Best 24 quotes in «bartender quotes» category

Anyway, whacking a surly bartender ain't much of a crime.

I mean, I've had bartenders and waiters and waitresses make a comment about a joke of mine, like pointing out some sort of logic error or something that I've never even thought about, and they're right.

Every time I read a Jane Austen novel, I feel like a bartender at the gates of heaven.

A theory that you can't explain to a bartender is probably no damn good.

He had a habit of remarking to bartenders that he didn't see any sense in mixing whiskey with water since the whiskey was already wet.

Fighting a Mardi-Gras-In-New-Orleans crowd for eight blocks from Trahan’s Tavern on St. Peter to Bourbon O on Bourbon was like a man being willing to swim the Nile, climb Mount Everest, and cross the Sahara for true love.

I toured Ontario in the winter of '48, in a touring company of The Drunkard, in which I played the bartender.

The greatest accomplishment of a bartender lies in his ability to exactly suit his customer. . .

.. the guitar is just a wonderful instrument. It's everything: a bartender, a psychiatrist, a housewife. It's everything, but it's elusive

Will there be any bartenders up there in Heaven, will the pubs never close?

From the book - "Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean their are not there!

Hi, Lloyd, a little slow tonight isn't it?' Lloyd said it was. Lloyd asked him what would it be. 'Now I'm really glad you asked me that, really glad. Because I happen to have two twenties and two tens in my wallet and I was afraid they'd be sitting right there until sometime next April. There isn't a 7-Eleven around here, would you believe it? And I thought they had 7-Elevens on the fucking moon.' Lloyd sympathized. 'So here's what, you set me up an even twenty martinis...One for every month I've been on the wagon and one to grow on. You can do that, can't you? You aren't too busy? Lloyd said he wasn't busy at all. 'Good man. You line those martinis up right along the bar and I'm going to take them down, one by one. White man's burden, Lloyd my man.' Lloyd turned to do the job. Jack reached into his pocket for the money clip and came out with an Excedrin bottle instead. 'I seem to be momentarily light,' Jack said. 'How's my credit in this joint, anyhow?' Lloyd said his credit was fine. 'That's super. I like you, Lloyd. You were always the best of them. Best damned barkeep between Barre and Portland, Maine. Portland, Oregon for that matter.

Grizzled white men poured drinks and dispensed dubious wisdom. Young white women in tight clothes delivered the food and the smiles and said "sorry" all the time. Short brown men cooked it all and cleaned it all up, and still managed to rise above the racial oppression of the United states to make kissing sounds at us waitresses whenever we were in the kitchen.

Handsome guy, Victor, in a brutal, black-Irish way. Like most New York bartenders, he was really an actor, or was it the reverse? ("Novelty")

He entered the bar at the far end of the boulevard. He was feeling melancholic and a tad morose for no particular reason. The bar was already bustling with a few people. But he was all alone. He was feeling the bouts of loneliness all over again. He knew he had to forget her. There was nothing else that he could do. The bartender looked at him sitting all alone on one corner of the bar. And asked gently with a smile"Monsieur what shal I get for you?" He smiled back and said "Whiskey on the rocks!

He took her mouth in a deep kiss. Finally he let her up for air. Don’t propose. Don’t propose. Don’t propose. He repeated the words until he was sure he wasn’t going to say something crazy.

There has ling been a happy symbiotic relationship between kitchen and bar. Simply put, the kitchen wants booze, and the bartender wants food.

The honky-tonk bartender, who doubled as bouncer, waiter, and cashier, was in no mood to compromise. Mercy was not in him. He came out around the open end of the long counter, waddled threatening across the floor in a sullen, red-faced fury and began to shake the inanimate figure lying across the table with its head bedded on its arms. "Hey, you! Do your sleeping in the gutter!" If you gave these bums an inch; they took a yard. And this one was a particularly glaring example of the genus bar-fly. He was in here all the time like this, inhaling smoke and then doing a sunset across the table. He'd been in here since four this afternoon. The boss and he, who were partners in the joint - the bartender called it jernt - would have been the last ones to claim they were running a Rainbow Room, but at least they were trying to give the place a little class, keep it above the level of a Bowery smoke-house; they even paid a guy to pound the piano and a canary to warble three times a week. And then bums like this had to show up and give the place a bad look! He shook the recumbent figure again, more roughly than the first time. Shook him so violently that the whole reedy table under him rattled and threatened to collapse. "Come on, clear out, I said! Pay me for what you had and get outa here!" ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

Women, you overheated dipsomaniacs, never passing up a chance to wangle a drink, a great boon to bartenders but a bane to us--not to mention our crockery and our woolens!

The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He's this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I've always wanted to hear the bartender's side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before the fall of the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for this big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?

A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.

A duck walks into a bar and the bartender asks, what'll it be? The duck doesn't answer because it's a duck.

A conservative, a liberal, and a moderate walk into a bar. The bartender says, 'Hi, Mitt.'

A good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender.