The lighting dims. It’s 10pm.
“Could I get a whiskey soda, please?”
The bartender nods, dropping a handful of ice into a plastic cup, pulling out a jug of Maker’s Mark, going to town. One-Two-Three, maybe four counts.
With the cup an inch from full, he does a juggling act: pulls back the jug and squirts out soda water until the surface tension breaks.
I take out my card, make a chopping motion with my hand. But the bartender shakes his head, leaning in, “There’s a two-drink minimum if you pay with card.” So I sigh, “Alright.”
