She asked the young man behind the bar what drink he was making. The man, a boy really, Hungarian, responded that he did not know. She asked him if the drink was for himself, revealing a German accent to her English. It was, he said smiling. Perhaps it will be the next Aperol Spritz, he added dryly.
She asked for a taste, and he made another just for her. How much; she asked the problematic question for of course the drink was not on the menu. He said no charge, not wanting to put a price on his invention. What after all was its value?
I will pay you something, she insisted. This is not regular and will not stand, her tone made clear. He smiled bashfully. She handed him a yellow note, enough to buy their nicest scotch, and walked away sipping at what could become the next Aperol Spritz.