lot of big words that seem out of place for a book about nightlife and booze. The cover made me think it would have been a lot more fun about a business that seems glossy and glamorous. Unfortunatly, Cecchini seems to think it was a drag one time too many - it wouldn't be an understatement to say that he's a little hard-boiled in the way he tells his story.

Definitely a great atmosphere book, in that the place seems real but the customers act like jerks and who wants to hang out with jerks? Just wish it was more fun, is all.

I bought this book thinking it would be as great as "kitchen confidential" by anthony burdain

What pretentious language ! Cecchini never uses a small word where an obscure one will do which makes for an annoying read ... "heavily bibilous" for example I guess he means drunk ...
when I read windy sentences like "I was relieved of my obligation of politesse of any kind" I think "hey Buddy get over yourself ! "

this book needed the heavy blue pencil of an editor

As a professional bartender (31 years behind the stick), I can attest to Cecchini's authenticity. With style, sardonic humor (aside from the Boston shaker, the bartender's most effective tool), grit and total 360 vision, he breaks down the experience for even the most clueless civilians to grasp.

"Foodies," "restaurant people," hospitality workers, "bar dogs," "bar whores," however titled, are a definite sub-culture, observing humanity under a naked black light. Anthony Bourdain eloquently illustrated the inner workings of the restaurant and Toby Cecchini follows suit with his own distinctive style in autopsying the professional bartender and his personal life.

I personally know the feeling of inventing a drink, showing it off with pride, and the subsequent bombardment of requests by spirit-ignorant dilettantes, the bastardization of the recipe by anyone who ever picked up a bottle of well vodka, and the regret that churns your gastric acids on just hearing the name of your drink hurled through the air. Toby brings that mix of pride and disillusionment to light with humor and without crying over the loss of his monster.

Everyone who's ever been a bar or restaurant patron needs to read this book to try and pick themselves out of the crowd. Consider it a training manual in human behavior for the uninitiated and alcohol-impaired.

Regarding the Cosmopolitan, I'd have to say that despite occasional criticism from the new genre of "bar chef's"... what the hell does that mean anyway? Listen to these yaks and you'll spend the whole night muddling cucumbers and Thai basil, straining blackberries, and trying to clean up your tools in time to prepare the next thirty drink orders that piled up while you were occupied pouring some slop into a stemmed cocktail glass for the grinning weasel supervisor from the local county clerk's office. You're either stationed in the kitchen or behind the bar, give me a break...

Anyway, regarding the Cosmo, from my experience it remains the only new cocktail to have emerged in the last twenty years to have endured with any kind of sustained popularity based on its own merits. It's balanced, simple, and refined. That's all you need in a cocktail. That's all you need in life. A bartender's life.

I also read this book because of the rave reviews it received and like many of the other reviewers but I finished the book somewhat mixed. As opposed to several of the other readers I rarely read autobiographies or memories because, though the people are undoubtedly successful and interesting people, I generally find that they do not have the ability to convey well how and why they did what they did. This book somewhat falls into that same category. I also read and enjoyed "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain but this book seemed more along the lines of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers. Both have unnecessarily large (though different) vocabularies and they seem to have the same idea about how to put together a story. Though I would not say Toby's vocabulary was obnoxious, it walked the fine line of distraction. I felt myself thinking that there is no way that when he is at work he talks to his patrons this way. He clearly rolled out his "book" vocabulary, or had a thesaurus very handy. The other aspect of the book that was mildly disorienting to me is that it is not a coherent story. There are very few actual dates and locations to provide a fixed point of reference, when reference is needed to a previous thing, it is invariably "a little while later" or "around the block and down the street". Sometimes things happen "in the mid-80's" or "late at night" or "a few years ago". Obviously this is acceptable in many occasions but I believe that his story should have had more fixed points in it. Additionally, his story is not a story but rather a series of short stories, vignettes really. Many of the vignettes are interesting, and perhaps this is what best captures his life, but the lack of fixed points in the story make it a challenging read, I think.

