Manhattan and Gin Tonic
Grace's scolding did not end there.
"The recovery draughts magical girls use are dangerous for an ordinary person. Drink one, and it throws the body's balance off."
An empty tray tucked under her arm, her pale violet eyes traveled over me from head to toe.
"You were posted here without even knowing that much? Or did Lady Shinano neglect to pass the briefing along?"
She clicked her tongue and started to clear the tea table, then paused. Her glance flicked to Momiji, who sat quietly on the sofa, watching the whole scene.
"The administrator is away, so I'll take charge of this outsider for the time being. We'll have to knock the dust off him first."
Momiji gave a light nod in place of an answer.
My face burned under Grace's words, but I still felt I had to speak. I fidgeted with the teacup and let a little of my wounded pride into my voice.
"Even so... no one has ever complained about my tea, my snacks, or my cocktails. Not once."
There was real pride in it. Matching, one by one, the tastes of magical girls who shone in every color of the rainbow, and surviving that mountain refuge — that had been my own strategy, and my own pride. A calorie bomb for the shrine maiden worn thin with fatigue. A hangover cure for the drunken nun. Four distinct layers, instead of a quadruple shot, for the fussy cat senior. When it came to giving a guest not what she asked for but what she needed, I had never once lost.
Grace's eyebrow twitched, visibly.
"Heh... not a single complaint, you say?"
The corner of her mouth twisted into a chilly smile.
"Isn't it more likely they simply settled? Not bad, for a cabin in the mountains, and left it at that?"
An edge crept into the voice that had been so neat.
"This place is a retreat under the Association's direct authority, and it offers the highest level of service. If you think that cabin-level skill of yours will pass here, you are very much mistaken."
Her voice climbed, and she took a step toward me.
"Very well. Let's see whether that pride of yours is bluster."
Her finger indicated the bar counter seated beneath soft light at one side of the lobby.
"There's a lobby bar right here. Care to prove this complaint-free skill of yours?"
Momiji, who had been quietly drinking her tea beside us, wore a faint smile.
"Hehe... a new wind is blowing through this place. Grace, don't press him too hard. If Senior Shinano sent him, he must be worth that much."
Even that gentle mediation did not put out the fire banked in Grace's eyes. If anything, it seemed to burn hotter. She turned sharply and pointed down the inner corridor.
"Come with me. First we'll get you out of those filthy clothes, and then I'll show you your quarters and where you'll be working."
She paused a beat, then looked back at me over her shoulder.
"Oh, and for the record — my standards are far stricter than Lady Shinano's. You'd do well to prepare yourself."
Tap. Tap. Her decisive footsteps rang down the hall. I drained what was left of the tea in a hurry and rose from the sofa. As I set the cup on the table, my eyes met Momiji's. She had a sleeve of her kimono over her mouth, plainly fighting a laugh.
The staff quarters Grace showed me were incomparably cleaner and more comfortable than anywhere I had been living. Tatami covered a wide room; bedding and towels were folded with care, and beyond the window a snow-covered mountain spread like a folding screen. Set against the second-floor room I had lost thanks to Lady Shinano, and the nights I had spent curled like a shrimp on a sofa, this was practically a five-star hotel.
I stripped off the clothes that smelled of sawdust and dust and changed into a neatly pressed men's kimono. Once I had tied on an apron that fit just right, I finally looked less like a refugee and more like someone who worked here.
I changed and went straight back to the bar in the lobby, and a sight worth gaping at opened in front of me.
"Whoa... this is much finer. Some of these you couldn't even get outside."
I lifted a shaker. The cold metal against my palm, the balanced weight of it, was something else entirely. The tools Lady Shinano had found for me hadn't been bad, but the equipment here was on another level. Rare liqueurs I had only ever heard named, and vintage vodkas, stood in solemn ranks along the shelves. To a bartender, a good tool is what a good sword is to a swordsman. Just holding it filled me with confidence.
"That's enough admiring the equipment."
Grace, who had been quietly watching me turn the shaker over in my hands, came up to the far side of the counter with her arms folded.
"Good tools are no guarantee of a good result."
She lifted her chin a fraction and went on.
"This is a test. Make me the cocktail that suits me best, as I am right now."
