Then I spotted it—a bag of something approximating mint leaves. They were the kind corporate sent us for “garnish purposes only,” made from some unholy combination of plastic and sadness. They sort of looked like mint if you squinted and had never seen an actual plant before.
I grabbed the bag and headed back to the bar.
Brad was still standing with the woman, both of them watching me.
“Found some garnish,” I said, holding up the bag.
“Perfect!” Brad’s smile could have powered a small city. “Make her the best mojito she’s ever had.”
Right.
The best mojito ever.
With pre-made mix that tasted like toothpaste.
I got to work, measuring out the mix, adding rum and soda water, and muddling lime. The whole time, I could feel the woman glaring like I was a trained monkey performing for her amusement. I finished the drink, placed one of the plastic mint leaves artfully on top, and slid it across the bar.
“There you go,” I said. “One mojito.”
She picked up the glass, examined it like it might contain poison, and took a sip.
Then she set it down and plucked the mint leaf from the drink.
“This,” she said, holding the plastic garnish between two fingers, “is not real mint.”
“No, ma’am. As I mentioned, we don’t have fresh—”
She waved the plastic leaf in the air between us. It drooped limply from her fingers, hanging there like a sad, green,flaccid—
Oh no.
Oh no!
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek because I was not—absolutely not—going to laugh at the fact that this woman was waving what looked like a limp plastic dick in my face while complaining about the quality of her fourteen-dollar mojito.
I was a professional.
I was twenty-nine years old.
I was above juvenile boy humor.
But God, it lookedexactlylike a—
“This is unacceptable,” she continued, still waving the pathetic garnish around. “I asked for arealmojito withfreshmint, and you give me this—this—”
She gestured more emphatically, and the plastic leaf flopped even more dramatically.
I coughed to cover what was definitely not a laugh trying to escape. Behind the woman, I could see Jessica, one of the servers who was twenty-two and had zero poker face, turn bright red and flee toward the kitchen.
“Ma’am,” Brad interjected, his own smile looking strained, “I apologize for the confusion. Let me comp your drink and—”
“I don’t want it comped. I want a real mojito. Withrealmint.” She was still holding the plasticgarnish aloft like evidence in a criminal trial. “This is an insult.”
The leaf chose that exact moment to droop even further, hanging at what could only be described as a ninety-degree angle of defeat.
I coughed again, harder this time.
“Are you sick?” the woman demanded, finally lowering her hand. “Should you even be working if you’re sick?”
