Some nights, I walk into work with my head held high. I know I’m good at what I do: fast hands, a solid pour, a memory like a steel trap. I know my cocktails are balanced, my regulars come back for me, and I’ve trained new staff who’ve gone on to manage their own bars.
But even on those nights, there’s always a voice in the back of my head whispering, ‘You still have to prove it.’ Because being a Black woman behind the bar means your excellence is rarely assumed; it has to be undeniable.
Bartending in London is wild. It’s vibrant, it’s gritty, it’s full of life. But it’s also a minefield when you’re not what people expect. I’ve had customers ask if I’m the waitress when I’m standing behind the bar, shaker in hand. I’ve been asked if I’m “helping out for the night” as if this couldn’t possibly be my job. I’ve had people correct me on drink specs. And the worst part? It’s not even surprising anymore. You just learn to grin, correct them politely, and keep it moving.