Page 8 of Wolfish Player
“So?” Her mouth quirks. “The shape of the cup doesn’t affect the taste of the alcohol. That’s just something out-of-touch people think.”
I blink. Either I’m stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone against my will, or this woman has no business being a bartender.
She picks up a sheet that features pictures of proper glasses and taps her lip. “Ah, so it’s this one.”
Her perfume drifts over to me as she bends for the proper glass, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
She picks up the bottle of Macallan and fills my glass way too far.
“Here you go,” she says, sliding it to me. “I gave you a little extra since you walked in here like you owned the place.”
I do own this place…
She walks away without offering me a cigar, without a “Pleasure to see you again, sir,” without doing any of the things I’m accustomed to getting here.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.” The manager, Mr. Tyler, suddenly appears at my side. “The chef has updated the menu for the season, so would you like to try one of our new desserts? It’d be on the house.”
“You know I’ll gladly pay for it.”
“Uh, well…” He smiles and signals for Terrible Bartender Woman.
“How may I be of service, Mr. Tyler?” she asks, coming over.
“Our top guest here would like to try one of our new fire-top desserts.” He smiles. “Since you took a class on making them this morning, would you like to make him one?”
“Am I allowed to say no?”
What the hell?
“Not at all.” Mr. Tyler laughs, but I’m pretty sure this woman wasn’t joking.
“I would love to make you a dessert.” She hands me a menu. “What would you like to enjoy tonight?”
You… If you could stop with your smart-ass mouth.
“I’ll take the vanilla bean mousse with strawberries.”
She nods, and just like the whiskey, proves that she knows nothing about bar desserts. Instead of handling this in the kitchen, she’s preparing it in front of me.
After lining the glass’s rim with sugar, she slices the strawberries and arranges them in a heart shape. Then she pulls out a jar marked “Mousse: Only Use in Kitchen” and pours it.
A moment later, the glass wobbles under the weight of the dessert, and then it tips over—splattering across my suit.
Goddamnit.
“Oh my god, sorry!” She hands me a napkin, eyes wide. “I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash. Or maybe it just needs a few sprays with OxiClean.”
“Does it look like I know what the fuck OxiClean is?” I dab at the fabric.
“If you did, you probably wouldn’t be panicking about a small spill…”
“This is a custom suit,” I say. “I can’t just throw it in the washing machine.”
She mutters something that sounds like, “How is that my fault?” And I narrow my eyes at her.
“Since this is your first day,” I say, “I won’t ask Mr. Tyler to take this out of your paycheck.”
She narrows her eyes right back.
