McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories by

Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

DELMONICO

by DANIEL HANDLER

“WHAT’S A DELMONICO?”

The two gentlemen had scarcely entered the place. From where I was sitting they were only silhouettes in the shiny doorway, blaring with rude sun. It was after six but dead summer, so the sun hadn’t set. I don’t drink in the daytime, but if it’s after six you’ll probably find me at the Slow Night. It’s been remarked to me that my regular spot at the bar isn’t the best one, as I have to whirl around whenever somebody walks in, just to see who it is. I suppose that’s true, that I could choose a better bar stool if I wanted a better view of the outside world. But that’s not what I like to look at when I come in.

Davis was at the cash register, her back to the door, holding two or three dollars in her palm. She was about to give them to a guy, as change for the drinks she made for him and his girlfriend. Then the guy was going to hand them back to Davis. This is how it went with Davis as long as I’d ever seen it. Davis was gorgeous, is what she was, gorgeous not in the way she looked but in the way she was. When she mixed you a drink and handed back your change you’d hand it over to her no matter what you paid and what you ordered. It wouldn’t matter if you had your girl with you, waiting at one of the tables with a high-heeled foot tapping on the carpet. You’d give it back, all your puny dollars, and still you’d feel like you hadn’t forked it over fast enough. “Delmonico?” Davis said, and looked back at the gentlemen. She cocked her head, but not like she was thinking, more like she was considering whether these guys deserved the real answer. They didn’t move. I tried to look at them myself but the sunlight still made them nothing but shadows. All I could notice was that one was taller than the other. Davis had probably noticed six or seven things more, and she’d just that second turned around from the register. “Delmonico,” she said again. “Gin, vermouth, brandy. A dash of bitters.”

The shorter gentleman gave his friend a little tap with his hand. “I told you she was smart,” he said, and then the two of them stepped inside and let the door shut behind them. Davis put her hands on her hips like this offhand compliment wasn’t nearly enough. The guy slid his money back to Davis and took his seat.

Time and time I want to tell Davis that I love her, but she’s so smart there’s no way she hasn’t figured it out already.

The Slow Night is on a fairly main drag, more or less half a block away from two other bars and just about across the street from another. These bars are called Mary’s, and O’Malley’s, and The something. I’ve never been inside them and never intend to.

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