Triple Sec

Chapter 11

MELANIE SORRENTO:

After reviewing your submission materials, The Beverage Outreach Committee of Food Fest, Inc., is pleased to welcome you as an official competitor in the inaugural contest celebrating The New Era of New York Mixology. Once your cocktail recipe is finalized, please complete the attached form to request the necessary ingredients, tools, and glassware so they can be provided on the day of the competition. You will also find attached the official schedule and rule book. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out. We are looking forward to seeing you and your fellow competitors shine a well-deserved spotlight on the dynamic and innovative New York cocktail scene.

Mel read the email a third time to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She was in. She wasn’t magical-thinking her way through the waiting period anymore; she was actually in. This was real.

She put her hands over her mouth and gave a muffled scream of happiness.

Mel put her battered laptop to the side and searched through her twisty bedsheets for her phone. This called for a celebration. Mel couldn’t wait to tell Bebe, who would surely know the perfect fabulous-yet-unknown restaurant for the occasion. When her fingers finally closed around the phone, Mel remembered: she’d probably ruined things with Bebe last night at the gallery.

She thought “probably” because it had all been so fucking weird. Bebe had acted like her normal effusive self, but there was a pall hanging over the rest of their date night. Once they finished taking in Kade’s art, they’d lingered awkwardly on the sidewalk. Mel hadn’t waited for Bebe to do the rejecting. She’d made some excuse about needing an early start the next morning. Their plans for spending the night together were put aside. It was the first time one of their dates hadn’t involved sex of some kind. Bebe didn’t seem upset about that, exactly, but there had been a strange tension in her when she kissed Mel good night.

Maybe Mel should have just returned the sentiment when Bebe had said she liked her. Except she couldn’t say that because it was too true.

She tossed her cell onto her nightstand with a groan. Better to leave it for now, give them both some breathing room. She could tell Bebe the good news later. After all, she needed her “early start” excuse to hold water, and it wouldn’t if she started texting Bebe first thing.

She’d have to be content with telling Daniel when she saw him at work. He’d spent the night at Jackson’s and wasn’t home yet. Mel dragged herself out of bed and into her clothes. Might as well actually start early, especially now that she seriously needed to refine her competition drink.

She headed into Terror Virtue and spent several hours behind the bar messing around with her apple butter old-fashioned idea. Maybe it was the stilted way she’d left things with Bebe, but she felt off her game. Amateur mistakes, measuring out the wrong amounts, forgetting to chill what needed chilling, shaking what should have been stirred. Still, she kept at it because that was what she did.

Mel brought the glass under her nose and sniffed its contents. The aroma was close to what she’d been aiming for, a combination of herbaceous, spicy, and fruity. She held the glass up to the light, taking in the cocktail’s rosy color. That was also on point. Secretly, Mel was pleased to have captured the essence of Bebe’s cheeks in a postorgasmic flush.

Not that this drink was about Bebe.

Mel had merely… taken Bebe’s tastes into account while building this recipe.

The fat-washed bourbon was paired with high-grade maple syrup, a dash of cinnamon candy bitters, and a skewer of cherries stewed in Finger Lakes Riesling. Very Bebe, but also very New York. Mel had spent hours combing through boring state government websites to learn about upstate agriculture so she could showcase local products in the drink. She hadn’t realized before that New York had the largest population of tappable sugar maples in the country (suck it, Vermont), but once she found out, she subbed the usual sweet element with maple syrup. Mel gave her glass one final, proud look before she took a sip.

And recoiled.

It was sickeningly sweet, cloying to the point of frying every taste bud she had. Forget New York and its exciting nightlife; this cocktail’s inspiration was closer to overindulging on candy corn. Mel swallowed, but the harsh flavor remained in her mouth. “Ugh. Bleh.” She worked her tongue around, then chugged a glass of ice water to cleanse her palate.

She put both hands on the rail and let her head hang heavy between her shoulders. Her groan echoed. The fat-washed bourbon had tasted great on its own. Every element, in fact, had tasted great individually. Why did it suck so bad in combination? It didn’t make any sense.

