You Had Me at Happy Hour
by Timothy Janovsky
One
JULIEN
Julien Boire’s tongue has many talents.
It can decipher the tannin and acidity of a wine from a single sip. It can make his friends-with-benefits moan with a few intentional, well-timed licks. And, on occasion, it can also morph itself into the shape of a clover, a specialty of his since the first grade that won him some friends on the playground.
His tongue, however, also has its faults. Chief among them, its inability to be held when a patron at Martin’s Place insists on ordering a red wine with the salmon entrée.
“While that’s a choice,” he begins, puffing out his chest to display his certified sommelier pin with immense pride, “a buttery, full-bodied chardonnay would pair much better with the mustard-glazed fish. We have an oaked 2018 chardonnay from Santa Barbara County for thirty-five a bottle or nine a glass. May I suggest that instead?”
The man at the table—salt-and-pepper hair, immaculate fingernails, expensive watch—doesn’t even flinch or look up from his menu as he says, “No, you may not.”
Julien, jarred by this, looks to this man’s tablemate, a woman no older than fifty with blunt blond hair in a floral dress with a drooping neckline. She averts her eyes, a move that suggests the man has done this before.
Julien does what he’s done before as well: juts out his chest a little more so that his sommelier pin—a coin-shaped pendant with a face in the center and a purple ring around the edge—catches the light and the attention of the man with the severe dark eyes. This pin is his most prized possession. A marker of his success in his first intense study of wine and all its bold expressions. It also cost him a full weekend of attending lectures, many hours of intense memorizing, several personal breakdowns over the difficulty, and roughly thirteen hundred dollars. He has every right to show it off as a marker of his expertise.
“Sir, it’s only that a cabernet will completely overpower the flavor of the fish,” Julien says with such authority that he’s certain his point will come across. “If you’re positive you’d prefer a red, a pinot noir from Burgundy might do the trick.”
“I think what I asked for would do the trick since it’s what I asked for,” the man says, patience waning in his tone and volume.
Julien has been a server at Martin’s Place since he turned eighteen. Prior, he worked as a dishwasher, a busboy, a host, and a general right-hand man to his uncle who owns the joint alongside his wife. They raised Julien after his parents lost custody (as if they wanted it to begin with) in an ugly court proceeding he prefers not to think about.
Martin’s Place in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, is as much Julien’s home as his one-bedroom apartment in Allentown, and when a patron refuses his wine suggestion, it feels a bit like they’re coming over for a visit and refusing to take off their shoes at the door as requested. An affront. A blatant disrespect that kinks his shoulders and causes sweat to bead on his brow.
“The chef has crafted such an exquisite flavor combination with a more subtle sauce,” Julien says, this time appealing to the woman who is sipping from her water glass. “It would be a shame to cover it up with a wine that’s more robust.”
The man, having pulled his readers off his nose and set them beside his bread plate, looks at Julien with a fiery displeasure. “It would be more of a shame for me to have to talk to your manager about your impertinence.”
The woman pipes up. Julien hopes it will be in his favor, but his face falls when she says, “What ever happened to the customer is always right?” Her tone is dripping with what do you mean you won’t accept my expired coupon energy.
It’s this voice that he can’t stand, even more than outside shoes on his freshly vacuumed carpet. “The customer is always right, but in this instance, you are both dead wrong,” he says with a growl that surprises even him, but it’s been a long day, week, month, and year, so he shouldn’t be. Though he does wish he could gather up those upset words like fireflies in a mason jar and hide them behind his back, but it’s too late. They’re free and blinking, reminding him of the short fuse he’s been trying (and failing) to rein in.
“Well, I never,” says the woman, pulling her napkin from her lap and slapping it down on the table. One end of the napkin lands in the garnished oil set out beside the breadbasket. Julien resists the urge to remove it immediately before the stain spreads and spreads and spreads...
