Dining Out

The bartender’s name is Shalimar.She has a small nose ring, potentially superfluous nerd glasses and all the right tattoos appropriately arrayed. Her laughter is hard and slightly unkind, her manner vaguely privileged, like she was making no secret that she was giving only a very small portion of herself to doing her job.

Making the desserts is a beautiful, young woman wearing black leotards. She has a long frizz of hair, part of which is pinched into a bun at the top of her head, the rest loosely knotted by a bandana that looks like she might have been wearing around her neck two years ago when she worked as a camp counselor. She looks shy and not entirely sure of herself yet, but her job is to make things small and beautiful, to suggest a foreign accent through the softness and distance in her eyes.

The waitress is wearing black leotards, too, only she’s sporting denim shorts over top of them. She whirls out of darkness and puts a plate in front of me, her eyes moving through me to some point in the future– another table she has to tend to, the party she’s going to in an hour, the cat she always feeds on her way home…

Robotically, amidst the almost industrial din of downtown cool, she recites the memorized details of my amuse-bouche, as if a guide speaking through a megaphone to faraway tourists on a hot, double-decker bus excursion.

Men with beards drink artisanal beer at the bar.