“A Lot of Stuff Happened to Me by Accident” — My Coffee with Murray Stenson

Photo Credit: Dan Crawford, Zig Zag Cafe

At virtually any cocktail joint in the world, a person can belly up to the bar and order a Last Word cocktail, and for that, and many other things, you can thank Murray Stenson.

By most accounts that I can find, this unique recipe of equal parts gin, green Chartreuse, maraschino liqueur, and lime juice was first introduced to the bar manager at the Detroit Athletic Club in Michigan by a traveling vaudeville comedian named Frank Fogarty, better known in his circles as the ‘Dublin Minstrel’, who often performed at nearby venues. And though apparently popular with the locals, the Last Word went largely unnoticed outside of Detroit, at least until Ted Saucier, the public relations manager for the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan, published the recipe in his cocktail book Bottoms Up! in 1951.

Despite being a published recipe, however, not a whole lot is known about the Last Word in the latter half of the 20th century. Like many other prohibition era cocktails in that time it’s likely to have languished in obscurity, where it would stay until 2003 when Murray Stenson, the head bartender at the Zig Zag Café in Seattle stumbled on the curious recipe in a dusty old copy of Bottoms Up.

“A bar down the street copied Zig Zag’s menu. Drink for drink. Word for word.” Murray tells me over coffee. “So we started looking for drinks that included the kinds of alcohol that other bars probably didn’t carry. Chartreuse? Okay. We’ve got some of that. Maraschino liqueur? We were maybe the one bar in all of Washington that had a bottle at the time.” His interest piqued, he mixed the recipe for himself and was impressed at how the flavors merged together in a sort of bombastic, semi-sweet, crisp, citrusy, and herbaceous chorus. A recipe that read like it shouldn’t work turned out to be a pleasant surprise. “I found the Last Word, tried it out and oh, baby!” He tells me through a mirthful grin.

The Last Word went on to become a staple on the menu at Zig Zag and after a few years, especially with the rise of cocktail blogging, the Last Word and Murray became synonymous with each other within the industry. As we discuss his history and relationship with the Last Word, Murray just shrugs. Reflecting the characteristic calm and blue-collar humility that has made him Seattle’s most beloved and iconic bartender, he simply tells me: “I got famous on someone else’s drink. That’s about it.”

*****

Murray was born in 1949 in the town of Colville, a small, very conservative town of about 5,500 people in eastern Washington. “Well… I’m telling everyone it was 1969.” He tells me through his characteristically amused chuckle. “Because I’m feeling 20 years younger.” The son of a grade school principle, Wayne, and a house-wife, Eileen, Murray’s early years, as he tells it, were uneventful and boring.

In 1961, due to what Murray describes as some “political upheaval” within the Colville school system, his father found himself moving the family westward, finding work as an educator in the city of Kirkland. Wayne, a World War Two Army Air Corps veteran, who had spent his tour in the Pacific Theatre, was a stoic, caring, and beloved school administrator. Upon his exit from Colville, a score of his fellow teachers left in solidarity, many of them following him to Kirkland. “It was really something” Murray recalls. “But that was my dad. He was an impressive guy.”

Kirkland in the 1960’s was a mostly blue-collar town with pockets of old money. “The rich kids went to Bellevue High, and the rest of us went to Lake Washington.” Murray recalls. The hippie culture of Haight-Ashbury was beginning to take shape, but had not yet fully become realized, and certainly not in a blue-collar town east of Seattle. “I couldn’t even handle the marijuana that was available at the time, let alone the psychedelics that were getting popular. I had a friend, one of the funniest guys I ever knew who completely blew his mind on acid. He just ended up a vegetable. So no,” he insists, “I never got into drugs. I didn’t even have my first beer until I was 20. I was totally boring.”

Murray graduated high school in 1967 and like almost any American teen at the time, he had resigned himself to getting drafted into the Vietnam War, which had entering its third year with little sign of coming to an end. But either by dumb luck or some martini-swilling guardian angel, the draft never came.

Aimless and unsure of what to do with his life, Murray signed up at Shoreline Community College in 1968, but ultimately did not to transfer to a four-year university, choosing instead trying his luck in the job market. He landed his first job as a shoe salesman at a small JC Penney’s shoe store in Kirkland. “I hated it. Hated it. I only lasted a couple of months.” He says with a subtle hint of annoyance. He left the shoe store and, over the years, worked a number of forgettable jobs. After drifting here and there, he finally found himself working the service bar at an upscale restaurant in Bellevue called Benjamins.