“Are you even listening?” the man barks, pulling Julien from his spiral over the soiled napkin. “This is ridiculous. We try a new restaurant on date night, and this is the reception we get. I can’t believe this place even stays in business. We never see many people in here.”
The woman nods her head, blond bob swishing along with it. “Stella told me to skip this place, and we should’ve listened.” She’s standing now, grabbing her Birkin off her chair and holding it tight to her stomach as if he were a pickpocket who at any moment might use his hands and not his words to snap at her.
Frozen in place, he doesn’t even notice when Uncle Martin—a short, stout man with unkempt eyebrows—steps in beside him. “What’s going on here?” Uncle Martin asks, surveying the situation.
Julien doesn’t have a moment to explain because the woman is saying, “This server refused to serve us the wine we asked for.”
Uncle Martin’s face-caterpillars shoot up into his receding hairline. “My sincerest apologies.”
“Apologies aren’t going to cut it,” the man says. “I hope you understand we’ll be writing a strongly negative online review about this experience. Never have I been so insulted in a dining establishment in my life.”
Julien wants to stand taller, point to his pin, and explain himself. Say to this couple, who clearly weren’t listening to him, that he was only trying to help. Ever since age six, when he started living with Uncle Martin and Aunt Augustine, he’s been in awe of the service industry in general and their restaurant in particular. Servers and chefs and hosts come together to give their patrons unique, flavorful experiences they couldn’t get at home.
From the moment this man opened his mouth, Julien could tell he ordered cabernet everywhere he went. Bought it from the grocery store. Drank it at home. Cracked open bottles at parties. Inherently, there’s nothing wrong with being a creature of habit. He understands it well. He cleans his apartment every Sunday morning from 8:00 a.m. to 9:30 a.m. and logs onto his one-and-only downloaded hookup app every Friday night after dinner in search of a reliable, stable buddy to relieve himself with.
But with wine, variety is the only way to go.
Besides, ever since Uncle Martin hired Chef Marco a few years ago and moved the menu toward more Italian-inspired dishes, Julien has made it his mission to ensure that his performance elevates Chef Marco’s work. If the patron leaves dissatisfied, that’s one less regular to rely on, and as rents rise alongside running costs, the doors at Martin’s Place could get locked for good, which is not a burden he’s at present equipped to bear on top of studying for an exam he hopes might let him leave behind this pocket of Pennsylvania and the painful childhood memories that still plague him.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Julien says finally, coming back to earth enough to try to salvage the situation.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the man says.
“Yeah, didn’t you hear him?” the woman crows.
He hadn’t heard them. Frankly, he was fixated on the words stacking up behind his glued-shut lips. Thinking about how expensive getting his advanced sommelier certificate is going to be. Obsessing over whether his dream to leave Bethlehem and start working for an establishment that actually wants and values a sommelier would be another nail in the coffin at Martin’s Place. And last but certainly not least, staring at that white napkin which is now soaked to an unsightly light yellow at one edge.
“Apologies aren’t going to cut it,” the man repeats with an emphasis on each word. “Darling, grab your sweater, and let’s go.”
The couple huffs once more before marching to the exit. Bells above the door sing out a bright, happy jingle that couldn’t be more wrong for the moment.
“Julien, let’s take a walk to my office,” Uncle Martin says as Julien’s boss and not his parental figure. It’s a dreadful tone that makes his stomach bottom out.
Before nodding and following behind, Julien scoops the sullied napkin from the table and takes it with him. This napkin, unlike his mind and temperament, is a mess he can handle.
Uncle Martin instructs him to sit in the chair in the corner of the small, cramped room. On a nearby metal shelf, Julien clears a space and unrolls the napkin before grabbing a tissue from the full box on Uncle Martin’s desk. While still listening, he starts soaking up the excess oil, watching it bleed from the napkin onto the tissue.
“What’s gotten into you?” Uncle Martin asks, slumped forward on his elbows, neck craned upward. “You haven’t been acting like yourself.”