When I read Kitchen Confidential I felt like Anthony Bourdain was just putting everything out there, on the table in front of us, and saying "this is my life, it is hard, it sucks, it is amazing, and I love it". Toby Cecchini's writing seems to say that he has an underlying ambivalence about everything. It is sort of like a nonchalant shrug that this was all just a day in his life that that is all there is to explain.

All-in-all, it is a quick and mostly entertaining read and there are some good drinks at the end. I also felt like going out and getting a Martini after finishing the book.

Cosmopolitan is every bartender's dream and nightmare. When I first picked up the book, two days ago while waiting to start my first guest bartending gig, I thought it would be a collection of sexual exploits and good-humored fun, something Tucker Max-esque. I confess I knew nothing of the author, and thought the title of his book reflected the way he viewed his life, that being "cosmopolitan."

As I gorged on the details of his bartending experience, I came to realize all my predictions were proven wrong. I confess I knew little about the author, and had I taken into account he was the self-proclaimed "creator of what we now consider the Cosmopolitan" I would have been more cautious of his hyperextended ego.

He narrates as if he is a fixed object in time and events just fly by him, and hit him in the back end. While explaining the ins-and-outs of the bartending industry, he simultaneously manages to walk the reader through the transformation of the West Village from industrial wasteland to artist/hipster wasteland to ultra-posh wasteland, and treats his creative-minded buddies as nothing more than minor nuisances he has to put up with.

For those looking for salacious stories, quite simply, look elsewhere. Either the author is the utmost of an anal retentive, or he simply does not want to share in any details. Whatever stories he describes, he only does so to boost his ego. One particularly memorable story involved Queenie, a "Rockette" that was visiting the bar with her friends. When he was walking into a supply closet, she snuck up behind him and took off her clothes. He tells of how he told her to get a hold of herself, and got back to the bar embarrassed for him and for her as well. What was the value of that story? I can't imagine what he was thinking. Anyone working in the industry that long was sure to have had some great stories, and Cecchini shouldn't have been so much of a wet rag.

Out of all his elitist comments, I found the one particularly offensive where he dismissed people applying from his sarcastically quoted, "accredited" bartending schools. Maybe it was because only the week before I got my license from one of these schools, after passing a crushingly difficult speed pour test and written examination. He mentions a few times throughout the book he would only hire close friends because he doesn't trust people he hasn't met. It is such a closed minded way of thinking. There are tens of thousands of liquor establishments in the city, and I'm sure most of them hire people on their qualifications, and some experience, much more than on the recommendation of one of their friends.

In the beginning, right after he flies through his childhood in Wisconsin and moves on to brag about his snobbish experiences studying in Paris, he describes how he used to visit a family-owned wine store. The son, quite the experienced wine connoisseur, constantly berated him for his infantile knowledge. It seems Cecchini took that such an attitude is the privilege of experience, and in no small way, consciously or unconsciously adopts it toward others himself. The story of his climb from waiter to bartender to owner has many holes in it, where by all chance, the story of his errors and failings reside. That he chose to exclude them for the most part, speaks volumes about the intention of this book.

As a student of French literature, he knows the subtleties of storytelling very well. Personally, the book was hard to put down, but along the way I started to hate the author more and more. While sympathetic to his heartbreak, search for odd jobs in Manhattan, and tolerance of devilish bosses, he came to resemble the latter more and more toward the end of the book.

He vents for nearly half a chapter about one particular incident that may have been important to him, but not nearly as much for anyone else. He decided to open his bar for a New Year's eve celebration, and just as he predicted, it went out of control, because his bar was not designed for masses of drunk debauchery, but for tight-lipped Cosmo-sippers, and the occasional red-faced alcoholic. That's the gist of the story. Why the editor let him rant for so long, no one will know.

As much as he transforms into a despotic owner/elitist cocktail fundamentalist, I still must recommend this book for anyone willing to enjoy a professional's wizened views about the industry. Whatever my bartending courses failed to teach me, I'm certain that Cecchini masterfully supplemented. Though I would say to approach his sugarcoated biographical anecdotes with caution, do not fear that the creator of the Cosmopolitan knows what he's talking about when it comes down to showing you the ropes, or at least ranting about them.