Back in the 1970’s, finding a job in a restaurant was a very different task than it is today. Larger corporate restaurants were just beginning to build up around the Seattle metro area, and there was a deep deficit of talented labor. “You could quit one place, then go next door and get a job. It was a revolving door of employment” He tells me.

It was at Benjamins where the story of Murray the Bartender began, and according to him, it was “totally by accident.” As Murray tells it, he just stopped in to see if they were filling any positions. The bar manager just pointed at him and said: “You! You’re a bartender.” And that was that.

Benjamins was a unique restaurant in the sense that it did not actually have a customer facing bar. Murray was given a few shifts behind the “service bar”, an area where a bartender makes drinks but does not ever interact with any guests. “That was where I built out the real mechanics of being a bartender.” He tells me. “What does my right hand do? What does my left hand do? It helped me develop sense of space behind a bar.” These learned mechanics would work out well for Murray, who later became affectionately known as “Mur the Blur”, largely due to his lightning fast reflexes and efficiency while working behind the bar. “That was all Benjamins.” He says.

It was also at Benjamins that Murray met his first wife, a single mother of two. When she got fired from Benjamins, Murray walked out in solidarity with her. Shortly after, the bar manager at a new hot spot in Seattle, Henry’s Off Broadway, recognized Murray from Benjamins and hired them both immediately. Henry’s was a mammoth restaurant and oyster bar on Belmont & Olive Way on Capitol Hill, owned and operated by the Schwartz Brothers restaurant group. It was designed in full 1930’s art deco aesthetic, with a sprawling bar top and a live piano bar. “It was beautiful,” he reminisces, “I get teary-eyed whenever I walk by that old space.”

His time at Henry’s was Murray’s first real foray into customer-facing bartending. And though his days at Benjamins may have taught him the mechanics of tending bar, it did not prepare him for tending to actual customers. “Here I was, this young guy with a huge inferiority complex, and for the first time, I was thrust into a room full of 150 people that I had to not just make drinks for, I had to talk to them!” He laughs. “Seriously! It took me six months just to shake off the nerves and get comfortable serving people. Eventually, I figured it out. I was good. Henry’s was a lot like finishing school for me. I really polished my skills.”

*****

Murray, on Finding his Swagger: One of his favorite stories from the “old days” is from the beginning of his time at Henry’s Off Broadway: “I was still new and hadn’t gotten past my inferiority complex quite yet. There was this guy, a real big shot, out to spend some money and have a good time. He came into the bar with a blonde and a brunette. They grabbed some seats at the bar and all I could do was slide a coaster over and sheepishly say: “Can I get you a drink mister?” I mean, I couldn’t even look him in the eye!”

“But they all stay at the bar, and after a few rounds the guy hands me his credit card. I take note of his last name; Summa, like summa cum laude. It was such a unique name, and he was a fun guy to be around.” He continues. “I just committed it to memory. And so, this guy comes back six months later, and by that time, I’m getting smooth…”

As he says this, Murray flashes a self-assured grin, and gestures with a flat hand, palm down, that he slides over the coffee table. “Smoo-oo-ooth.”

“He walks up to the bar, and I say: “Welcome back Mr. Summa. Can I get you another Chivas on the rocks?” And he was just stunned. He says to me: “I’m from Chicago, I’ve only been here once, six months ago. How on earth did you remember me?” And I just smiled. I had really come out of my shell.”

*****

Murray married his girlfriend from Benjamins shortly after starting at Henry’s. They only stayed together for about two years and ended in a messy divorce. “Ooof,” He says. “Yeah, that was ugly. Not as ugly as the second divorce, but it was ugly.”

In the early 1980’s, Murray found himself working at Oliver’s, the bar at the Mayflower Park Hotel. He had hit his stride as a bartender. “I realized that you could make a lot more money as a bartender when your customers actually like you.” He laughs. “I learned how to build a regular clientele and by the 80’s, I was feeling pretty good.”

