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The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.
“I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”
“Actually, I’m not all that interested in wine, though I’m happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”
“What’s your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.
“Postrio,” Carpenter replied.
“Oh? I thought that was closed.”
“Nope. They’ve redone it, and they have a new chef. It’s wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn’t go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.
“Wh
ere are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.
“At the Carlyle.”
“Pretty expensive for business travel, isn’t it?”
“I’m a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.
“That’s great.”
“It ain’t bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”
“Uptown, East Eighties.”
“I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.
Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.
“Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.
“Jordan Cabernet.”
“Yes, it’s a nice one.”
“Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn’t such a bad idea.”
“See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”
“Four years,” the woman replied.
“Is it easy to meet men here?”
She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”
“That’s how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”
The woman laughed. “It’s the same here.”
They finished their steaks.
“Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.
“What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.