Maybe, a voice whispered in Mel’s head, some things are better off alone.

She shoved the thought away. “Back to the drawing board,” she muttered to herself, and dumped the too-sweet cocktail into the sink. It swirled pinkishly down the drain.

Daniel swished up to the bar, looking harried. His hair was unusually messy, but given his night spent at Jackson’s, that was possibly a good thing. “Hey, did you hear about this bullshit?”

Mel held up a palm. “Wait, I have something to tell you first.”

His expression fell. “Can’t my thing be first?”

“No, let’s do my thing. It’s a good thing.” She shook off her disappointment with the test-run drink and her squishy feelings for Bebe and tried to bask for a moment. She struck a pose, hands on her hips. “You’re looking at an official entrant in the Food Fest cocktail competition.”

“Really?” Daniel’s face lit up in genuine joy. “Mel, that’s amazing!” He tried to reach over the bar, but the distance was too much, so he ducked under the leaf and wrapped her up in a bear hug. “I knew you could do it.”

Mel squeezed her arms around his waist. “This is only step one, though. Still got to win the damn thing.”

“Well, yeah, but step one is done. You crushed step one.” Daniel bounced up and down on the balls of his feet a couple times, and Mel joined him, laughing.

When they broke apart, Mel made a rolling gesture with her hands. “Okay. Now tell me your thing. What bullshit?”

Daniel’s good cheer slipped away. “Jessica told me that Kathy Ellen told her that Brent said we’re going to be sold.”

Mel’s head swung up. “What do you mean, sold? Why? To who?”

TV was one of the top five, if not the absolute top, cocktail lounges in the tristate area in terms of profitability. Why would the owner ever sell? Her thoughts were in a jumble. Maybe the current owner, a retired bartender who’d made it big-time with a series of bestselling mixology books, had stopped covering the rent. Maybe he’d embezzled Terror Virtue’s profits and left the bar drained. Maybe the new owner was some shady investment conglomerate that was going to fire everyone and replace them with AI.

“I don’t have any details yet,” Daniel said. “Brent’s in his office, but no one’s had the balls to ask him what’s going on.”

Mel wiped her hands on a bar towel. “Let’s go.”

“Wha— Now? The both of us?” Daniel’s mouth trouted open and shut. “Do I really need to be there? I’m more of a post-confrontation debriefer.”

Mel opened the leaf at the end of the bar with a sharp smack. “Front row seat, Danny. Strap in.” She headed straight toward the back, where the managerial office’s discreet door blended into the wallpaper.

Daniel fast-walked to catch up. “Okay, but I am only here as a witness.”

Mel rapped on the door, turning the knob even before she heard Brent’s belated “Come in.” The shift manager was sitting behind his desk in the cramped room, working at a laptop. He was middle-aged, white, bearded, and milquetoastedly pleasant in a way Mel supposed was good for dealing with guests, though it personally grated on her nerves.

Brent glanced up from his laptop screen. “Oh, Mel. Daniel.” He returned his gaze to the computer, tapping away at the keys. “What can I do for you?”

Mel crossed her arms over her chest. “Who’s buying us?”

That got Brent’s attention. He looked back up at her and shut the lid of his laptop.

Behind her, Daniel slowly closed the office door with a soft click.

“The news is spreading like wildfire, huh?” Brent smiled, but it was brittle, the kind he wore when denying someone a night off. “Yes, it’s all very exciting. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Sunspot Group?”

“Oh, sure, the Sunspot Group,” Daniel muttered under his breath. “Everyone knows the Sunspot Group.” He leaned closer to Mel. “What the fuck is the Sunspot Group?”

Mel turned her head toward him. “Huge hospitality conglomerate. They own about two-thirds of the most profitable restaurants in this town. Del Pucci, Café Vivori, City Kitchen, The Rare Parrot. And now us.” She turned back to Brent. “Why us? I don’t think Sunspot’s ever invested in a cocktail lounge before.”