He had also met and married his second wife. “Married in ‘82 and divorced in ‘85.” He says. They had two children together, a boy and a girl. “I had sex twice! It was great!” He quips, before taking a more serious tone. “But in all honesty, I’m glad the kids were so young, about 19 months, and 6 months, when we got divorced. They were too young to remember how much of a disaster that was. It got nasty… I got nasty. She got nasty. I wasn’t much of a drinker normally, but I drank heavily in those days. It was one of the worst points in my life.”

The divorce, as divorce often does, ultimately created a long-lasting schism between Murray and his kids. And though he and his daughter, a schoolteacher, are closer now that she is older, he admits his regrets over having missed a lot of their lives. “In those days especially, you know, the kids went with the mom.” He says matter-of-factly. “That’s just how it was. I just kept on working and sending money, but we were never really able to heal the relationships. Yeah, I really regret a lot of that.”

And though his personal life in the 1980’s was tumultuous, he was able to turn to bartending and the familial community that is especially unique to the hospitality industry. He jumped from place to place and gig to gig for a few years. “I worked a lot.” He tells me. “Bartending kept me sane. I did a couple years at Oliver’s, a couple at the original Daniel’s Broiler in Leschi, a couple at Ray’s Boathouse, and what not.” He says. “I’d always keep some steady nights if I was able. But that was bartending in the 80’s. It was very different than it is today. You just went where the money was.”

*****

Murray, on Drugs: The 1980’s was a decade unlike any other. Ronald Reagan, a former actor, turned Governor of California, became President. Radio, once controlled by disco and punk rock, had been conquered by hair metal and synth pop. Gordon Gekko claimed that “Greed is good” in Wall Street and Tom Cruise became a barman poet in Cocktail. The era of big hair and bright colors was in full effect, and cocaine was de rigueur of big city nightlife.

“Yeah, I worked at a couple of the bigger coke bars in the 80’s. But it was never my thing.” He insists. “These dealers would be around, doing their business and what not. They would usually tip me in coke. But frankly, I would have rather just had the money. So, I would just give it to other coworkers who wanted it, or my friend Joe, who I used to work with. He would come in, and I’d slide him a baggie every now and then.”

“Eventually” Murray continues. “He had to go to rehab. I asked him a few years ago. “Joe, do you miss the old days?” And he told me, “Oh yeah, and the best stuff I ever got was the stuff you gave me for free!”

“Personally though,” Murray shrugs, “if I had $150 to spend on something, I’d rather buy some records or something. Drugs always seemed like such a waste.”

*****

As the 1980’s came to a close, Murray, then 41 years old and long divorced, had decided to finally find some solid ground. He found that stability at Il Bistro, an established restaurant that was already a staple in Seattle’s historic Pike Place Market. Murray first stepped behind the bar at Il Bistro in 1990 and spent the next decade of his life there.

The bar crowd during Murrays first years at “the Bistro” was bleak. The restaurant had a great dinner crowd, but the restaurant was mostly empty after 10pm. “It was a ghost town,” he tells me, “but you know, that’s bartending. It gave me a real chance to build up that clientele.”

And so, year by year, guest by guest, Murray, utilizing his trademark hospitality, photographic memory, deep knowledge of obscure cocktails, and unassuming, friendly conversation, built up the bar crowed to such a point that they were forced to change their closing time from 10pm to 2am. “Boy,” he tells me, “by the end of my time at the Bistro, we were just buzzing from open to close. We had a great regular crowd, a great staff, and were really cooking. It was a great time to be a bartender.”

Murray enjoyed a successful decade at Il Bistro. He had wooed his growing cache of clientele through his affability and expertise, as well as a focus on building the back bar from something average into a well curated selection of single malts and obscure Italian Amari. “It was an unusual thing, at the time. We smuggled in some stuff from Italy, we found a good clientele that wanted some higher end Scotch. It worked for us.”

Among his numerous customers was a man named Robert Hess. Hess, a Microsoft executive and cocktail enthusiast, had just started a website called Drinkboy.com. In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, a website that focused on classic cocktails was an absolutely novel idea, and to his credit, Robert knew his stuff.

