“No, we make dozens of cocktails, but you can’t learn more than five in a shift,” says Joe. “Plus, now you and I have to drink the five we made. More than five and we’d be langered.”
“Langered?”
Joe grins. “Irish slang. Drunk.”
“Oh.” I look up at Joe. His dark hair is clean but about two months overdue for a haircut and sticks up at weird angles. And he’s wearing a plaid flannel cowboy-type shirt. (Actually, I think that if you’re a dude, you have to own a plaid flannel shirt when you live in Brooklyn. Like, by law.)
“‘Langer’ also means something else…” He points to his crotch.
“How confusing,” I say, trying not to look at Joe’s crotch.
“Indeed. Right, Let’s start the demonstration.” Joe grabs a glass. “Coco, may I introduce the Whiskey Sour? Now, we make our whiskey sours like the good Lord intended: fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, ice, and a good bolt of whiskey. Mix with anger, pour with love…” He shakes the cocktail shaker furiously and then delicately cracks it open and pours the frothy concoction into a chilled mason jar. “See? Go on, try it.”
I take a sip, and gasp at the icy bitterness. “Wow. I mean, yum, but that is sour.” I pause. “And I suppose, thus the name. Whiskey Sour.”
“Right. My God, the brains on you. Genius.”
I stifle a snort of laughter. Joe takes a slug, hands the glass back to me, then starts the next demonstration. I can’t believe Joe is going to all this effort to make cocktails just for me. He’s so hot and funny and—pay attention, Coco.
“An Old-Fashioned. Sugar cube, Angostura bitters, water, crush the cube, muddle…”
He is grinding the sugar with such an intense frown that I start laughing, and he looks up in surprise.
“Muddling isn’t funny. Muddling is serious. Now, add the whiskey, squeeze the orange … voilà. Taste.”
“Okay.” I cough helplessly. It’s disgusting. “Um, a little strong.”
“You’ll learn to love it.” He mixes another in silence, while I look on and try to learn. “Try this. Rob Roy. Scotch, sweet vermouth, a little Angostura bitters, and a cherry.”
“I love maraschino cherries!” I take a big slurp and immediately spit it right back into the glass. “Urgh! That’s even more disgusting than the Old-Fashioned!”
Joe cracks up.
I am mortified.
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, that was just, um, automatic, I, um…” I’m babbling and I can’t stop, shut up, Coco, shut up.
“You might like the next one better. A Whiskey Smash. Fresh mint, a quarter of a lemon, and simple syrup. Smush them down—”
“—is that a technical bartending term for anything smashed? ‘Smush’?”
“Yes, smartypants, it is a highly technical term. You need to smush before you smash.”
I giggle and hiccup at the same time.
Joe glances at me. “Are you langers already? You must be. I wasn’t that funny … Strain, add whiskey, ice, voilà. Drink it.”
I pick up the glass and take a long swig. It’s very light and refreshing to gulp, and before I know it, I’ve drunk almost the whole thing.
“That’s my favorite.” I feel so light-headed and giggly. Drunk! At work! I am wild. According to Pia, anyway.
Joe holds up two limes. “I think you’ll like the next one the most. It’s a Rickey. Squeeze all the juice from both limes into the glass, add ice, whiskey, club soda, and … voilà!” He hands it over, and I take a sip.
“Nope, I like the Whiskey Smash more.” I hand back the Rickey and pick up what’s left of the Smash. “Yummy. Smash.”
“I think you just like saying ‘smash,’” says Joe.
“No, no, I like the mint. I grow mint in an herb planter in my kitchen. I like herbs.”
“Erbs?” Joe takes a slug of the unloved Rob Roy. “In Ireland we pronounce the ‘h.’ Herb.”
“Herb? That’s an old guy’s name.” My giggles are interrupted by hiccups. And then I start giggling again.
“You are langers.” He smacks himself on the forehead. “Bad Joe. Bad. All right, make yourself another one. Go on. You’re smart, you can do it. I’ll watch.”