Brent raised both palms in the air. “Look, at this point, I know about as much as you do. It’s all lawyers and contracts and negotiations. Above my pay grade.”

Mel’s lips thinned. Lawyers and contracts? Bebe might know what the deal was. Mel made a mental note to ask if she’d heard anything the next time they got together.

Her silence must have made Brent uncomfortable because he forged ahead: “If you’re worried about the future, don’t be. Nothing will change for us. Same business, same menu, just a different name on your paychecks. And if things do start evolving down the road, everything’ll be positive. Sunspot is a fantastic outfit. They’ll make sure we’re a finely tuned money-making machine, better than ever. That’s all.”

Mel didn’t like the sound of that one bit. Terror Virtue was already packed every night, so the only ways she could see the bar making more money was cutting corners, raising prices, and understaffing. Guests weren’t fools—well, for the most part. But even the fools would notice a decline in quality; they’d start going to newer bars that offered a better experience. She’d seen it happen again and again in this town. The TV name was only as good as its current level of service.

“The staff might appreciate updates,” she said stiffly. “You know, as everything develops.”

Brent gave her a double thumbs-up. “You got it. As soon as I know more, you’ll know more. You have my word.”

Mel didn’t put much stock in Brent’s word. He’d also promised to replace the ragged floor mats behind the bar months ago, and the torn-up black plastic honeycomb was still there, tripping up bartenders at least five times every shift.

Still, Mel gave Brent a nod in thanks. “Yeah. Keep us posted.” She turned back to the door, a hand on Daniel’s arm, but Brent spoke up again, causing her to turn back.

“Oh hey, Mel, while you’re here, can I have a word?” He looked pointedly at Daniel. “You can close the door on your way out, Dan.”

Daniel gave Mel a look, which she silently answered with a tilt of her head. Go ahead, I’ll give you all the gossip later. Daniel nodded, a small gesture that clearly stated, You better.

Once Daniel was gone and the door was shut, Brent gestured to the battered chair in front of his desk. “Sit, sit! I hardly ever have a chance to catch up with my MVP of bartenders. You carry every shift, you know that?” He smiled wide and fake. “A real asset to the TV family.”

“Thanks,” Mel said, taking her seat with more than a little trepidation. She’d never bought into the whole “We Are Family” crap that Brent peddled. If they were a family, where was her damn health insurance, for starters? Her paid sick leave? Family was supposed to take care of each other, not expect unending sacrifice from select members.

“I want to talk about your little science project,” Brent said. “I saw some containers in the blast chiller? With your name on some Post-its?”

Mel stared at him. While he was making it sound like a question, she wasn’t really sure what he was asking. The bartenders at TV had always been allowed, even encouraged, to use the high-grade equipment to experiment with new flavor profiles and techniques. As long as their pet projects didn’t interfere with their regular work—and they gave their best results to Calvin, the head bartender, to consider incorporating into the strictly curated menu—it was all kosher. The Post-it system was simply their low-tech way of keeping things organized. “Yeah?” she finally said.

“In the future, we’re going to streamline things a touch,” Brent said, still smiling that creepy smile. “The next time you want to make something off-book, come run it by me first.”

“Why?” Mel couldn’t keep the note of distrust out of her voice. “I thought tinkering in the back was okay as long as we were off the clock.”

“Yeah, of course. No doubt, no doubt.” Brent bobbed his head, then leaned over the desk like he was sharing a secret. “It’s just that the new guys with Sunspot are already asking us to find ways to get costs down, and one thing we can do is try to keep the experiments to a minimum. Very eco-friendly, actually. Less waste all around.”

Mel felt her jaw ticking. “But developing new drinks—”

“Is Calvin’s job,” Brent said. “And if I’m remembering right, Calvin and I haven’t given any of your drinks the green light before, right?” His voice held a pitying note that made Mel want to smash his face in with his Chrysler Building paperweight.

“No,” Mel said, all ice. “Not yet.”

“Right! Exactly. Not yet. Love that optimism.” Brent held up one finger. “But with the way we’re streamlining now, we’re going to have to give priority to the folks with an existing track record. You understand, right?”