One night in early 2000, Robert popped in to Il Bistro for a drink and grabbed a seat at the very end of the bar. “You must like that stool,” Murray told him as he handed him an Old-Fashioned Cocktail. “That’s where you sat last time.” Robert, a self-styled connoisseur of bartenders, was happily surprised. In fact, he had sat in that exact same stool a year earlier, and he had ordered an Old-Fashioned. From that day on, Robert became an evangelist, evangelizing the legend of Murray Stenson to anyone who would listen.

“There’s a trick to that,” Murray laughs. “See, at Il Bistro, and later on at Zig Zag, we had so many regulars, folks coming in anywhere between two to four days a week. I got to know everybody; they were like family. So, when a new person came in, they stuck out like a sore thumb. They were easier to remember in that situation. Especially the interesting ones.”

*****

Murray, on Film: “I love those older movies where not only the lead actors but also the character actors are real characters. Casablanca is my favorite. That movie has the most quoted dialogue of any movie in history for a reason. The script was so good. The acting was so good. The setting was so timely. There are so many good lines in that movie.”

“Plus” he adds, “you can’t mess with Bogie. I mean, he was just the best.” He takes a sip of his coffee and says to himself in a happy remark: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine… man, that’s a good line.”

*****

February 14th, 2001 was Murray last day at Il Bistro. His celebrated tenure had come to an abrupt end.

For the first time since Murray had taken over the bar, the owners decided to restrict the restaurant to reservations-only for the evening. Murray was working that night and a young couple who had shared their first date at his bar, only a year earlier, wanted to come in and have a glass of champagne on their anniversary. But the owner, set on his reservation policy, refused to let them in.

“These kids had been coming in maybe 3 or 4 times a week for a year, and this guy, who never works the host desk, decides to say no? They even offered to stand and sip their champagne, and he still said no. Are you kidding me?”

“So, I scolded him,” he recalls, “just let these kids in, I said. But no, he was set in his way. And that was when I decided to turn in my keys. That was it. I worked the shift and didn’t come back.”

Murray told the couple of his displeasure of their treatment, and his intention to quit. Ever the gracious host, he recommended that they head to the Zig Zag Café, a cocktail bar that had just opened lower down in the market.

Unknown to Murray at the time, the couple took Murray’s advice. While at the Zig Zag they told their bartender, who was also one of the owners, all about their experience that night: “You’ll never guess what Murray’s gonna do at the end of the night.”

The next day, the owners of Zig Zag offered him a job. All in all, Murray was unemployed for about 12 hours.

*****

Murray’s Thirty Year Regular: With a name that sounds like something straight out of a Raymond Chandler novel, Al Noriega, a retired graphic artist, followed Murray for his entire career, starting at Henry’s in 1978, all the way to his last shift at Kaname, a small Japanese restaurant in Seattle’s international district, where he tended bar until 2018.

“I hit it off with Al through our mutual love of jazz music. This was the 70’s, way before smart phones. Al and another regular were both pretty twisted and getting into a heated argument about who wrote the song, Take the A Train.”

Al had insisted that it was Duke Ellington, the famous composer and band leader of the Jazz era, but the other guest insisted that it was Billy Strayhorn, longtime friend and collaborator of Ellington’s.

“It was Strayhorn.” Murray chuckles. “Al was so mad at me when I had to tell him that. But he got over it. And for thirty years, he would sit at whatever bar I was working, drinking his Johnny Walker Black on the rocks, with a twist. What more could you ask for from a regular?”

*****

The Zig Zag Café was co-owned by two veteran bartenders: Ben Dougherty and Kacy Fitch. Murray knew the both of them from when they were bar backs and burgeoning young bartenders. They had sat at his bar many times over the years and, like most every other bartender who ever sat at Murray’s bar, they became enamored with the skill, humility, and charisma that Murray brought to bartending.

In the early 2000’s, bartending was just beginning to get viewed as more than just a job. It was a craft. To some, it was an art form. “It was a weird transition.” He says. “For 20 years, nobody really paid attention to how I did things. They only cared that I did them. You know, I treated my guests well, I had regulars, bartending had been good to me… but it was a few years into Zig Zag, and, I think, the growth of online cocktail culture, that things really came off the rails. For me, it was always a trade. It was what I did for a living, and I was always proud of it.”

The early years at the Zig Zag were a lot like the first years at Il Bistro. Building the clientele one by one, new regular by new regular. “I remember spending those first years reassuring the young owners. Listen…” He would say, “We rang $150 tonight. Last week was $75. We doubled our sales in a week. We’ll be OK.”

