He knew what everything in those bottles tasted like, and what to pair them with. He was a bartender. He could make a drink for you, if you wanted. All you had to do was lean over and ask.
I wanted something he could make. Something no one else had. I asked him if he could make this for me, and he nodded. I saw him pause and think. What he had in mind seemed to require him to go and look for things. He rummaged through a plastic bag and plucked something out. When he brought the drink to me, it looked like water. In the middle of the drink was a mint leaf in the shape of a heart. The leaf floated there, and then it didn't anymore.
I didn't know how to talk to him. He was right in front of me. Making drinks that other people in the room had asked for. So I just watched him work. That was all he was doing. Working. He was someone who could carry four glasses using the space his palms and fingers could provide. He did this repeatedly. He never fumbled or broke anything. He cut up oranges and limes and lemons. He scooped ice, decorated drinks with straws. He seemed to know what people in the room wanted before they wanted it. From a small machine, next to him, orders spooled like ribbons.
He didn't try to talk to anyone. Didn't walk over and ask anything. Didn't seem curious about anything. A waitress went by, and, though there was plenty of room behind him, she squeezed so close that her chest brushed up against him. And on the way back, when she passed him, she touched his arm. He didn't react either time. Part of the job. No turning around to acknowledge her with a smile. No asking about her shift and how it was going. But she got to touch. She got to be back there, with him.
Esta historia es de la edición April 08, 2024 de The New Yorker.
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Esta historia es de la edición April 08, 2024 de The New Yorker.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 8500 revistas y periódicos.
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GREAT MIGRATIONS
\"Home\" and \"What Became of Us.\"
SICK, SAD WORLD
What COVID did to fiction.
MOVE IN FOR THE CULL
The complicated calculus of killing some wild creatures to protect others.
EVERYTHING IN HAND
The C.I.A.'s covert ops have mattered-but not in the way that it hoped.
CHICAGO ON THE SEINE CAMILLE BORDAS
I used to tell myself stories on the job, to make it feel exciting—spy stories, exfiltration stories, war stories. I used to come up with poignant little details that turned the repatriation cases I worked on into “Saving Private Ryan,” into “Johnny Got His Gun.”
A SEMBLANCE OF PEACE
How life in a co-living community changed after October 7th.
HIS BEAUTIFUL DARK TWISTED FANTASY
Ye bought a masterpiece by Tadao Ando-and gave it a violent remix.
SCREEN GRAB
How CoComelon conquered children's television.
FOND OF FLAGS
My wife is fond of fast food. I am not. My wife is particularly fond of the Wendy’s Baconator. I argue that it’s less expensive to order a Dave’s Double with a side of bacon, then put your own pretzels on top. (I’m fond of the Rold Gold Tiny Twists Original.)
TROPHY ROOM
Going on safari.