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“What do you mean, you can’t tell the difference?” he said, when I asked him about two equally ancient bottles of thick, blood-red Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “Sweetie, you need to widen your palette. Otherwise this—” he gestured between us, “ain’t gonna work out.”
It turned out that compared to Andy I didn’t know much of anything about wine, but I sure knew how to make a nice Manhattan. And there were plenty of orders for them.
But it all changed one fateful afternoon, when I’d been working with Andy for a few weeks. As he worked quietly and quickly at the bar, he started to hum a song. It was “I Got Rhythm,” my favorite Gershwin song.
I was trying to keep quiet and do my job properly, but I couldn’t help it. I always sang to myself while I was working—it helped keep me cheerful and get into the rhythm of service. And the tune was infectious. In no time at all, I was singing along with him:“I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man, who could ask for anything more?”
I sent off a round of drinks, and when I turned back, I saw Andy staring at me.
“Wheredid you learn to sing like that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, laughing nervously as I reached for another highball glass. I measured a few shots of tequila in and stirred them with some lime. “I used to be a jazz singer.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d ya play?”
“I played at the Blue Note once. And the Rose Room. That was my last gig in New York. Maybe six years ago?”
I knew the date off by heart. It had been the day I reached my third trimester.
“You played theBlue Note? That’s crazy! Girl, with pipes like that, you should have been a star. That said, with hips like these, I should have been inCats. But you can’t always get what you want, huh?”
I laughed, and from that moment on, Andy and I got along like a house on fire. He began to introduce me to the staff.
I wish I could say the same about Alex Lowe.
Now that Alex had got me where he wanted me, I thought he’d have softened a little.
But I was wrong. For starters, every time he came in, there was always something.
“Straighten those bottles, please. This isn’t a speakeasy.”
I smiled politely, and did as he told me.
When he occasionally stopped by in the evenings, he’d wander by the bar.
“Are you cleaning this thing every night?”
“Yes.”
“It’s dirty.”
The bar was spotless. Even I could see that.
But the niggling wouldn’t stop. Eventually, it got so bad that he was even criticizing my outfits. “Have you got any better shoes?” Alex said to me one morning, when I came in. He was at the bar with a cup of coffee and the morning papers.
I rolled my eyes at that. But Alex wouldn’t let it go. I walked around to the bar and got the key for the cellar. But before I could go down, I heard his voice again.
“I asked you a question, Lola.”
“Why does it matter what shoes I’m wearing when I’m working behind the bar? And going down into the dirty cellar?”
I couldn’t help it. I had to answer back this time.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Alex gruffly. “It’s about taking pride in your work. And besides, you’re not always behind the bar. ”
“Okay, Miranda Priestly! New shoes coming soon.”
“Who’s that?” muttered Alex before he wandered off.
