for Courtney Crane
& so, weary from wandering twelve miles of Argentine streets, I found the bar of the Sofitel Hotel to warm myself with gin under a trio of pendant lights, glowing orange like hanging hearths.
My phone was dead, so I used it as a plate for mixed nuts. The bartender grinned as she mixed a Pisco Sour, using aquafaba instead of egg whites because of salmonella. Not all her nails were painted.
To add the bitters, she dropped to a deep squat eye level with the rim of the glass & dripped the bitters in with the tip of a toothpick, then dragged a slim incision through the foam.
She winked at the drink, reached across the bar, took my pen & wrote the word jacaranda upside-down in my journal, then returned it open over both hands like an offering.
A man slammed a half-empty glass on the bar, & I started. Hair close-cropped in right angles, big eyes, chubby lips, snub nose—I thought: Pillsbury.
He said, This vodka tastes bad. Why does this vodka taste bad? What is vodka made from here? It doesn’t taste good…This doesn’t taste good. Give me the Grey Goose. I know Grey Goose. & she did—
With a double-shot smile & flamenco flair, she made his drink again. When he left, stiff stepping away, Grey Goose in hand, the bartender rested her elbows on the bar in front of me.
Whenever possible, what is wanted should be given, she said. I said, What if what I want is only to give? & she again took my pen, downed the man’s drink in two gulps, & sketched a turtle in my journal.
Y’know, I think it’s actually “life” that’s the thing with feathers, I said. She slid me the Pisco Sour she’d made before, though I hadn’t ordered it. I sipped, grimaced, & pushed it back.
She took her own sip frowned, & said, & how much has it asked of you? Probably not enough. Probably you should do the thing you want. I said, Amen to that.
In her drawing, the turtle wore glasses. So did I. So did she. She said, You need to drink the rest of that so I can make another. I need practice. & so I downed the rest, foam and all, ordered a Pisco Sour.