The Bartender's Curse: Why I Can't Just 'Be a Guest' (And Secretly Love It)

The most beautiful thing about being a guest at someone else's party is the knowledge that as soon as I cross the barrier of that front door I am no longer responsible for anything that happens… like a vampire. You don't HAVE to invite me into your home for the party, but as soon as you do, honey, YOU have to deal with the consequences.

Okay, okay... I know that sounded aggressive,  but unlike a vampire, I'm not trying to suck the life blood out of your party! Just your punch bowl and maybe a guest or two. As soon as you let me through those walls, I am focused on one thing: vampire domination making sure we are all having a great time!

Vampires have their curse, and I have mine.

After centuries of bartending and being a people pleaser, when I see an opportunity to heighten the drinking experience for other guests,  I just can't help myself. Much like everyone else who has found their way to this article, I tend to greet the hosts and a few guests. But before long, I'm hunting for a drink to quench my thirst. Otherwise I’d be reduced to turning another guest into a delicious glass of “wine”. 

Sometimes that's a cooler, sometimes it's a pitcher or punch bowl, and sometimes it's a folding table of dusty liquor bottles that only get taken out when guests are over. No matter what is there, I'm happy. I'm not a picky drinker.

It’s just then that my curse starts to take over.

Like a vampire compelled to count every grain of rice thrown in their path, I cannot - physically CANNOT - look at a disorganized bar situation and just... walk away. I see red. Faced with chaos in the cooler, mixer bottles with their caps missing, lime wedges that have seen better days, I have one of two choices - I can immediately decapitate every other guest with more rage than Dracula and Nosferatu combined or, more often (less fun), I take a beat to rearrange the bar. 

Get all the IPAs in one cooler and the domestics in another. Push the Sambuca, peach schnapps, and Everclear to the back of the table... or under it, where cursed liquids belong. Put all the seltzers in some kind of order - lime with lime, grapefruit with grapefruit, the warm ones that just arrived at the bottom to chill like bodies in a crypt. Move all the mixers to one side of the bar and the liquor to the other, with ice, cups, and garnish in the middle where they belong. Gather the assortment of wine bottles that guests brought - put them together, tuck the nicer bottles to the back so the hosts can enjoy them another night.

Now that that's done,  I can make myself a little cocktail, and go back to being just another party guest...

When all of a sudden I hear this agitating grating voice…

"Ohhh Cal, aren't you a bartender?!"

"Cal, since you're making yourself something, would you mind making me something?"

"Me too!"

"Me three!"

"Wait, can you do one of those fancy ones with the egg white thing?"

The people pleaser in me - the part that never learned how to say "no" in its immortal existence - without missing a single beat, says, "Of course! Already got the glasses lined up."

And just like that, I've transformed from guest to full-blown bat, flapping my wings as fast as I can to get everyone their cocktail. The conversion is complete. I have fully embraced my nocturnal calling.

There's something intoxicating (pun intended) about being needed. About watching someone's face light up when you hand them a drink that's better than anything they would have made themselves - like I've given them a taste of eternal life, or at least tonight's buzz. About overhearing "wait, what's in this?" followed by "this is SO good" followed by three more people wanting the same thing, forming a small thirsty coven around the makeshift bar.

I'll stand there for an hour, sometimes two, prowling behind that folding table making rounds of cocktails with whatever random ingredients are available. Improvising with that dusty bottle of elderflower liqueur someone got as a gift in 2019 (excellent vintage year). Muddling mint for mojitos with a wooden spoon because there's no muddler - primitive, but effective. Teaching someone's boyfriend how to properly squeeze a lime wedge with the strength of the undead while I squeeze his sexy bicep to make sure his form is correct. Explaining for the fortieth time that yes, you should shake it with ice, THEN strain it over fresh ice, these are the ancient ways and they must be respected. Tempting him to join our ranks and become a vampire himself with every tip and trick (and squeeze). 

And here's the thing - I love it.

I'm like a vampire who complains about being immortal but secretly loves watching centuries pass. I joke about bringing an "OFF DUTY" sign to parties, about how I’d rather eat a bulb of garlic before making another drink. I tell myself this time I'm just going to grab a beer and go talk to people like a normal human being with a normal human pulse.

But the second I see that folding table with the mismatched bottles? The second someone asks if I can "make something good"? I'm gone - in full creature-of-the-night bartender mode. I'm reorganizing, I'm garnishing, I'm explaining the difference between shaken and stirred to someone who definitely won't remember tomorrow but is very enthusiastic about learning right now, their eyes glazed over like they're under my thrall.

Because this is my supernatural calling. This is my eternal purpose.

Some people bring a nice bottle of wine to parties. Some people help clean up after. Me? I materialize behind the bar like mist, turn your chaotic drink situation into a functional operation, and spend half the party making sure everyone's having a great time so the host can too. I am sustained not by blood, but by the gratitude of slightly drunk people saying "wait, can you make me another?"

Is it a curse? Absolutely.

Do I feed off the energy of people enjoying my drinks? Without question.

Would I change it if I could? ...Ask me when I'm not three drinks deep and someone's asking if I can make "something with tequila but like, not a margarita" and I'm already pulling out the grapefruit juice because I knew a Paloma would be a favorite, the way vampires sense a full moon.

The answer is no. I wouldn't change it. Not for anything. Not for all the mirrors in the world.

I am cursed to roam house parties for eternity, reorganizing drink stations and making cocktails for people who will ask "what's in this again?" thirty seconds after I tell them. And honestly? There are worse fates.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make some martinis… the coven is waiting on me.

Once invited in, a vampire must fulfill their nature. And my nature is making sure you're having a good time with a good drink.