The girl passes you the drinks list, and you pretend to examine it. When the waiter comes, you decide to order a gin and tonic. Every restaurant has a gin and tonic.
This one doesn’t.
You ask the server which beers are on tap. He points to the paper in front of you, says, slightly impatiently, “All of our beers are listed here.”
You feel color rush to your face. “Sorry. Um, any beer is fine.”
“I can give you more time,” he says.
Years of time wouldn’t make your eyes miraculously able to make sense of the jumble in front of you. “Just bring me something you like, please,” you say, and the server sniffs, leaves the table.
“I used to work as a server,” the girl says. “I never knew what to do when people said something like that. I was always afraid I’d bring them something they hate. And it would be my fault.’ “I’ll be happy with whatever he brings me,” you say.
“Okay, good,” she says, but there’s a hint of apprehension in her voice.
The beer comes. You drink it. “Mm,” you say. “I knew I could trust his taste.”
She laughs, opens the sushi menu. “What are you thinking for dinner?”
You peer down at the lines of indistinguishable text.