I helped Sylvia move her furniture out of her apartment on Saturday. She rented a storage cube from U-Haul (“UPod”) and also hired some movers to get the heavy furniture down the stairs. The movers turned out to be a mover, which meant I got promoted from management to labor right quick. Raphael and I filled the UPod, then struggled to close it against warped hinges.
Sylvia repaid my effort by treating me to dinner at Foundry on Elm. We had a short wait for a table, so we ordered cocktails at the bar. Our bartender consulted a recipe card several times while shaking up my Manhattan. While waiting, I noticed the bar manager at the far end of the counter. He had to be the bar manager, of course: no one else would be tasting random drinks with a cocktail stirrer while wearing a suit jacket and a shirt unbuttoned all the way to his solar plexus.
(“Do you think he dresses like that because he has this job,” I asked Sylvia, “or did he get this job so he could dress like that?”
“I think he dressed like that already. Or close to it. At work, he allows himself the extra button.”)
Either our bartender consulted the recipe card not enough or too much, as Sylvia’s pisco sour proved bland and my Manhattan was no better than a Jersey City. We told our waiter, who apologized profusely and provided us beers at no cost. The entrees were much more satisfying: crusty flatbreads (i.e., pizza) with Italian sausage.