Marcel Winatschek

Good Drinks

Axel knew his vodka—not in the pretentious sommelier way, but because he’d actually spent time with it. He knew the Swedish distillery, the history, which details mattered. He could talk about it without performing. The knowledge was just there.

We had cocktails that looked designed rather than poured, bright and careful. I don’t remember the taste. I remember how it felt to hold something someone had thought through, that small attention you notice without meaning to.

Late in the evening, a little drunk and satisfied, we took a taxi home. A table full of people, good drinks, good talk. Those are the nights worth remembering, even when you forget what the drinks tasted like.