Stephanie Danler - Sweetbitter

I took two bumps using my wine key. I took them off the knife that cut the foil so cleanly for Simone. I had been practicing in the mirror. The bottle can’t move, it can’t wobble as you cut, tear, insert, twist, push, spin, twist, pull. Don’t hide the label. Cultivate stillness. Gentility when you remove the cork. Give the wine some grace, some space to breathe, Simone said.

“She can swirl wine in her glass. Without moving her hands,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

My eyelids dropped, blackness. I felt him rubbing small circles on my back.

“You’re making me sleepy,” I said.

“That’s good,” he said, and I thought I felt his head touch my shoulder, thought I felt him twisting me toward him.

The drip flooded down my throat, dirt, Splenda, sulfur, my eyes ventilated. I sat up and unlocked the door. The tables had resolved themselves. Park Bar had large windows, and on evenings when the temperature of the air complemented the temperature of your skin, they opened them and let the street mingle.

Jake was outside smoking. He was presumably meeting Vanessa, who usually sat at a table with other servers from Gramercy. His T-shirt had once been white and was now nicotined, eroding, neckline torn. He only ever wore the same black jeans that gaped at the knees, the bottoms cuffed high over rough leather boots. The streetlight hit his collarbone. He turned and sat in one of the windows, Vanessa standing above him, her arms crossed, her face turned toward the park. His spine in his shirt, like some ancient draped artifact.

I shook Will off me. He went out to smoke with Jake. I sat next to Ariel and Sasha. We only sat at the bar now that something was clearly going on between Ariel and Vivian. It was just Terry tonight though, unfurling postrush.

“How are you holding up, babe?” Ariel asked.

“Better. I’m probably just tired.” I pretended to stretch my neck and looked at Jake.

“Don’t do it,” Ariel said. I turned back to her, fixed my hair.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking for trouble.”

“Look.” I lowered my voice so Sasha wouldn’t hear me. “He’s very attractive. But whatever, right? Why is everyone so afraid of him?”

“Because he’s textbook, that’s why.”

“Baby Monster,” Sasha said, hitting me hard on the shoulder. “You been for reals hungry? I tell you what the fucking problem in America — when I first got here I ate M&M’s for three days, that’s all, I think I’m dying in some fucking hellhole in Queens and rats eat my face. Now I’m a fucking millionaire, but you don’t forget hungry like that.”

I twisted a napkin and sealed my eyes to the black lacquer of the bar. I felt it — Jake’s absence. I stretched my neck again and looked out the windows. Just the wind dusting up the bare street.

“I’d like to read it,” I said to Ariel. She heard me. “The textbook, I mean.”

Will came up, ordered drinks, and looked at me. “You want one more, right?”

“FUCK BRUNCH.”

Scott was bloated, red-eyed, but standing. The rest of his crew were walking bent in half.

“It’s not technically brunch,” I said. Chef always said brunch wasn’t a meal, and I loved passing that on to the servers from Coffee Shop and Blue Water who had to stand outside on their patios serving eggs Benedict.

“Fuck lunch.”

“I knew you were in trouble, Scott. I told you it was time to go home. You wanted to stay.”

I had left Park Bar at three thirty a.m. right when the cooks were getting another round of Jägermeister shots. I had taken one and thought I might throw up on the floor. Instead I threw myself into a cab and threw up in my own toilet like an adult. I was proud of myself.

I’d volunteered to cut the butter. The hot knife slipped into the chilled sticks effortlessly. The pats clung to the wax paper. It had the same orderly rhythm of folding napkins, repetition and satisfying progression. My fingers were shiny.

“Fuck brunch forever.” Scott moaned. “Where’s Ariel?”

“She’s dining room today. Sorry you’re stuck with me.”

“Get Ariel, I need her treats.”

“Treats?”

“It’s an emergency,” he yelled.

“Okay, okay, I’ll find her.”

She was standing at the service bar having an espresso and talking to Jake.

“Hey Ariel,” I said, turning to the side so he wouldn’t think I was trying to look at him. “Scott needs you. In the kitchen.”

“We’re in a war,” she said. She was beaten up around the eyes, but fairly fresh for someone who’d only slept a few hours.

“Whatever,” I said. I wished my hair was down so my neck and cheek weren’t so vulnerable. Jake in the mornings, before service, precaffeine rush, bags under his eyes. Not interested, I told him with the angle of my head. “He just said it was an emergency.”

She went into the kitchen like she was ready for a showdown but Scott was abject. He leaned over his station with his head in his hands.

“What’s up Baby Chef?” Usually they would start fighting, he especially hated that name, but he moaned instead.

“I need help.”

“Apologize for hitting on her.”

“Ariel, I wasn’t. I swear. That girl loves cock, I can’t help it.”

“Bye-bye,” she said and stuck up her middle finger, the nail painted black.

She turned to leave and he yelled, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I will never look at her again, I have a small dick, I’m insecure, I’m untalented, I’m stupid, I will cook you whatever you want for breakfast.”

She stopped.

“Steak salad. And dessert. And whatever new girl wants.”

“Fine. Hand them over.”

“You’re disgusting. But you’re not untalented. I want to be fair about this.” She clapped her hands. “Okay, beverages first.”

Sundays had a candid feeling. There were no laws, no stakes. Howard and Chef were both off, as was most of the senior staff. Scott ran the kitchen and Jake was the most senior on the floor. It was his only day shift, and it was clear he was in a fog for the entire service. It was also Simone’s day off. The people who remained on this pared-down crew were usually mildly hungover at best, actively ill at worst.

Ariel pulled down a stack of clean quart containers and headed into the wine cellar. Those quarts, which once housed minced garlic, shallot vinaigrette, aioli, tuna salad, shredded Gruyère, they came back as “beverages.”

“It’s just Sancerre on ice, splash of soda and lemon. Stick a straw in it and it looks like seltzer.”

“I need the treats, Ari, I could’ve had Skipper make beverages.”

“Skipper?” she asked me.

“Barbie’s little sister.” I shook my head. “I’ve given up. Each one is better than the last.”

She had a handful of blue pills.

“Two for you because you’re huge, and we will split one because we are tiny.” She broke a pill in half and handed it to me.

“I haven’t eaten,” I said. “Also, what is it?”

“Adderall. Fixes everything. Obviously.”

Obviously. I took my half and sucked on my straw. I felt dizzy as soon as I swallowed. It wasn’t noon yet.

“Delicious.”

Scott gulped his down in two sucks and handed the quart back to her. He was sweating, breathing hard, and I had a vision of him collapsing during service, a bear keeling over.

“Refill, refill.”

“You’re going to have to teach Skip how to do this stuff — I have work to do,” Ariel said, but took the quarts and headed back into the wine cellar.

“What do you want?” Scott looked at me sideways.

“What?”

“What. Do. You. Want. To eat.”

“Um.” At my hesitation he moved on to other tasks and I saw the precious opportunity slipping away. “What’s in the omelet?”