At Bemelmans at 3 pm with Abdul

Today in New York, the humidity was 95 percent and everything smelled like damp. The subway stalled and a man in my car lit a joint and we were collectively hotboxed. An aura of gross swept over the city and I was not spared. I was sweaty and disheveled and a bit too sad. Some days in the city feel so lonely you think you’re going to implode. You can’t get a text back. You get scary news from a doctor and your family is 2000 miles away. You lose an airpod down the sewer grate and the world passes you by. This was also the day I was to profile a bartender at Bemelmans Bar. The bar lives inside the Hotel Carlyle, on East 76th and Madison Avenue, The Plaza for established elites who don’t need the flash of the Plaza.

At Bemelmans Bar, it is always evening. Marimba plays soft and slow. It smells of good cologne. The walls are covered in Ludwig Bemelmans’ charming and playful illustrations, cast in golden gooey beautiful light—it is honey, it is champagne. It is how I like to imagine everywhere in the city looked in the forties. A place that for 75 years has hosted the likes of Ingrid Bergman and Liza Minelli, Paul McCartney is a known regular. Now there would bean unkempt NYU student (hi) lurking in its hallowed corners.

It’s heaven inside. And if this is heaven then Abdul Rashid, resident of Queens, father of two, tender of bar, must be Saint Peter.

It was 12:53 pm and Abdul was preparing various mojito mixes and barbacks were cutting up citrus. I am here an hour earlier than expected but he doesn’t miss a beat. He outstretches a big hand: “Hello Ms. Annie!” He has large brown eyes and square, silver glasses. The red, crisp lines of his coat contrast his ovular bald head. He is lines and angles and circles, and a joy to witness as he sets bottles and napkins just so. Behind him are illuminated shelves of martini, bourbon, wineglasses, untouched by tonight’s imminent crowds. The glasses look like they belong in a commercial for Dawn and Abdul looks like he belongs in Hello, Dolly!  

He leans against the bar, “What do you want to know?” He must be in his late fifties, with a light, warm voice and an accent that can’t quite be placed. He tells me he was born in Bangladesh. I look down and a bowl of fancy nuts, fancy pretzels, fancy cheese things, has appeared. Not once during my entire time here do I ever see the bottom of a bowl or a water glass only half filled.

I feel guilty for disturbing the inner workings of a machine that is clearly well-oiled. “If one thing falls behind,” he tells me “that's it!” He has a flair for the dramatic. “I have been here fifteen years,” he proclaims, “and I am the rookie!”

I sit around and watch for about an hour. Abdul converses with the kitchen staff, tends to the ninety-year-olds in for dinner, and continues to prep the bar, wiping the bar table in large swoops, setting out his cocktail shaker, his strainer. It is eerie to see such an iconic room so quiet. I resolve that further research will need to be done once cocktail hour strikes.

It is 4:30 pm and I return. The aura is now more akin to a theater before the lights go down. Abdul has reserved a front-row seat for me to watch him work, though he explains tome that you “don't just work here”. He has worked his way up through restaurants in the city and done so while raising a family. It is rare to encounter a bartender with so gentle a disposition. He is proud of his work but not showy. There were other bartenders working who were full of flash, they were delightful too. But the Abdul’s steadfast hospitality to each and every patron was a marvel. How had he managed to shine his light on all of us? From my seat by the register the whole bar is visible. Folks are trickling in, dressed up in their best, in awe of the sanctity of the space. The first timers stumble past the regulars at the bar. I ask Abdul his favorite drink and he makes me an Old Cuban. “Annie, Annie, Annie,” he singsongs as he crafts the most beautiful drink I have ever drank and walks me through each step. “I can eyeball everything unless there is ice, then I must measure.” I have never liked rum drinks but I feel as though I am drinking in a sea at sunset, dancing, light, summery, fresh. An older gentleman sits down across the bar and is greeted with a “longtime, no see!” A couple sits down next to me, trepidatious. Abdul shows them the menu and tells them about the artwork on the walls, and the history of the bar and the hotel, and makes them a drink, somehow all in under a minute. A European couple complains about a lack of salt around the rim of a drink, and I don't know how one can add salt to a finished drink, but I look over and there sits a thickly coated rim. Abdul is light on his feet and quick too. He reminds me of the ball in a Plinko machine. Back and forth, across the bar and around the restaurant, always in your line of view but never in the same spot--dazzling the whole time.

A quick Google search for Mr. Rashid shows finds him in the background of plenty of New York Times pieces profiling Bemelmans’ notable guests, and the recent resurgence of the bar. He tells me the thing he loves the most about working here is that it is “unchanging”. He himself is a timeless figure. Perhaps he makes for a poor profile, he is busy and all he really wants to talk about his job, but to spend time chatting with Abdul as he works is to understand why Bemelmans still matters.

I worked as a barback for three months once. I worked as a barista for six at a VC-ified coffee shop. Things move too fast and cost too much for a spot like Bemelmans to ever be  convenient to most of us, least of all a college student, but how special and rare are the people who keep such places alive. The institutions we hold so dear are sustained by institutional memory, by attention in an age in which attention is commodified.  Bemelmans has bartenders on staff who have served upwards of forty years. They commit to memory names and favorite drinks, and always know how to dress and groom, and know how to treat all customers, no matter how uncultivated (hi), with dignity and warmth. It's difficult to find spots and experiences that feel special these days—to feel cared for is a scarce good. It requires a dedication to service, it requires deep emotional labor. There were plenty of us sitting alone at the bar, plenty of people who were so old they must have already lived at the Carlyle because I can't imagine they traveled here. Abdul gave us all smiles and asked us all about our days, mint garnishes atop. He knows where he works is exceptional, and that knowledge is what makes Abdul exceptional.

When I left, it was 6:01 and I was drunk. I had sat by myself for an hour and a half and dropped $70 that I didn't have. I left the bar feeling myself a sophisticate when it is likely that I resembled a baby giraffe. Right before I left, Abdul told me I was always welcome and shook my hand once more. It was enchanting.