Chapter Twenty
The Bartender
The bartender is crating up the empty bottles around the side of the hotel, beside the pungent waste and recycling bins, when a motorbike swings past him and into the nearby staff car park. The bartender narrows his eyes, wondering if this is a guest who has taken the wrong turning– there’s a far more salubrious parking area for hotel residents elsewhere, away from the smell of bin-juice– but when the motorcyclist parks up and takes off his helmet he sees that it’s Andreas, the boss’s son.
‘Hi,’ says Andreas, striding over, the helmet dangling from one hand. He’s in his early twenties and built like Dimitris, with muscular shoulders and a chest as broad as an ox. Just the bartender’s type, actually. ‘Is my dad around, do you know?’
‘I’ll see if Ican find him,’ the bartender replies, abandoning the crates and straightening up. The last time he saw Dimitris, he was in conversation with Yiorgos, one of the groundsmen, and they’d vanished off together. He could be anywhere. ‘Let’s try his office first,’ he says as Andreas falls into step beside him.
They’re in luck: Dimitris is in his glass-walled office, having a meeting with a smartly dressed man and woman who are sitting earnest-faced at the large round table there. The bartender hesitates, unsure whether or not to disturb them, but then Dimitris glances up, sees Andreas, and immediately beams broadly and gestures for them to open the door. ‘This is my son,’ he tells the man and woman as he gets up and claps Andreas on the shoulder. ‘Andreas, could you give us another twenty minutes? These very nice people have come in to discuss having their conference here with us next year, and we are not quite finished. Konstantinos, perhaps you could take Andreas to the bar and get him a drink, please? Thank you.’
‘Of course,’ says Konstantinos, closing the office door, then leading Andreas out to the bar. He is struck, as always, by the easy, warm relationship between Dimitris and his children. This is my son, he hears Dimitris say proudly again, with that hand on the shoulder, love emanating like sunbeams from his face, and he can’t help but feel a corresponding stab of envy in response. Imagine, he thinks with an inward sigh, how good that must feel. Like a thick blanket around you on a cold night, like a forcefield against the stresses of life. In contrast, Konstantinos’ own father, Nico, has never expressed love or pride in him. He wishes he could say that he has given up hope but it’s not true. However tough he tries to make his own skin, there will always be a soft vulnerable part of him that can’t help holding out for fatherly approval.
‘What can Iget you?’ he asks when they reach the bar. A dreary ballad is playing, the sort of thing his divorced aunty listens to, and he skips the song and selects ‘This Hell’ by Rina Sawayama instead to liven things up. Let’s go, Rina, he thinks, listening to the opening riff. Zoe, one of the waitresses here, loves a bit of melancholy and is frequently trying to sneak Mitski or Taylor Swift tracks into the playlist, but although Konstantinos can see that songs of mournful yearning have their place (in his divorced aunty’s living room, for example), that place is not a hotel bar where people are on holiday.
Andreas asks for a Coke and Konstantinos serves it to him with ice and a slice of lime. Not for him a warm glass and a so-what attitude, even when he’s pouring a simple Coke. In Konstantinos’ bar, every drink can be a party in a glass, something special to be savoured. Get him started on the cocktail-making and he’s in his element, absolutely loving the theatre and spectacle. The first rule of hospitality– make everyone feel special, that they are worthy of your time and care. Not that his dad seems to understand. ‘Pouring drinks for rich people, is that really what you want to do with your life? When are you going to get a proper job?’
A proper job, like a real man, that’s what he means. A man’s job in construction, maybe, or farming, or engineering. Work that involves one’s hands; rough, tough outdoor work. Konstantinos’ dad has spent thirty years on building sites, he can’t understand why his son wants to take a so-called woman’s job in a bar. The thought of him ever announcing to his colleagues, ‘This is my son’ with love in his voice like Dimitris just did. . . it will never happen.
‘A man of your age, you should be settled down with a wife and family by now, providing for them. You can’t mess about with a cocktail shaker for ever, you know,’ Nico had pronounced last year when Konstantinos was home for Christmas. He had caught his mum’s eye at the words ‘wife and family’ but she shook her head in a tiny no, a silent gesture that begged, Don’t spoil Christmas . There’s so much Nico doesn’t know– and doesn’t want to know either.
‘Family’s not everything,’ Zoe tells him, but it’s all right for her, training to be a doctor at university; her parents must be crazy with pride for her. ‘Anyway, Iknow it’s not the same, but you can make your own family, right?’ she’d said the other day. ‘You’re always telling me I’ve got little-sister energy, so. . .’ She’d poked a finger into her cheek and batted her eyelashes at him, and they’d both laughed. He’s going to miss her when she goes back to uni.
Two middle-aged women have approached the bar and, after some deliberation over the cocktail list, ask for a Pisco Sour and a Paloma. ‘Excellent choices,’ Konstantinos says, setting to work on the Pisco Sour. He puts the ingredients together in a cocktail shaker, slaps the lid down and shakes vigorously.
‘That looks hard work,’ one of the women comments, her eyes on Konstantinos’ upper body. ‘Who needs the gym, eh?’
‘The perfect workout– and a drink afterwards,’ her friend says. ‘What’s not to like?’
‘Absolutely,’ Konstantinos says, smiling back at them. (‘These poor women,’ Zoe often teases, when the two of them are having a break together. ‘Clustering around you like the wasps to our pastries. And all the while wasting their time. It’s a tragedy, Kon. So many hearts shattered.’)
Having added ice to the cocktail, Konstantinos shakes the contents again for a solid thirty seconds, before pouring the mixture through a strainer. Then for the garnish– four careful drops of angostura bitters dotted around one side of the foam, and the gentle pull of a cocktail stick through them to create a line of hearts.
‘So pretty!’ the first woman cries, clapping her hands.
It’s only while he’s making the Paloma, rolling the glass rim in chilli salt, that he notices that Dimitris has brought the man and woman from his meeting to the bar, and that the three of them are observing the performance. ‘Konstantinos here is our very best mixologist,’ he hears Dimitris tell them. ‘His cocktails are an art form, believe me! So your guests would be well looked after in the evening, with his expertise on hand.’
There’s a bursting feeling in Konstantinos’ heart as he looks up from the glass he’s holding to see his boss’s face and the warmth therein. The– dare he say it?– the pride. It’s only the smallest moment– Dimitris is already shepherding the two of them away, talking about the menus they could offer at the restaurant, the number they could cater for– but the glow Konstantinos feels burning inside him after his boss’s comments will end up lasting for the rest of the day.
Iknow it’s not the same, but you can make your own family, right? he hears Zoe say again in his head as he garnishes the Paloma, and he smiles to himself. That’s the thing about little sisters, he supposes. They drive you mad with their musical tastes but, every now and then, they get it right.