“You’re thinking about wine, which comes from several types of grape. All tequila comes from blue agave.”
“Ooooh. Is that like a fruit?”
“It’s a plant. Like a cactus.”
“Is it really blue?”
“No. Can we focus, please?”
“Okay. I’m just trying to be thorough in case a customer asks.”
“No customer is going to ask if the plant is blue,” I snap.
She throws up her palms in surrender. “You got it, Chef Cra—“ She catches herself here, mixing my name up with another chef, maybe. An old boss in New Jersey, perhaps?
“Nobody calls me Chef here,” I say, circling my index finger around, indicating the restaurant. “Here, I’m Ignacio.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Ignacio. Got it.”
“Back to the tequila,” I say, strangely only slightly annoyed. This feeling—it’s more like annoyed adjacent. “It’s the aging process that gives it color… usually.”
“What do you mean by usually?”
“Some brands add food coloring and sugar. It’s an abomination. But we don’t carry any of those brands here.”
“That would be a travesty.”
I can’t tell if she’s serious or making fun. I don’t really have the patience to find out.
“Moving on.” I pick up one of the shot glasses from the flight. “Silver tequila is not aged. It’s the purest a tequila can be after it’s been distilled.”
“Does that make it the best?”
“It depends. I prefer silver tequila in margaritas. Take a sip.”
She pulls a face. “I’m not great with hard liquor.”
I can appreciate that. I don’t partake all that much myself.
“Then just pass it under your nose. What do you smell?”
Olive lifts the glass to her nose and takes a sniff. “It just smells like alcohol.”
“Okay. Try the next one. That’s called a reposado. Aged about six months.”
She takes the reposado in hand and takes a shallow whiff. “Smells the same to me.”
“No, you need to really take it in your senses. Appreciate the notes. Hang on a sec.”
Leaving my spot behind the bar, I circle around to stand next to where she’s sitting—to help her experience the aroma and culture of the beverage.
“Close your eyes,” I say. “Let go of everything you think you know about liquor.”
Her eyes flutter shut, long, dark lashes fanned along her cheeks. And there’s a witchy smile on her lips as if poised to crack a joke.
“Something strike you as funny?” I lower my voice to a whisper—a little too close to her ear. At this distance, I can smell her shampoo. Something overly sweet and fruity, like strawberry.
Her eyes are still closed, but her mouth hooks up in one corner, like she’s fighting a smile.