There’s a certain cliché, amusing and even a little romantic, in the idea of a 50-something year old veteran bartender comforting a young bar owner. “But we got through it.” Murray tells me. “Zig Zag was the little bar that could. We always knew it would take off, and boy did it ever!”

Over the course of the first 10 years of operation the Zig Zag Café became one of the leading bars, not just in Seattle, but across the whole country. Bartenders and enthusiasts from New York and San Francisco, two cities where cocktail culture was really beginning to build, would come to Seattle, just to get a drink from Murray Stenson, the famous bartender at the Zig Zag Café. Suffice it to say, Murray had developed quite a reputation for himself.

In 2010, Murray was informed that he had been nominated for “America’s Best Bartender” at Tales of the Cocktail, a popular industry convention in New Orleans. To anyone else, this prestigious award would have been a meaningful representation of a long career, well rewarded; a mantle with which to portray one’s pride and success. But Murray, a bartender who worked five nights a week, appreciative as he was about the nod, had other priorities to attend to.

“They asked me to fly to New Orleans to attend the award dinner. So, I asked them: ‘If I win, is there a cash prize involved?’ Because that would have changed the whole story!” Murray jokes. “When they said no, I politely declined the invitation. I didn’t want to take the time off work. I had rent to pay.”

*****

Murray, on Bartending: “Something I have always appreciated in my career was having the opportunity to meet people. I think that’s why I’ve been a bartender as long as I have. You get to meet everybody. Big deal people. Nobodies. Everybody in between. Every race, gender, career, none of it mattered when they were at your bar. I had the pleasure of hosting all kinds of people, with all kinds of stories, all of them just looking for a drink or a quiet place to sit for a while. I just loved that. Bartending has been good to me.”

*****

To Murray, a blue-collar barman from Colville, the accolades were nice, but altogether unnecessary. “I had a steady income.” He says, “I worked behind a busy, popular bar, I met a lot of really interesting people every day. For a boring old guy like me, the work was the reward.”

“The work was the reward.” He says in a humble, sincere refrain.

It was a hectic Saturday night at Zig Zag when Murray won his award. But Murray was too occupied cavorting with his guests, making cocktails, telling stories, and keeping people happy, to give it much thought. “The hostess had told me that someone from the award ceremony was on the phone to tell me I had won. I asked her to take a message.” He smirks. “Hey! I was busy trying to make money! A fella’s gotta work!”

Nobody was surprised that Murray didn’t go to New Orleans. That’s just who Murray is. He’s the definition of what it means to be a working-class hero. A guy who embodies the quiet dignity of a life well lived and a career built on quality and consistency, over hype and hubbub. “The award was a beautiful crystal plate with my name inscribed on it.” He jokes. “I use it to serve cheese to my friends. It comes in pretty handy!”

Contrasting Murray’s laissez-faire attitude about his accolade, respected cocktail historian and drink writer for Esquire Magazine, David Wondrich once noted: “He should be knighted, but this [award] will have to do.”

“Eh. It was okay. I don’t see what the big deal was.” Murray says with a shrug. “I only ever saw myself as a bartender.”

The summer after Murray won his award was particularly hard on him. Newspapers and magazines from all across Seattle, and even from some other parts of the country, were writing stories about Murray Stenson, “America’s Best Bartender”, and the Zig Zag Café.

“We were making money hand over fist.” He tells me. “But that last year, we were just getting beat up every night. It was physically and mentally draining. People lined up at the door two hours before we opened. Our regulars couldn’t even get a seat at the bar, which really bothered me. Eventually I just burned out.”

After nearly eleven years behind the bar at the Zig Zag Café, Murray gave his notice to Kacy in May of 2011. “I just went in the office after my shift and let him know that it was time.” He says. “I’d been there for over a decade; I had done good work. And I was going out on top. Who could ask for more?”

“Ben and Kacy were both thankful and gracious. I told them it was a joy to work for them. And I meant it. It really was a joy.”

*****

Murray, on Difficult Guests: “I’ve always been really lucky. Like I’ve said. I’ve had a long bartending career. And I just take a lot of joy in the idea of getting to meet different people and different personalities. There have been many occasions where, for whatever reason I don’t like a customer… I’ve found that if I work at it hard enough… sometimes they’ll change, or sometimes I will. And they just become likable. You’ve got to give people a chance.”

