Page 18 of On Tap for the Bear
"Why?"
Because you're my mate. Because your pain is my pain. Because I'd do anything to fix this for you.
"Because you're sitting at my bar, and you look like you could use someone to talk to. Listening is the first rule of bartending." I grab a towel, start wiping down the already-clean bar because I need to do something with my hands. It's not the whole truth, but it's enough of it.
She studies me for a long moment, then takes another bite of salad. "This is really good too. The bitterness of the arugula plays off the sweetness of the walnuts. And the ale...” She pauses, tastes it. "Citrus notes. They brighten the vinaigrette."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm analyzing. It's what I do."
"Fair enough." I collect her empty plate. "But for the record? If you ever want to not analyze, I'm a really good listener."
She doesn't respond, but her expression softens before she hides it behind another sip of beer.
The third course is the mushroom risotto—wild mushrooms foraged from the hills, cooked with the IPA in the stock, finished with parmesan and a drizzle of truffle oil. This time, when she tastes it, joy flickers across her face—pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
"Okay," she says after swallowing. "This is unfair. You can't just make food this good and expect me to maintain professional objectivity."
"Who said anything about objectivity?"
"That's literally the point of food writing."
"Is it?" I lean forward, elbows on the bar. "Or is the point to share your experience? To make readers feel what you felt?"
"That's...” She pauses. "That's actually a good point."
"I have those occasionally."
She laughs, and the sound makes my chest expand in ways I don't want to examine. "Tell me about this one. The pairing."
We talk about the dish, about how the earthiness of the IPA enhances the mushrooms, how the hops cut through the richness of the parmesan and cream. She takes notes, asks questions about cooking temperatures and ingredient ratios. It's professional, almost clinical.
But her eyes keep finding mine, and there's something in them that has nothing to do with food criticism.
We're halfway through discussing the final course—the chocolate torte with the stout—when the door bangs open and Gary staggers in, clearly several drinks past sober.
"Eli!" He's loud, drawing stares from the other diners. "My man! Need another round!"
I glance at the clock. Gary's been making the rounds since mid-afternoon—started at home, probably, then wandered through town looking for company. I'd been hoping he'd go home instead of coming here.
"Hey, Gary." I keep my voice calm, friendly. "I think you've had enough for tonight. Why don't I call you a ride?"
"Don't need a ride. Need a beer." He weaves toward the bar, nearly knocking over a table. The couple sitting there scoots back, alarmed.
I move around the bar, putting myself between Gary and the other customers. Quinn's watching with sharp eyes, her notebook forgotten.
"Gary." I put a hand on his shoulder, firm but not aggressive. "You're going to go home now. I'll get Sawyer to drive you."
"Don't tell me what to do." Gary tries to shrug off my hand, but I don't let go. "I'm a paying customer!"
"You are. And tomorrow, when you're sober, you'll be welcome back. But tonight, you're done."
My voice must get through, because Gary deflates. He's not a mean drunk, just a sloppy one, and underneath the alcohol he's a decent guy who's still grieving his wife two years after her death.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Sorry, Eli. I just...”
"I know." I guide him toward the door, catching Beau's eye. My brother nods, already pulling out his phone to text Sawyer. "It's okay. But you gotta go home now."
