“Both, probably.”
By 6 p.m., we had our first real rush.
And Benji was . . .
I still didn’t have words for what Benji was.
He was fast—faster than me, which was saying something. He could make three drinks simultaneously while carrying on a conversation with a customer about why the Tampa Bay Rays deserved more respect, and also did they know that the mojito was actually Cuban and not Puerto Rican despite what most people thought?
And damn, he was efficient. It was like watching a professional athlete playing at the top of his game. Every movement had purpose, no wasted motion, and the kind of economy that came from years of high-volume work.
He was also insane.
“Okay,” he announced to a customer. “You want a whiskey sour. I’m going to make you the best whiskey sour of your life, and I’m going to do it while singing ‘Running through My Head’ fromHorny Rivals—”
I gaped as he made the drink perfectly while also putting on a spectacular performance. Bythe time he sang the last note, a huge crowd had gathered around the bar and was singing along with him. They cheered when he stopped and presented the drink with a flourish.
Mark and I were watching from the far end of the bar. I didn’t glance over, but I was pretty sure both our mouths were hanging open. I was leaned against his shoulder, and he was braced against the bar.
“Is he always talking?” I asked Mark.
“Apparently, sometimes he sings,” Mark said. “But look at him work. He’s incredible.”
“The guys sure love him.”
Mark grunted. “That’s an understatement. They’re calling out song requests with their drink orders.”
Around 8 p.m., a group of guys approached the bar—the kind of group that made my bartender instincts tingle because they were definitely going to order something complicated.
“What can I get you delicious hunks of man meat?” Benji asked, somehow making it sound genuine instead of sleazy.
“Can you make a Midnight in Tokyo?” one of them asked, clearly testing him. “It’s gotsake, gin, plum wine, yuzu, and—”
“Stop right there.” Benji held up a hand. “I know what you’re doing. You’re testing the new bartender.I respect that. I appreciate that. I’m about to blow your mind in a way that will make you think I just blew something else. Watch this.”
What happened next was somewhere between performance art and witchcraft.
Benji grabbed bottles without looking, like he had some kind of spatial awareness that defied logic. He started building the drink while talking.
“So Midnight in Tokyo was invented in 2015 by a Japanese bartender in New York—ironic, right?—and the key is the ratio ofsaketo gin, which most people get wrong—”
He flipped thesakebottle.
Caught it behind his back.
Poured a perfect measure without looking.
“—you need a two-to-one ratio of gin tosake, not equal parts, because equal parts makes it too heavy—”
The gin bottle sailed from one hand to the other mid-pour.
“—and the yuzu is fresh, none of that bottled garbage. You muddle it gently. You don’t murder it—”
He was muddling with one hand while building the next part of the drink with the other.
“When did we buy fresh yuzu? Fuck, what is fresh yuzu?” I whispered to Mark.
He shrugged. “I think Rod did that. Maybe the kid had some in his pocket. He’s just weird enough to carry his own stash.”
