The Brandy Alexander
Flicka von Hannover
Oops.
A few weeks later, Flicka and Scotta were hanging over the bar, watching Frank screw up their drink orders again. The bar smelled like he had mopped up stale beer with a reeking towel. Flicka didn’t rest her arms on the dark wood. That smell might rub off on her.
The area around the bar was set up with tables and televisionsfor sports betting and Keno, but the deserted chairs were haphazardly clustered around the tables.
Scotta pointed at what Frank was doing. “That’s supposed to be a regular martini, not a vodka martini.”
Frank shot a nasty look at Scotta but started making her a new one. Half of the gin ended up on his shirt cuffs and the bar.
Flicka was trying hard to be nice while she pointed to a drink thatFrank had slapped on her tray. Bright orange fluid floated on a red, syrupy layer. “I appreciate all that extra lime juice in this rum punch, but other people might want some rum in it, too.”
He sneered, “I put the rum in it.”
“Honey, I watched you make it. It’s got all the juices, the grenadine, and the nutmeg, but you never reached for the liquor shelves. And you can smell that it doesn’thave any rum in it. Here.” She held out the drink and waited.
“I hate it how you bitches criticize every damn drink I make,” Frank said, slamming a beer that he had been pouring on the counter. “I hate working here. I hate Prissy, and I hate you two.I quit.”
He stalked away.
Flicka stared at him, open-mouthed.
Scotta yelled after him, “Don’t be like that. Come back and make these drinks!”
Frank stomped out of the bar. The casino crowd swallowed him.
“Well, that’s just great,” Scotta fretted. “Now we don’t have a bartender.”
“I’m going to make a decent rum punch for my guy,” Flicka said, bustling behind the bar and pouring the sweetened fruit juice down the sink. “And I’m going to make Bastien a good martini instead of that vermouth-soaked, watered-down crap he’s been putting upwith. And I’m going to pour a decent beer with the right amount of head for Dieter and Larry and Meg out there.”
Scotta asked her, “Can you make my chick a good martini while you’re at it?”
“Sure,” Flicka said, scowling at the disorganized bottles on the shelves. All the bottles were scrambled. They were neither alphabetized nor grouped by liquor type nor by quality.Sheesh.“Do you know ifshe likes it dry or not?”
“She keeps saying ‘standard’ to me and emphasizing it.”
“I’ll bet Frank has been slapping the vermouth on top of the gin in those glasses and not bothering to stir or shake them. Does she want olives or lemon peel?”
“Olives,” Scotta said.
Flicka poured the beers for both their customers, made a nice rum punch with clean layers, and then shook up a double batch ofmartinis for the two glasses. “Come on. Let’s get these out there before Frank changes his mind and comes back.”
They served the drinks to the customers and raced back to the dark bar at the back of the casino. The televisions were all showing fires and running soldiers instead of sports.
But still no Frank.
Scotta told Flicka her orders, and Flicka whipped them up.
The problem was that threeother waitstaff—Minx, Abra, and Charla—had returned to the bar to pick up their orders.
So Flicka tossed those together before heading back out with her drinks.
When she went back five minutes later, Scotta was behind the bar pouring the beers. “Come on. We’ve got nineteen orders piled up, and the girls will be back in a second. I don’t know how to do the mixed ones. I never paid attention.”
“You’re doing great with the beer,” Flicka said, grabbing glasses and shakers. “I’ll do the mixed drinks.”
