20
Sam
Tiffany took a sip of wine, and a kaleidoscope of emotions, all of some form of disgust, played across her face.“What, and I mean this nicely, in the fuck is that?”
We were seated at Stephen Pierce’s wine bar in River North, at his behest.It was unsightly, with supposedly French décor that was a frustrating mix of various European styles (and decades) and waitstaff who were apparently trained in the fine art of snobbery.
It took an immense amount of energy not to roll my eyes at every bit of it.A habit I suspected I was learning from Tiffany.
“A Grenache.”Apparently.
She placed it as far from her as she could.“It’s an abomination, is what it is.That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve put in my mouth, and that’s a low fucking bar.”
I swallowed a snort, fixing my features into nonchalance.I wouldn’t quite have put it in those terms, but I couldn’t disagree with the assessment.The wine here was terrible.
So far, all we’d gathered from this visit only served to confirm my suspicions of Stephen Pierce.Clearly, he valued pretension over flavor, so the wine list was littered with organic and exotic styles that he thought would give them a modern edge.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the palette to discern great wine from blended swill, although his customers didn’t seem to mind.
Which …
Worried me.
Because these were now potentially my customers.
And while I reluctantly agreed to expand the cocktail list—nothing fancy, despite Tiffany’s protests—I didn’t want to become the kind of bar where you had to earn six figures to drink there.
“Did you want to try this?”she asked, edging it towards me.
“I’d rather not.”
“No?Would you prefer something else?I saw a Pét Nat on the list.”
I would rather drink prison wine.“No, thank you, Tiffany.”
Slowly, her grin spread, brightening her features into near blinding proportions.It would take a stronger man than me to turn away.Not that I wanted to.Since I’d known her, I’d been drawn in.
“Anytime, Samuel.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Would you prefer Sammy?”
I grimaced.“Absolutely not.”
“Pity.I can see you as a Sammy.”
“I can see you as unemployed.”
Her boisterous laugh was out of place among the antique paintings and Gustavia chairs, but it was sunshine for my mood.I was becoming disgustingly addicted to drawing it out of her.
“Come on.”I stood, ready to get out of there.“If we leave now, we won’t have to speak with him.”Stephen Pierce, it seemed, grew more insufferable with every added experience.
“Finally, something we agree on.”She quickly followed me out, shrugging her suede jacket back on and pulling her hair out with one hand.It glittered like golden thread in the afternoon light, making her even more beautiful.
I shook off the image before she could catch me staring.
“So, I guess I’ll see you at this thing tonight?”she asked.