*****

Around May of 2012, Murray had finished up a busy shift at Canon, a cocktail bar on Capitol Hill, and was making his way home. Even at 63, he still liked to walk home from work.

It was around 3am when he collapsed. “I woke up about 15 minutes later in front of the Ferrari dealership. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.” He smirks, joking with characteristic aplomb. “I’ll take the yellow one.” He had landed on his right arm and could not pull himself up. It was about thirty minutes before he could get up. He caught a taxi, went home, and went to Harborview hospital the next morning.

“My arm was broken. I had a heart attack because of a defective heart valve. A childhood congenital defect. The doctor was shocked that I had lived this long.” Like a lot of bartenders in America, Murray did not have any health insurance, and was still two years away from qualifying for Medicare. Facing the stress of being a bartender with a broken arm and staring down tens of thousands of dollars for a valve replacement, along with physical therapy, and surgery on his arm, Murray wasn’t sure how he would be able to survive.

“I couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket.” He tells me. “I was screwed.”

It didn’t take long for word of Murray’s troubles to reach the bar community. His longtime friend and regular, Evan Wallace, who had met Murray in 1990 and had remained a good friend ever since, went to Facebook and started what he coined “MurrayAid”, a fundraising effort to help out Seattle’s most beloved bartender in his most desperate time of need.

Hundreds of bars around the world hosted fundraisers for him. From the west coast to the east coast. From the east coast to Europe. From Europe to Japan, and then back to Seattle. Articles about MurrayAid popped up around the world, both in trade magazines, as well as major syndicated newspapers. Bartenders across America wrote blogs, social media posts, and feature articles detailing what Murray meant to them and their career. He was a friend and a mentor, either directly or indirectly, to hundreds of thousands of bartenders across the world, and everybody was eager to repay him for his service.

He was the bartender’s bartender, the person they all aspired to be. And he needed help. So, everyone chipped in and got it done. Customers donated their own money, bartenders donated their tips, and restaurants donated a portion of their sales. All in all, MurrayAid raised over $200,000 to help cover every cent of Murray’s medical bill.

“That was a pretty big deal.” He tells me, choking back a touch of emotion. “The heart operation was a quarter of a million dollars. It was humbling, and very amazing… I mean, the whole bar and restaurant community threw money in. All for me.”

“I’m a really lucky guy.”

*****

Murray, on Surviving the Industry: “It’s a great job. But there’s a lot of potential for overdoing it with drinks and drugs. That can really wear a person down. More than I’d like, I’ve seen a lot of people go off the deep end. Some survive, but they never come back to bartending. The long hours, the night life, the access to booze. You really have to be careful.”

*****

The recovery process took a long time, but eventually Murray recovered and went back to work. He was a bartender, after all, and he needed to work. He went back to Il Bistro for a little while, followed by a short stint at the Queen City Grill. And then in 2016, he found some work at a quiet little Japanese restaurant in the International District called Kamane, where only his most faithful regulars could find him.

In 2017, Murray had another health scare. This time in the form of a virus that left him temporarily paralyzed. “I passed out in my apartment and couldn’t move for 8 days. It was frustrating to say the least” He says, giving the understatement of the year. “But I knew the landlord would eventually come by… After all, rent was due. I talked to my cat Lucy, a lot.” Eventually, a worried friend found him and took him to the hospital.

Since then, thanks to two years of ongoing physical therapy, Murray is on his way to a full recovery. He tells me that he’s in pretty good spirits. At the time of this writing, his physical therapy is nearly over, and he hopes to get back behind the bar in a couple of months. At 71 years old, the bartender’s bartender is anxious to find a home. “Someplace quiet.” He says. “With nice people who just want a cocktail and good conversation.”

He finishes: “You’ll be welcome there anytime.”

*****

Murray, on Murray: “A lot of stuff happened to me by accident, and it somehow led to a really great career. A career that I am so thankful for that. But I was never the cool guy. I was the boring guy in the corner, listening to old jazz records and sipping champagne. I own about 4000 jazz records on vinyl, and that’s the most interesting thing about me.”

“I’m about as boring as boring can be.”