Page 16 of Bastard Bartender

He pauses. His eyes narrow just a touch as he looks back at me, almost pondering if I’m worth the answer. “The exact same thing,” he finally says. “The Ohio transition wasn’t the easiest,” he states vaguely.

“Care to divulge?” I tempt.

He lifts an olive from a bowl on the bar and pops it into his mouth. “Not really.”

I roll my eyes. “Steel wall of secrecy, eh?”

“I just don’t like to rehash the negative. I’m a live for today kinda guy. If something doesn’t go my way, I let it roll off my shoulders and look to the next exciting thing. All you have to do is live for yourself. Do the things that make you happy.”

“In that case, I’ll have another one of these.” I lift my half-empty glass. “Why wait until it’s finished, right?”

“Exactly.” Nic downs the rest of his drink and orders us another round.

Our dinners are brought out, and I marvel at how quickly they arrived.

“Told you this place is fast.”

“You weren’t kidding. Definitely a good place for a first date.” I look at my monstrous dish that has way too much food on it for one person. It looks gluttonous compared to his simple mussels dish. “Is that enough for you?”

“I don’t eat much. I tend to eat small plates, just more often throughout the day.”

“I’m gonna have to take this home.” I cut into it and take a bite and moan. “That’s good. Really good. Here, try.”

I cut Nic a piece and lift it up to his mouth. He stares at it like I’m offering him poison but takes the bite anyway.

His mouth lifts into a pleased expression. “Not bad.”

“Do you cook?”

He covers his mouth, finishing his bite before saying, “All the time. I’m really good at it.”

I laugh out loud. “Modest much?” He shrugs, so I ask, “What do you make?”

“Anything you want me to make,” he says with a wink.

The response is so sly that I have to roll my eyes to knock him down a peg.

I shake my head as I cut another bite. “I’m the worst. I can make about three things: chicken enchiladas, beef tacos, and egg burritos.” I stick another bite in my mouth.

“The only three meals that matter,” he says with a sense of really meaning it.

I finish my bite and tilt my head in question. I hope he feels this is a sincere question and not a prying one. “What ethnicity are you?”

“Mexican.”

“Well, my Mexican cooking might be lacking compared to what you’re used to. I’m going to have to cook for you, and then you can tell me if it’s comparable to the real thing.”

“You’re from Southern California. I’m sure it’s better Mexican food than what we had in Ohio.”

“But not compared to what your mom cooked. I’m sure I’m right about that. Or what about the food in Mexico? Have you ever been?”

He nods his head as he finishes his bite. “Yes. I lived with my abuela for a few years before she passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear. Do you still have family there?”

He shrugs. “Not really. Both grandparents are gone. I have an uncle, but I’ve been told even at this distance, he’s still not far enough away,” he says with a laugh, so I join in. Everyone has someone like that in their family. “My parents moved here when I was a few months old, so most of our family have relocated to the States.”

“Why Ohio?”