“So I’m never going to have a real shot at getting something on the menu because you only want people with menu experience to make new stuff?” Mel barked out a harsh laugh. It was a snake-eating-its-own-tail situation.

“No, no,” Brent cooed. “Of course you’ll have opportunities. You’ll just need my sign-off first before taking up valuable resources, that’s all.” He paused, looking regretful in a carefully practiced way. “And if the rumors are true, whatever you’re working on right now isn’t for the Terror Virtue menu. It’s for some competition, right?” He shook his head. “It’s not really fair to the other bartenders if you’re using stuff for personal reasons.”

There were a million arguments on the tip of Mel’s tongue. Snappy lines about professional development and needing to feel the backing of her “TV family” in this competition. Ideas about how raising her own profile meant raising the profile for Terror Virtue itself, being an ambassador, showing the world that the best new ideas in mixology were coming out of their bar and nowhere else. A metric ton of bullshit corporate-speak when what she really wanted to say was, Fuck you, no one else was using the chiller! Don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining, you smarmy sack of shit.

But Mel did not say that. She didn’t say any of it, even the more reasoned stuff. She could see, in the glint of Brent’s eye, how it would go: she would protest, he would shoot her down, all while pretending to be her best buddy, and nothing would change. There was no winning. Brent was like a managerial killbot. He had his orders and wouldn’t deviate. That much was clear.

“Sure,” she said, feeling pathetic and defeated. “Message received.”

“I knew you’d understand. Smart girl like you.” He opened his laptop, the dismissal clear in the gesture. “Well, I won’t keep you. We’ve got a shift to crush, yeah?”

Mel pictured setting him on fire. It was a strangely soothing image. She didn’t bother giving him an answer, just left the office and stalked back to the bar.

Daniel swanned up alongside. “What did the bearded wonder want to talk to you about?”

“Nothing,” Mel grumbled. “He wanted to rap my knuckles for wasting company resources on the competition.”

“You’re kidding. What’s next? Telling me I’m not allowed to take bar olives home?”

Mel squinted at him. “You take home olives? When? How?” Those commercial jars of olives were about the size of a terrier; Mel was certain she would have noticed Daniel lugging one home after a shift.

“I have a system. It involves a lot of Ziploc bags. But we’re not talking about me right now.” Daniel stuck a finger in her direction. “You weren’t buying what our good buddy Brent was selling, were you?”

“About everything being hunky-dory, yellow-brick-road with the new ownership?” Mel sighed. “Yeah. I’m skeptical. Which reminds me—” She pulled out her cell phone—her shift didn’t start for another forty-five minutes, so Brent couldn’t complain—and texted Bebe.

Hey Bee have you heard anything about the Sunspot Group? Looks like they’re buying tv

Mel stared at the screen, smiling when she saw the tiny Read checkmark appear. Maybe she was too in her own head about last night. Bebe wasn’t the kind of person to hold a grudge over something like that. The dots that indicated Bebe typing a reply undulated right beneath. Then they stopped. Mel’s smile slipped. She thought she saw the dots appear again, but they disappeared so fast she thought she might be mistaken. She waited for what felt like the longest minute of her life. Still nothing.

“Huh,” she said. “That’s weird.”

Daniel looked up, frozen in the act of spearing an olive from Mel’s garnish tray with a cocktail stick. “What’s weird?”

“Bebe. She left me on Read. She never leaves me on Read.”

Daniel shrugged and jabbed his stick through a plump olive. “She could be going into a courtroom or something.”

“Yeah. That’s probably it.” Were courts open this late in the afternoon? No sense dwelling on it. Mel slipped her phone into her back pocket. Technically she was supposed to keep it in a locker during her shift, but she wanted to feel the vibration if and when Bebe texted her back. No harm in that. “Hey, quit eating my back-up work! Don’t you have your own prep to do?” She shooed Daniel away from her tray.

Daniel popped the olive in his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time. “Ziplocs,” he said before floating away to do whatever a server did before a shift.