I try to control my giggles long enough to make a Whiskey Smash. Calm down, Coco. I love the way Joe doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously. And I like the way he said I was smart. For some reason, people thinking I’m smart makes me feel smart, and people thinking I’m dumb encourages me to make stupid mistakes. I wonder if that’s normal.
“Why don’t we do bar snacks?” I ask as I muddle the sugar and mint.
“No kitchen,” Joe says. “I tried to convince Gary to get a popcorn machine, but he refused.”
“That is an amazing idea!” I say. “I love popcorn. I put sea salt and dark chocolate chips on mine.”
“What is sea salt, anyway?” says Joe. “I never heard of sea salt before about six years ago, did you? I mean, what did everyone put on their locally sourced hand-cut fries before sea salt was invented?”
“I think the other kind is called table salt,” I say.
“Salt made from tables?!”
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this much around a guy. I can’t tell if it’s the Irish accent or the booze. Probably a little of both.
At that moment, an older guy walks in, and I can tell by the disinterested way he takes a seat at the bar that he’s not here for a drink. Joe, suddenly nervous, quickly clears away the detritus from our cocktails and introduces us. It’s the owner of Potstill, Gary.
Gary doesn’t even meet my eyes, just takes his phone out and answers a text, sighing deeply, while Joe, unbidden, gets him a seltzer with lime. Gary looks like an ex-boxer who eats way too many subs. Bug eyes, receding pale hair, a nondescript goatee that isn’t bushy enough for Brooklyn.
Gary takes a long drink, burps loudly, and finally looks up. “I’m closing the bar.”
“What?” Joe is shocked. “Why? Last night was huge. This could be a great live music venue—”
“People who watch music don’t drink whiskey,” says Gary, with total confidence.
“We could offer other drinks, expand the bar—”
“There is no ‘we,’ Joe. There’s only ‘me.’ I own the place. You just manage it. Don’t forget that.”
Wow, Gary is an asshole.
Joe takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm, and finally asks, “When?”
“I’ll put it on the market at the end of the summer. I’m going to my place in Nantucket until then. My wife’s having another fucking baby. She refuses to stay in the city.”
Did he just say another fucking baby? Charming.
“Okay,” Joe is suddenly very interested in polishing already-clean glasses. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Gary stands up, drains his seltzer, and, without even saying good-bye, leaves the bar. The door slams behind him.
There’s a long silence.
“I can’t believe that’s it,” mutters Joe finally. “Potstill is dead.”
“Maybe someone will buy it and see the potential…” My voice trails off into nothingness.
“No one is going to look at the numbers and keep this bar open, Coco. They could make a lot more money ripping the guts out and building something new.”
Joe sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture that reminds me of Julia. She texted earlier: she’s recovered from Peter the Magnificent and is now out with Pia and Angie, while Madeleine rehearses with her band. I’d usually be with them, I guess, or maybe in the old days with Ethan while he monologued at me, teaching me things I didn’t want to learn. I’m glad I’m here, though. This feels like the right place to be.
“If I could do one thing right now, it would be to make this bar a success,” says Joe wistfully.
“If I could do one thing right now, I’d…” My voice trails off. I can’t tell Joe the truth. He’d just think I was silly. And I don’t want just one thing, I want three. I want to be thin. I
want to fall in love. I want to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my damn life. And I have no idea how to do any of the above.
“You want another Whiskey Smash?” I ask.
Joe grins at me. “Sure.”
As I make them, Joe takes his iPod out of his back pocket.
“You know what annoys me most about Gary? He doesn’t even like music. He agreed to let Spector play here because he owed someone in the band for helping him out with some pot deal.” Joe reaches up to an ancient set of speakers and stereo system. “I don’t particularly like pot. But I fucking love music.”
A new song comes over the loudspeakers. “This is MGMT,” he says. “Time to Pretend.”
“It’s great…” I say. But Joe isn’t listening.
Then he looks back at me. “Let’s get langers.”
CHAPTER 10
So we do.
