It’s 4:30 PM. The bar is empty, the floors still shine from the afternoon mop-down.
You tie your apron, do a final check of your station, and stretch your fingers. Limes are sliced, garnishes prepped, and the ice bins are filled to the brim.
Everything is ready. The register’s been counted down to the last cent, and the first keg of the night is tapped. Everything is ready.
You take five minutes to scan through bartender roles in Chicago to see if there are any openings closer to your home. You are getting tired of commuting two hours back and forth.
A couple strolls in for pre-dinner drinks before heading off somewhere fancy. One margarita, one gin and tonic.
The shaker rattles, ice clinks, and within seconds, two perfectly balanced cocktails land on coasters. You make a friendly small talk, and just like that, the night begins.
The Rush Kicks In
By 6:30 PM, the after-work crowd floods the place. The quiet bar transforms into an organized chaos, a storm of voices, music, and drink orders firing from every direction.
The routine takes over, you grab a glass, pour, stir, shake, repeat. Muscle memory moves your hands faster than your brain.
The beer taps are running non-stop, and pints keep stacking up in front of thirsty customers. A group in suits orders a round of tequila shots. You line up six glasses, salt, lime, pour, done.
Then comes the first challenge of the night. A customer asks for a cocktail you’ve never heard of. But instead of googling for a recipe, you improvise.
A little citrus here, a hint of bitter there. You slide the drink over, and they take a sip, eyes lighting up. “This is amazing!” they shout over the music. You nod like you knew it all along.
Meanwhile, you’re scanning the room. Who’s looking for a refill? Who’s had one too many? Keeping a mental map of the bar is second nature now.
Someone is hovering by the entrance, a first-timer, most likely nervous. You give them a nod, welcoming them into the madness.
Keeping the Chaos in Check
By 8:00 PM, the place is packed three deep. A wall of hands waves cash in the air, desperate for attention. You have to be fast, but also fair, no playing favorites. A regular tries to cut the line, but you shake your head with a cheeky smirk. They back off, laughing.
Inevitably, a glass shatters behind the bar. No time to panic. A barback sweeps up the mess while you keep pouring. A customer spills their beer, and with one smooth motion, you wipe the counter, replace the drink, and move on.
Then comes the real challenge of the night, a massive birthday order. Seven drinks, all different, half of them complicated.
Espresso martinis, whiskey sours, a Mai Tai, and two Long Island iced teas. You glance at your helper, and without a word, you split the order. Teamwork is everything in a shift like this.
Someone tries to order a drink you’ve run out of. No problem. You suggest something similar with confidence, and they nod. That’s half the job, knowing drinks, but also knowing how to keep people happy.
By 10:00 PM, the energy is off the roof. The loud music filled up the dance floor, and the bar is running to the sound of the beat. Your feet hurt, your back’s giving up, but there’s no stopping.
The Final Stretch
The clock strikes midnight but the crowd is not going anywhere. You’re sweating, your shirt slightly damp from the heat behind the bar. Someone shouts for a round of vodka sodas, another demands an Amaretto Sour with a sugar rim.
You move like clockwork, one drink down, another order in, another bill tapped, and on to the next.
Finally, the words of salvation:
“Last call!”
It’s the final push. Customers rush to get their last drinks in, and you move faster than ever. Customers close their tabs, you count the tips, and the last few guests stick around while the bouncers start clearing the floor.
At last, the music fades. The doors close. And just like that, the madness is over.
Closing Time
Now comes the real work. Bottles need to be restocked, kegs switched out, and every surface wiped down.
You empty trash bins filled with crumpled napkins and broken straws, and mop the floors for tomorrow’s crew.
It’s exhausting, but there’s something satisfying about seeing the bar go from chaos to silence again. The tip jar is full, and your pockets are heavier than they were at the start of the night.
The Walk Home
At 3:00 AM, you step outside. The streets are quieter now, just the occasional late-night wanderer stumbling home.
You smell of citrus, beer, and a hint of whiskey. Your feet ache, your arms feel like jelly, but there’s something about this job that keeps pulling you back.
You get addicted to the energy, the people, and the rush.
Tomorrow, you’ll do it all over again.