Tell Me Mister Know It All

Among the rather large number of things I don’t understand, one looms larger than the others today. Allow me to address it first with a simple question:
Are there quantifiable traits that go into making an excellent bar owner?
Seriously. Are there? And if there are, what might they be? In all likelihood the traits are numerous, and probably differ greatly depending upon who is answering the question. There is one, though, that, in my somewhat expert opinion, should never be exhibited by any bar owner.
He or she must not be a know-it-all.
Entering into a new business arrangement believing that you are smarter than everyone else spells doom. Know-it-alls don’t listen, they don’t watch, they don’t study, or ponder, or mull. Why? Because they already know it all.
It’s a prime example of bad thinking. It’s the sort of thinking that lead Roseanne Barr to believe she could render a splendid version of the National Anthem. It’s the sort of thinking that infected George Lucas just before he decided that Jar-Jar Binks would lend Episode I that special touch of whimsy. It is, in fact, the sort of thinking that lead to, among other things, New Coke, the Chrysler K-Car, Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg, social Darwinism, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s decision to leave the rubbers in the drawer the night they conceived Paris.
Bar owning is serious business. Many owners fail to grasp this most rigid of facts, and it’s especially problematic when talking about buying an already-thriving establishment.
Which brings me, at long last, to my main point.
I have watched the purchase and subsequent downfall of several terrific bars over the last few years. These places were fully-fledged members of their neighborhoods, each with a scads of regulars, and robust weekend and “theme” night crowds. They were, in short, thriving concerns. Then, for a variety of reasons, their owners decided to sell, and each buyer seemed dumber than the next—guys who couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the heel.
One in particular stands out, though I’ll avoid using either its old or new name. The place was pretty much all you could want in a neighborhood tavern. The cocktail waitresses remembered your name and your usual drink, and the bartenders were total pros—long-time service people who knew when to float a free round to regulars, knew their names, and the names of their kids. For food, it offered an array of standard bar fare—nachos and the like—in addition to a compliment of yummy Greek dishes. The coolest thing, however, was that the cook was an actual chef, trained at the Culinary Institute of America, and so each day there was a special menu of stuff you almost never see in a local pub—cold blueberry bisque, spicy New Orleans gumbo, escargot in garlic butter, etc. The atmosphere of the place changed according to the time of day. Around lunchtime it attracted business people, then a late-afternoon gaggle of elderly stool-flies. A family contingent moved in for dinner, only to be replaced in the later part of the evening by a college crowd, for whom it was walking distance from campus housing. Every Wednesday was Ladies Night. Atypically, more women showed than men. Tuesdays and Saturdays, they had karaoke, and you felt embarrassed for fewer people than is usually the case. They showed sports on TV, but you couldn’t really call it a sports bar. Two pool tables lurked in the back room, host to a league night on Thursdays. You could smoke anywhere you wanted, strike up a conversation with all sorts of different people, get full, get loaded, and have a righteous ol’ time generally.
Then the owners, tired some said of their hectic lives, found a buyer and got out of the business. It happened over night.
A waitress said to me, “See that guy over there in the Aloha shirt? He’s the new owner.” As a regular, I was curious, and so went over and introduced myself. In return I got a limp handshake, and a snotty attitude. The guy didn’t give a shit, he was meeting one of his regular customers. Many of the other habitués complained of the same treatment.
And it got worse in a hurry.
First, he changed the menu. Said it cost too much to keep it supplied. Then he changed the beer selection, which had previously featured beverages from all over the world, to a bland assortment of watery American drool—he had made promotional deals with the distributors, you see. Right on the heels of that, he decreed that no waitress or bartender was to hand out free drinks. If they wanted to buy a customer a shot from their tips, that was fine, but freebies were right out. As a follow-up, he ruled that boyfriends and girlfriends of the staff were persona non grata when the staff was on duty. Over the next few weeks he cancelled the karaoke nights because he didn’t like them, he fired the chef for refusing to reuse yesterday’s fry oil, and he canned all but one of the waitresses and bartenders—all the good ones, of course. The one he kept was rude and lazy, but adhered to the new rules with malevolent gusto. He redecorated, removing the pictures of happy customers and other homey touches, replacing them with sports team and distillery neon. It had been his life-long wish, it was said, to own a real sports bar. He topped off the remodel with the installation of several plasma screen TVs, which he paid for by raising drink prices by a dollar each.
The long-time customers, some of whom had been drinking there for twenty years, were peeved and bolted in droves. The family diners found other destinations because the food now sucked. The college kids stopped coming because the place had lost its eclectic charm. Soon, all the owner had left were the stool-flies, guys who can nurse a single glass of beer for three hours, and always tip a quarter, never less never more.
He lost money by the bucketful.
I stopped by a few weeks ago, just because I was in the area and wanted a quick shot and a beer before work. I was the only customer in the place. The bartender, a surly kid with too many facial piercings, told me it’s always like this. I smiled, drank my booze, and left.
The new owner is a fool. Beyond that, he’s a know-it-all. He looked at a thriving business, thought he could make it better, and instead murdered it.
What a stooge.
Many of us drunkards want to be bar owners. When you decide to make the move, do it wisely.