Unhappy hour: are we burdening our bartenders?

TW: this story includes themes of grief and mental health

I loved a man once who introduced me to a lot of things. One of them was a Perfect Bulleit Rye Manhattan with an orange twist. After we broke up, he pestered me for the next 12 months. I yelled at him a lot during that time. In fact, the last thing I said to him was something like, “Stop with the fucking Star Wars fan art and fuck off.” Soon after that call, he died in a car crash.

I found out via text. I walked straight out of my office and into my local dive bar.

“A Perfect Bulleit Rye Manhattan, please,” I said with a face dripping in snot and tears.

In the long-standing tradition of bartenders the world over, the bartender approached me with a napkin and said, “You know, bartenders are better than therapists because we can listen and pour drinks.” And that’s precisely what he did. He mixed Manhattans while I off-loaded my grief.

For as long as there have been taverns, pubs, and watering holes, bartenders have been lending their ears to their patrons, whether it’s for harmless after-work venting or mourning the death of someone close. Our bartenders, especially those we build rapport with over many visits, have had to extend themselves far beyond the practical requirements of preparing a drink. They share the emotional burden of whatever it is we’re drinking to.

These acts of counterside therapy are not as infrequent as you might think. In the 1980s, Emory Cowen, an American psychologist and one of the early pioneers of mental health, released a paper called Bartenders as Informal, Interpersonal Help-Agents. The study proved that almost two in 10 patrons shared personal problems with their bartender.

“It’s a huge part of what we do,” says Matt Roberts of Heart Attack and Vine in Melbourne. “I’ve always seen bars as a space for people to use how they need, and it’s my job to be a soundboard for those people—free of judgment.”

Matt is not alone in his view that unburdening strangers from their troubles is an essential part of bartending. Mel Rose at Whisky and Alement (also in Melbourne), agrees, “If you can’t handle people telling you a little too much about their personal life or be an ear to someone in need, bartending might not be the job for you.”

Bartender wisdom is rare, fuelled by street smarts and not just academia, and because they’ve seen it all, there’s probably nothing you might tell them that will make them judge you too harshly. Like hairdressers and manicurists, they manage to occupy two equally important—and opposing— spaces simultaneously: friend and stranger. It results in the feeling that you can dump and run without the same responsibilities or constraints as the family dinner table.

It’s a dynamic so powerful that a pilot program in Ohio used bartenders to refer war veterans in their venues to mental health services. The hypothesis was that bartenders were better positioned than family members to spot signs of PTSD in their patrons and suggest some services that might help.

“Some veterans will tell things to bartenders that they wouldn't even tell their spouses or family," says Keith Anderson, lead author of the study and assistant professor of social work at Ohio State. “Given the closeness of the relationships, these bartenders are in a really great position to help these veterans, if they are given the right training and the right tools.”

There is no doubt that people behind the bar play a crucial role in their community. The question is, how well is the community supporting them in return? Is it a healthy relationship where both sides are valued and respected, or are patrons pushing the limits of what should be considered good customer service?

“When I worked at Bar Americano, which had room for 10 people, I had a lot of regulars, and they were comfortable telling me almost everything from adultery to going broke and quitting jobs,” says Matt. “It’s a double-edged sword, humans tend to get too comfortable with the space and then overstep the boundaries.”

According to a study by Mental Health America, people in the food and beverage industry experience higher instances of stress, depression, anxiety, and sleep problems.

“During the restrictions of Covid, it was pretty awful the way I was treated.” Mel is referring to a two-year period wherein she was the subject of regular verbal abuse from patrons as she managed the venue’s capacity limits. “One night, I had to take a moment in the kitchen, do some deep breathing, center myself, and remind myself that I am a good person who is loved.”

Post COVID conditions have improved for Mel, and she says she feels psychologically safe at work (for the most part), “Not every night is pure bliss, but I’m very thankful that I work in a small space with a supportive team and lovely guests.”

While it may be tempting to say that keeping your shit to yourself is the only way to ensure we keep our beloved bartenders safe, the answer might be more nuanced. “Of course, there’s a line or boundaries that you personally have to have, however, to have a positive effect on someone’s evening is by far the best part of the job,” says Matt.