The Story
So there I was, twelve years ago, stepping off the slow ferry with a guitar case, a duffel bag, and a plan. One summer bartending on Nantucket. Just long enough to pay off my amp, save a little cash, and get back to Brooklyn for my "big break." I'd been playing jazz clubs in the Village for three years, sleeping on couches, convinced fame was right around the corner.
The big break never came. Something better did.
That first summer, I worked at The Club Car. The piano bar, the tourists, the late nights. Somewhere between learning to make a proper martini and watching my hundredth sunset over the harbor, I stopped checking the ferry schedule. Stopped thinking about Brooklyn. Started thinking about staying.
The Education
An old-timer named Gus taught me the classics. He'd been bartending on Nantucket since the 70s—knew every drink in the book and a few that weren't. He made me practice Manhattans until I could make one in my sleep. "A bartender who can't make the classics isn't a bartender," he said. "He's just someone who pours."
The wine folks at Greydon House schooled me on terroir—taught me that where something comes from matters as much as what it is. And Randy Hudson at Cisco Brewers showed me what happens when you make spirits with actual soul. When he let me taste Notch single malt for the first time, aged in their own beer barrels, I understood what local really meant.
"Triple Eight makes this possible. Don't let anyone tell you island spirits are just marketing."
The Philosophy
Every drink I've invented came from a mistake, a dare, or a Tuesday night that got out of hand. That's not a joke—it's actually true. The Grey Lady Martini? Wine shortage at the Club Car. The Sankaty Light? Made it for a pregnant regular who wanted to feel included. The Fog Cutter? Ferry was delayed four hours and people were getting restless.
A cocktail should tell a story. Otherwise it's just cold booze in a fancy glass. When you order one of my drinks, you're getting the drink—but you're also getting the tale of how it came to be. Half my job is mixing. The other half is talking.
"The best drinks are made with what's around you. On Nantucket, what's around you is pretty spectacular."
Island Convert
People ask if I miss Brooklyn. I tell them I miss the pizza. The jazz clubs, sometimes. But you can't make a Fog Cutter in Brooklyn. You can't watch the sun set over Madaket from a rooftop in Williamsburg. You can't bike to a brewery that makes vodka from their own well water.
Nantucket chose me. I stayed through my first winter—that's when you know. Helped a neighbor move his boat out of the water. Learned where the good clams are. Started recognizing faces at the grocery store. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a wash-ashore and became whatever you call a Nantucketer who wasn't born here but isn't leaving.
The guitar? Still have it. Play it sometimes at Cisco when they let me. But the amp is paid off and the big break doesn't matter anymore. This is the break. I just didn't know it when I got here.