By the time the bar closes, we’ve sampled most of the whiskeys behind the bar, plus three more Whiskey Smashes (me) and four more Rob Roys (Joe).
A few more patrons come in, but each time, as if on cue, the previous patrons leave. Which means practically no actual bartending is done. Instead, we listen to music, talk, and, you know, drink. I can’t think of the last time I had this much fun.
Later, sometime around midnight when the bar’s been empty for over an hour, Joe makes the executive decision to close up. I go to the bathroom and realize I’m swaying slightly and feel deliciously fuzzy. Being a bit drunk is fun. But it also feels naughty … I mean, I’m at work.
“I thought it was illegal to be drunk behind a bar,” I say as Joe locks up the stockroom and turns off the lights.
“No, that’s behind a wheel,” says Joe. “Jesus, I’m starving,” he says, pronouncing it schtarvin. “How about a late-night snack?”
And as he holds open the door for me to walk out into the balmy June night, I realize something.
I’m on a date.
You know, kind of.
I’m with a guy and we’re going for food after drinking cocktails. That makes it a date. Right? Right.
Funny thing about walking around in this happy tipsy state: it feels like it doesn’t take long to get anywhere. We’re heading to some diner in downtown Brooklyn. The whole time, Joe grills me about everyone in the house. I tell him about Pia’s food truck empire, Julia’s intense workaholism, Madeleine’s accountant/rocker dichotomy, and Angie’s fledgling fashion career. It’s easy talking about my friends. So much more interesting than telling him about me. And I’m having the best time. I cannot stop smiling.
Eventually we reach the diner, a grubby little place with unflattering white lighting and torn faux-leather booths. We take seats at the counter.
“Two disco fries, two chocolate shakes,” Joe tells the disinterested waiter. I raise an eyebrow. “What? I come here all the time. Can’t I order for you?”
The old me would have just shrugged, accepted what he ordered, and then not really eaten it anyway. I never ate in front of Ethan; it made me feel really self-conscious and gross. But to hell with all that. This is the new me. And I don’t want disco fries and a chocolate shake.
“I’m a grown woman. I’ll order for myself,” I say. “I’ll have French toast with bananas and a black-and-white shake.”
“What’s a black-and-white shake?” Joe asks.
“Vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll have that too, please, instead of my chocolate milk shake. But I’m sticking with the fries. Don’t try to take an Irishman away from his potatoes. We’ll fight you for them. Now, sir, do you have any cake?”
“No.”
“No cake!” Joe cries out in mock horror. “The shame of it. Right, just the fries and the shake.”
The waiter refuses to be charmed by Joe’s banter and mooches off miserably. I am completely enchanted by it. I just have no idea what to say in response.
We lapse into silence.
Suddenly I feel very sober. Wow, this is a date. I broke up with Ethan last night and I’m already on a date!
Shit. I don’t think I’m ready to eat in front of this guy.
“What’s Angie’s boyfriend like?” asks Joe.
“Sam? He’s lovely.” Joe’s face falls. “Sorry! Um, I’m sure she’d be into you if it wasn’t for him.”
Joe shrugs. “Shit happens.”
Never mind. This isn’t a date. He likes Angie. Or would like her, if she was available. Which means he doesn’t like me, not like that, anyway.
Well, at least that makes it easy.
“Story of my life,” continues Joe. “I’m never in the right place at the right time.”
“Neither am I,” I say. “In fact, everything I’ve done with my so-called adult life is wrong. I’m twenty-one. And I’ve made so many mistakes already.”
“I don’t call them mistakes,” says Joe. “I call them life experiences.”
“Like what?” I can’t stop myself from asking. “What experiences?”
“Falling in love with someone who didn’t love me back.”
Joe says it so easily, like it’s not embarrassing. I guess that’s confidence.
“Um, I’ve done that too,” I say.
“Not a life experience to repeat, right?” Joe grins as our milk shakes arrive.
“I worked in a job I hated because my dad thought it was the right choice for me,” I say. “That was not a life experience to repeat either.”