She unfolded her arms and rested one hand lightly on the counter.
"Guests who stay here often don't simply order the name written on the menu. To call yourself the bartender of this place, you have to know how to offer what fits their mood — what suits them."
She sounded like a teacher setting an impossibly hard problem. It was also exactly what I had always done, and the thing I trusted most.
Clink. I took the shaker in hand and met her eyes head-on. Momiji, watching from the sofa, set down her teacup as if the scene had caught her interest.
"What suits her best... what's most fundamental... All right."
At the refuge I had sometimes made flashy cocktails and coffee on a whim, reading their hair or the moment they were in. The seven-layer pousse-café rainbow I had set in front of Hiyori. The pink heart latte I had made for Hina. But what suited the woman standing before me now was not a trick dressed up with flourishes, and not decoration meant only to set a mood.
Classic. Basic. That was the only answer that could convince someone this exacting.
I let out a light breath and reached for the display. Past bottle after showy bottle, I took up a gin that caught the light in blue — Tanqueray, the textbook dry gin.
Clack. Clink. I packed clear ice into the glass, piece by piece, then poured the Tanqueray carefully over it and let the tonic water flow in after. A sharp hiss: the carbonation broke, white bubbles climbed, and the pine-needle scent peculiar to gin spread around the bar. I lifted the ice once with a bar spoon, stirring gently up and down, and finished by squeezing in fresh lemon juice.
The basics of the basics. A test sheet for measuring a bartender's fundamentals. And the one drink that suited her now — the most classic, the one that allowed no gaps.
I slid the finished cocktail slowly toward Grace.
"A gin and tonic. The most basic, classic flavor there is."
Her gaze dropped to the droplets beaded on the glass and the bubbles of carbonation breaking clear. No paper umbrella, no flashy color — one classic drink. Without a word, she lifted it to her lips.
The moment the cold gin and tonic touched her, Grace's expression eased. The clean aroma of the gin, the tonic's measured bitterness, and the bright taste of lemon must have locked together with nothing left over. She set the glass on the counter. Her face was still that characteristic blank, but the sharp wariness in her eyes had softened a great deal.
"You didn't try to fool the eye with technique. The ratio of gin to tonic, and even holding the temperature of the glass — precise."
She looked straight at me.
"A clumsy amateur obsessed only with looks would have pushed some vividly colored liqueur at me. I'll give you credit for knowing exactly what the fundamentals are. At this level, I can leave the bar to you without it interfering with the work."
It was a cold, dry notice that I had passed. Even so, her manner seemed a little softer.
"An admirable attitude."
Momiji, who had been quietly watching from the sofa, nodded slowly.
"In swordsmanship as well, the hardest thing is not displaying some flashy secret art. It is striking thousands of times every day, tempering the fundamentals until they do not waver. The way you treat liquor resembles the way a warrior treats a sword."
She set down her teacup and rose with elegant ease.
"Grace, I think you may set your doubts about this man aside. You've confirmed his skill with your own eyes."
While Grace's exacting verdict and Momiji's elegant mediation passed back and forth, I smiled and, instead of answering, took hold of another bottle. From the display I drew Angostura bitters, a heavy bottle of bourbon, and sweet vermouth. Momiji had praised me by invoking the fundamentals of the sword, so if a warrior introduces himself with a blade, it seemed the finer thing for me to introduce myself with a drink.
This time I set a clear mixing glass on the bar, filled it with large ice, and poured amber bourbon over it, then vermouth with a reddish cast. Last came the Angostura bitters. I took up the bar spoon.
Beyond the counter, both of their gazes fixed on my hands. Using only a snap of the wrist, I stirred the contents very quietly and smoothly, so the ice made no sound — a bartender's technique, lowering the temperature while keeping the ice from clashing more than it must. When I carefully poured the evenly mixed liquid into a chilled cocktail glass, the reddish amber shimmered under the lights. There was no cocktail cherry in sight, so I made do with a fruit garnish of similar shape and color, set it on a pick, and rested it on the rim before offering the glass to Momiji.
"The queen of cocktails — a Manhattan. A warrior introduces himself with a sword. I tried introducing myself with a drink... How is it?"