Sometimes I wonder if it is truthful to call yourself a bartender if you have never worked at a late-night bar.

Those bars downtown that close at 3 a.m., with you going home at 4 or 5 depending on the level of destruction left behind.

The sweaty, sticky, violent, and tear-filled rawness that comes with it.

The women lost in between the alcohol and their wants, fighting with their own self-esteem.

The men wishfully buying them drinks for the price of a conversation that will feed their egos or maybe feed some other urgent desire.

Maybe a hazy encounter closer to sunrise. Romance seems more genuine when everything is a bit blurry.

The people who think “I was drunk, my bad” excuses anything… smearing bodily fluids and solids on bathroom walls. Destroying property. Seeking people just for a fight, provoking them to later claim self-defense.

Audacious and cowardly insanity.

Visceral truth at every corner.

Let’s be real. I haven’t worked in the trenches. I haven’t had to break up fights, be called a dumb bitch or a slut when cutting someone off, had glass thrown at me, gotten groped, or seen the sunrise while going home completely exhausted and depleted.

I have seen it. I haven’t touched it or tasted it.

I have infinite respect for those who have.

My bartender career has been pretty vanilla in comparison. Months of education on mixology, wine tastings, and complex fine dining cuisine.

Nothing nitty-gritty.

So this level of burnout and paralysis that took over me the past three months seems unjustified. But it happened. I traversed the high-end food industry job market, arriving at a new place every corner I turned. First filled with exhaustion and anxiety, then letting go of the fear.

The fear of not having a stable job. Of not being valued and appreciated. Of not having a job tomorrow. The fear of not being loved.

Twelve years of bartending experience means nothing.

After working five years at one place, it feels like getting divorced and having to relearn everything: go on dates, flirt, smile constantly (cringe). Wear your most charming personality (dust that b*tch off) and convince everyone you are spectacular.

Convince yourself as well while you’re at it.

If you get bullied, observe first, then become an educated bully.

Survive.

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Where have I been?

I arrived at the most beautiful bar in Savannah: Husk.

Marble top, grandiose ballroom, high ceilings, chandeliers. Offerings of $150 Osetra caviar and $160 steaks.

I didn’t even know Savannah had these kinds of places. People will come in wearing flip-flops and a T-shirt and spend a thousand dollars between two people, nonchalantly.

The rich don’t give a f*ck. They blend in unsuspectingly, flash you a smile, and worry about living their own best lives.

Makes me think… if I ever achieve that level of wealth, would I splurge on $1k dinners? I don’t know. A week in Italy eating handmade pastas and drinking wine at small local joints sounds far more appealing.

Maybe this is their Italy.

Like most of my peers, I visited Husk before simply for the stunning space and the happy hour — had some luxury sips and bites and left. Never got past the menu to the list of wine reserves.

But in my six weeks of working there, people went directly to that list. They eat and drink it. They demand it. They expect it.

I have never felt as lonely as I did in those weeks. It is amazing how sometimes you can arrive at a place and make a good friend in a day, in an instant moment, with a smile.

Other times, making a friend seems impossible. After every shift, I was desperate for a glass of wine, a very cheesy 80s movie, and a hug.

Many nights I sent my hubby a text pleading: “Love. Can you make it to the store and grab some wine? I really need a glass after this shift.”

I’d never felt that in 12 years in the industry. Desperate for a glass? Sheesh. What a mental wreck.

I look back and I don’t recognize her. Who was she? What is left of her? Why did she give away every ounce of herself?

It is amazing how sometimes the stress and isolation you feel in a place keeps you in a constant daze where you can’t even define the emotions that envelop you.

After leaving, I went to explore more beauty: Circa 1875.

Every corner adorned with baroque French posters and art pieces. A Tiffany-style lamp hanging in the center.

Butter-layered decadence.

Butter over butter over butter.

Foie gras and escargot and moules frites.

Champagne flowing at every corner.

Nobody was stiff here. Everything flowed. Smiles, laughs, crème brûlée, more butter.

Nobody cares if you are rich. There are no mandatory emails at the end of the night stating, “Which significant person visited this evening? Why are they significant? What do they own? What defines them as VIPs?”

There are no scales to measure how many ounces are left in a bottle of tequila.

Everything seems a little more real.

If I get pinched, I’m happy to still be there.

If castles are built on money and reputation and just the “adequate level of smiling,” I’d rather watch it all burn from the ground up.

At the moment, I’m not taking a break — I’m still in it, just serving instead of bartending. Many have judged this as demoting myself, of taking a step backwards, but I see it as shifting focus.

Just strolling in, doing my job, and leaving. Not coming in two or three hours early to prep and juice, mix, or shrub. Not staying later than I need to, entertaining late-night bar guests.

I would love to ultimately leave the service industry and fully focus on the magical aspect of it: the drinks, the food, the laughter, the cozy warm light, the flavors, the creative side.

How would I fully leave it and focus on all of this? By writing about it full-time, but with the perspective of having shed sweat and blood for it for a third of my life.

Also, by sharing my best bar recipes online for others to enjoy at home.

Stay tuned for different things to come.

Love always,

Vanessa