“What did you want to do instead?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I would like to do something with books. But that just sounds kind of stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid to me. Someone has to work with books. Otherwise they wouldn’t exist.”
“Did you go to college?” I ask, to take the subject off me again.
“I did indeed. Then, when I graduated, Ireland was a fucking disaster area … So I started working in bars to fund my traveling and ended up here.”
“What did you study?”
“Engineering. But I don’t want to be an engineer.”
“Me too!” I clear my throat. “I mean, I wasn’t an engineer, but I studied early childhood. But I don’t want to be a preschool teacher.”
“Sucks to be us.”
“Yep,” I say, then, trying to cheer him up, add, “At least you love bartending.”
“Love bartending? No. I love that bar. There’s a difference. That’s why I’ve been trying to turn it into a music venue.” Joe rubs his temples. “Probably sounds stupid, but I want to manage bands. When I hear a great band playing, my skin tingles, my heart starts beating really fast, and I think … I think … well, I don’t know. Maybe everyone who loves music feels that way.” He trails off uncertainly. “And everyone loved Spector, right?”
“Yes! It was amazing!”
“They have so much potential. They should be writing their own stuff, figuring out what they want to say, and I can help them do that … I mean, I think I can, you know, as their manager.” Joe suddenly seems strangely vulnerable. I want to hug him. “Madeleine is the real deal.”
“I totally agree,” I say. “Do bands often employ managers?”
“Only the successful ones.” Joe grins, as though I made a joke.
I feel embarrassed suddenly. I wasn’t making a joke, I just didn’t know that bands needed managers.
There is so much I don’t know about how everything in the real world works. All I know is what my dad and Julia and teachers have told me, what they think I should know. And they don’t know everything. I mean, they’re not stupid, obviously. They’re really smart. But the world is just too big and messy and complicated for anyone to know everything about it.
How can I ever know what I want to do with my life if I don’t even know what jobs exist? How will I find my way?
“Fuck! I can’t believe Gary is really going to close the bar.” Joe presses his forehead to the Formica counter. I make a face. The counter isn’t exactly spark
ling with cleanness. “He won’t change his mind. The earnings are shite.”
“What if you impressed him with how successful it is over the next few months?” I ask. “Like, if you can turn around the financials, I mean, um, the finances, numbers, you know what I mean, then he’ll have to reconsider, right?”
Joe grins. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? I’ve worked my ass off on that cocktail list.”
“Oh.”
Then silence falls again as our food arrives, so we can get to the more important business of eating. At first I feel nervous about eating in front of him, but after a minute of taking tiny unsatisfying nibbles while Joe takes great big chomps, I relax. And then I realize how hungry I am.
“God, I love American food.” Joe sighs happily.
“You love this?” I say, gesturing to the flaccid French toast and wilting fries.
“Yes. Love it.” Joe takes a sip of milk shake. “Ahhh … black-and-white milk shake! Where have you been all my life?” He sounds so passionately grateful that I start laughing again.
When we’re done—throwing my is-it-or-isn’t-it-a-date? quandary a curveball—Joe won’t let me pay. “I’m your boss. It’s my job,” he says, waving off my money.
“No,” I protest.
“Too late.” He places cash on the counter and takes me by the arm. “C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I’m your boss,” he says again. “Safety first.”
It’s definitely, absolutely not a date. That’s the clear message. He prefers Angie to me. He’s my boss. And it’s not a date.
We walk for a while. The summer air is soft and warm on my skin. I glance up at Joe, at his scruffy stubble and wild-man hair. He’s so easy to be around. Maybe we’ll be friends.
My first ever real male friend. Apart from Vic, of course.
“So, where do you live?”
“Carroll Gardens. Union Street,” I say.
“You live in brownstone Brooklyn?” says Joe in mock admiration. “Jesus, do you realize how much better that makes you than the rest of us?”
I laugh. I’ve laughed so much tonight, I feel slightly euphoric. “My sister and I inherited the house. Rookhaven. We could never afford it otherwise. And it’s kind of run-down, but we love it. It feels like home.”
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