Sweetbitter(12)

“No.” I slammed a portafilter to empty it and I could feel him walk away.

But I was. The dreams were tidal, consumptive, chaotic. Service played over in my head, but no one had faces. And I heard voices, layered on top of one another, a cacophony. Phrases would rise then evanesce: Behind You, Pick Up, To Your Right, To Your Left, Picking Up, Candles, Can You, Now, Toothpicks, Pick Up, Bar Mops, Now, Excuse Me, Picking Up.

In my dreams these words were a code. I was blind and the directives were all I had to pick my way through the blackness. The syllables quaked and separated. I woke up talking: I couldn’t remember what I had been saying, only that I was driven to keep saying it.

—

TERROIR. I looked it up in The World Atlas of Wine in the manager’s office. The definition was people talking around it without identifying it. It seemed a bit far-fetched. That food had character, composed of the soil, the climate, the time of year. That you could taste that character. But still. An idea mystical enough to be highly seductive.

—

IGNORE HIM. That’s what I did. When Jake came into family meal late and took his seat next to Simone, when he pulled up on his bike outside the front window, when he called harshly out for bar mops, I looked away.

But I started to hear things, all of it unverifiable and improbable. Jake was a musician, a poet, a carpenter. He had lived in Berlin, he had lived in Silver Lake, he had lived in Chinatown. He was halfway through a PhD on Kierkegaard. They called his apartment “the opium den.” He was bisexual, he slept with everyone, he slept with no one. He was an ex–heroin addict, he was sober, he was always a little drunk.

He and Simone were not a couple though their magnetic, unconscious way of tracking each other seemed to indicate otherwise. I knew they were very old friends, and that she had gotten him the job. Some nights a cherubic strawberry blonde that Sasha called Nessa-Baby came and sat in front of Jake at the bar as service was winding down.

He knew part of his job was to be looked at. He was a quiet bartender. There was a submissiveness to his beauty that was nearly feminine, a stillness that made one want to paint him. When he worked the bar he submitted. Women and men of all ages left business cards and phone numbers with their tips. Guests gave him gifts for no reason—that kind of beauty.

If he rolled up his shirtsleeves, you could see the edges of tattoos that spoke to another private body he kept. It was the sight of his arm resting on the beer tap that changed me. The beer was acting up. The kegs were probably too new, not cold enough. Just foam, no beer. Jake let the foam pour while he talked to a guest. The drain was full of foam, it ran over to his feet, a spreading white pool. His sleeve was rolled up, the tendons of his forearm tensed from shaking cocktails. I remembered that static shock when I touched him. I felt the shock in my mouth. His inappropriate forearm and the foam cascading, his manner too casual, too condescending.

“That’s a lot of beer to waste,” I said. My voice surprised me, ringing out over my vow of silence.

He looked at me. Perhaps it was raining that night, a stifling tropical storm. Perhaps someone struck a match and held it to my cheek. Perhaps someone cleaved my life into before and after. He looked at me. And then he laughed. From that moment on he became unbearable to me.

—

YOU WILL ENCOUNTER a fifth taste.

Umami: uni, or sea urchin, anchovies, Parmesan, dry-aged beef with a casing of mold. It’s glutamate. Nothing is a mystery anymore. They make MSG to mimic it. It’s the taste of ripeness that’s about to ferment. Initially, it serves as a warning. But after a familiarity develops, after you learn its name, that precipice of rot becomes the only flavor worth pursuing, the only line worth testing.





IV


The sardines are insane tonight.

It’s true, Chef called him a faggot.

HR is freaking out.

Have you been to Ss?m bar yet?

No, the best Chinese is in Flushing.

I’m playing a show Wednesday.

Scott is on fire.

I was obsessed with Chekhov.

I’m obsessed with Campari right now.

I need to get my cameras out again.

I’m fairly well known in the experimental dance world.

Table 43 is industry—Per Se?

If one more bitch cuts me off to ask for Chardonnay—

If one more person asks for steak sauce—

What the fuck?

Carson is in again—without the wife.

That’s twice this week.

Sometimes I think, Fuck the pooled house.

I’m not jealous.

Technically I texted first. But he responded.

You don’t get it.

I’m on day three—I feel great, high all the time.

Will you water 24?

Will you drop bread on 49?

Move.

Fuck off.

Fuck you.

It’s like the rude Olympics in here today.

They’re just French.

And after I took the LSAT, I was like wait, I don’t want to be a lawyer.

I still paint sometimes.

I just need space. And time. And money.

It’s so hard in New York.

Allergy on 61.

It’s not really romantic.

I’d fuck the mom.

Does she come in drunk?

It’s just lemon, maple syrup, and cayenne.

It’s just Nicky’s martinis, never drink more than one.