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.
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ANTIHERO
“The Boys,” on Prime Video.
HOW THE WEST WAS LONG
“Horizon: An American Saga—Chapter 1.”
WHEEL OF FORTUNE
Taffy Brodesser-Akner weighs the cost of generational wealth.
TWICE-TOLD TALES
The seditious writers who unravel their own stories.
CASTING A LINE
The hard-bitten genius of Norman Maclean.
TEARDROPS ON MY GUITAR
Four years ago, when Ivan Cornejo was a junior in high school, he had a meeting with his family to announce that he was dropping out. His parents were alarmed, of course, but his older sister, Pamela, had a more sympathetic reaction, because she also happened to be his manager, and she knew that he wasn’t bluffing when he said that he had to focus on his career.
THE HADAL ZONE
Arwen Rasmont waits hours at Keflavík International for his flight; they call it as he leaves the men’s room. He walks past the mirrored wall and is assaulted, as usual, by his dead father’s handsome image: high-arched nose, yellow hair.
OPENING THEORY
Ivan is standing on his own in the corner while the men from the chess club move the chairs and tables around.
THE LAST RAVE
Remembering a summer of estrangement.
КАНО
I’ve dated all kinds of women in my life,” the man said, “but I have to say I’ve never seen one as ugly as you.”