Sarah Morrissey has been a fixture of New York’s bartending scene for more than 15 years, helming the cocktail programs at some of the best bars and restaurants in the city. Before her current role as bar manager at the celebrated Le Veau d’Or, a 1930s bistro recently reopened by chefs Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson, she worked at Frenchette, Ernesto’s, Dear Irving and Dutch Kills, among others. Here, Morrissey shares why, at this stage in her career, she went in pursuit of a job at a chain restaurant.
—Chloe Frechette, executive editor, Punch
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I’ve worked most of my adult life in bars and restaurants. Growing up in New Jersey, my first job was behind the counter at the local Dairy Queen, dumping twist cones in multicolored sprinkles and mixing up hundreds of Blizzards for braces-clad Little Leaguers. I jumped at the chance to work at Il Palazzo pizza shop, slinging slices and fountain Cokes. I was soon promoted to cater waiter—wearing black pants and a white button-down, sometimes even white gloves—at their event space on the second floor. Think weddings, Sweet 16s and retirement parties set to a soundtrack of Frank Sinatra. I was a host at Chili’s off of Route 23 right before the Willowbrook Mall. I loved watching the bartenders make huge batches of Margarita mix out of water and green powder, and spying on the servers arguing over who got the better section.
In 2008, I moved to New York City, something I had always dreamed of doing. I worked in Irish bars, dives, coffee shops, no-name restaurants, anything I could do to scrape by. I went through countless pairs of Converse before I could afford Danskos. I spent a long time barbacking, carving ice, making syrups, cutting garnishes, hauling Kold-Draft and pebble ice up and down stairs. We got into arguments about the freshness of juice and spent hours tasting every brand of rye on the market. It was the second Golden Age of cocktails and I belonged to a group of nerds who cared only about improving the drinking experiences of everyone we served. I was fairly certain my days working at chain restaurants were behind me.
A lot’s changed since 2008. I might not be able to do Fernet shots like I used to, but I’ve become a very precise bartender who knows when guests want to be taken care of and, more importantly, when they want to be left alone. I proudly work at one of the most celebrated French restaurants in the city. So why was I now, at this point in my career, seriously considering working in a chain restaurant?
I should clarify that this is not just any chain. It’s not TGI Fridays or Applebee’s. It’s Hillstone, a group of restaurants that has been operating in a select few American cities since 1977. Sometimes it travels under different names, but the menus are, for the most part, deliciously familiar. There’s sushi, burgers and steaks, salmon and ribs, and of course the famous Spinach & Artichoke dip. The wine list is small and mainly from California, with not a single orange or pét-nat in sight. And the bartenders can make a mean drink—they don’t jigger, they roll their drinks and shake their Martinis with no vermouth. It is one of the hardest reservations to get in the city, right up there with Carbone, because people love this place. At the end of the day, however, it’s still a chain.
“You still do it the restaurant’s way, even if your way is better.”
But I took the recruiter’s call. When they asked me, “Why do you want to work here?” I thought about it for a minute and said, “I want a reliable future, I want stability, I want something new.” They start their managers off with 90K a year, full benefits and PTO. There is upward mobility, help with retirement funds, the option to move to different states and work with different teams. If you want to be a bartender, you have to work a minimum of a year on the floor to be able to be a part of the bar team. You have to prove yourself.
When the time came for me to trail, I put on my first-day “manager outfit”—loose-fitting black pants, black shirt and blazer, liquid black eyeliner and a not-too-bold lip. Part of being a [front-of-house] manager at Hillstone is also managing the [back of house] and the kitchen. I had never heard of this. In all the restaurants I have worked, chefs are the kings and FOH has no jurisdiction with them. There is a kitchen manager, but the GM is also at the pass calling the tickets the way a chef would, just like I’ve seen in classic French restaurants. But here, each morning, the opening manager meets with the kitchen manager and tastes every single sauce, dressing, garnish and a few dishes together, to ensure that they are made perfectly and exactly the same. I got to taste with the chef that day; I spent 2.5 hours following him around and helping open the restaurant. I cut onions, segmented grapefruit, portioned out ribs and tried my hand at filleting salmon.
The restaurant finally opened and there I was: cutting bread, flipping burgers, rubbing sauce on the ribs I had just placed on the grill and calling back orders. I was actually working the line, watching the GM run the pass, the bartenders shake drinks and the servers run their own food. I knew this was a test and I was definitely passing, but shouldn’t I spend more time on the floor? I didn’t get paid for my trail, but I did get a free lunch at the bar. I ordered the sandwich that I love so much and an iced tea. I asked to look at their beverage list, some light reading while I ate, and realized that they had a Paper Plane on the menu; some mixology snuck in. I watched the bartenders make rookie mistakes, but treat their guests with genuine kindness. Most of the FOH had never worked in another restaurant before. They only worked at this chain—they only wanted to work at this chain. The GM asked me if I thought I would be able to fit myself into a restaurant that had very specific rules and standards: “You still do it the restaurant’s way, even if your way is better,” he told me.
I learned a lot that day—above all, that I don’t want to work in a chain restaurant. I’ve spent too much time learning about cocktails, spirits, wine and food, and that hunger to learn and improve won’t ever go away. I could never be the best version of myself there, just fragments of myself. But the fact remains that I’m almost 40 and there is not that much I can show for myself in the way of normal adult life. I don’t own 3 percent of any bar, I don’t have a podcast, I’m not consulting on a project in Tulum, I don’t have my own canned cocktail—shit, I don’t actually own anything. I work service in one restaurant five days, 50-plus hours a week. But I do run my own cocktail program and am an integral part of the management team. Will these long hours of sacrifice and work making other people’s dreams come true be worth it? I’m not sure, but I know I’m going to work my ass off to make my customers happy. If I can deliver the same way that Hillstone artichoke dip does, I’ve won.
Photo Credit: Liz Hafalia/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images
