The Sun Also Rises

"No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the" bar is always nice."

"It's odd."

"Bartenders have always been fine."

"You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen.
Isn't it amazing?"

We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the
bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was
the summer heat of Madrid.

"I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman.

"Right you are, sir. There you are."

"Thanks."

"I should have asked, you know."

The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not
hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it
stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady
enough to lift it after that first sip.

"It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?"

"They're all nice bars."

"You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905.
I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that."

"Anything you want me to think about it?"

"Don't be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink?"

"We'll have two more Martinis."

"As they were before, sir?"

"They were very good," Brett smiled at him.


~ Ernest Hemingway