The Fly and Flour

“No, we could never call it that! It is something of an inside joke at family reunions, a loving jab at our cursed livers - The DeBevereaux Line is plagued by cirrhosis, gallstones, and bilious blockages. Uncle Heath was the lucky one. He choked on a chicken neck – better that than crushed and scarred by excess.” Sherel took the moment’s chuckle to remove the three glasses in front of her. Her blonde host with the big ears was clearly infatuated, she saw, though she wished he would quit smacking his gums, or at least maintain eye contact. He could not be more than fifteen, and he kept counting her forearm freckles. “Girls like me need to unwind just as much as you, but if we were to bloat our figures with ale every night you boys would stop looking at us the way you do. Your boot, Simon.” She held out the softest hand he ever met, and he filled it with soiled leather. She twisted the bottle into the boot and slammed the heel down hard, waking the dead. The sheer force spilled drinks down the rest of the bar and was met with raucous applause. Years of practice exposed just enough cork to wrap her teeth around and pull, delighting in the pop as she filled three new glasses with a finger of velvet. All three men drew closer as she laid the cups on their side and began rolling the liquid back and forth, never losing a drop. She handed each man a rose-colored stained-glass chalice with a ruby red center.

“This one’s sure to stay with you, notice the nice thick legs? It’s the alcohol content, stronger than the average pint. A Barbera grape with a hint of Syrah for contrast. Cheers.” Simon stuck his face right in and filled his lungs first, as Sherel had taught them. “What comes to mind, dear? Where does this concoction take you?”. Eager to please and to impress, “There’s like a sweet wood, maybe. I don’t know, Miss. It reminds me of how dad’s office used to be with the suede chairs and cigars. I used to hate that smell.” Simon knocked back his serving, and the other two did likewise, skipping the nose play. The burly man in the middle brought one foot off the creaking stool to address his elder. “Alright. That’s enough, Ben. All due respect but you’re doing fine here without some wine peddler, no offence, some wine peddler blaming her fat thighs on – “.

Reggie trailed off the moment Benjamin the Barman closed his eyes. If he was meditating it seemed to be causing some distress. Sherel DeBevereaux had been doting on the young man’s shoe and made use of the break to carry on her spiel, thoughtful eyes fixed on the patriarch. “She’s a bit drying, that’s the tacky sensation. Aunt Tilda always said that was the belly begging for more, but he was a lush with awful judgment. The truth is in the land, I think. Ferrous Point is said to be blessed by the god of iron and wine, a gift to our ancestors for helping to end some pirate raid. I was not there, of course. Perhaps it is simply a story we tell to help us do business, and it has served us well. We are grateful. But I have fought to grow our vines elsewhere, always with mixed results. I think this place is worth investing in. Maybe the trickle of rain down from the mountains carries all the right nutrients to enrich your grains, or the angle of the sun against your hillside. Where has your mind’s eye taken you, Mr. Benjamin?”

The Barman had closed his ears, too. He had to shut out every sensation before the next distraction took her from him all over again. He held perfectly still, trying instead to burn Serena’s face back onto his memories. She had a mole under her chin on the left side, or maybe it was the right. She could not bake worth a damn, but she always tried her best. Ben loved the way her cheeks would flush at his affections, and as he reached for the wine could not help but feel that any bit of light remaining in this dank pit must surely rest in his hand now. So he drank. Moments passed before Ben registered the question, breaking the illusion.

His eyes opened to the well-meaning merchant behind his bar. She was a refreshing sight. No one who combed their hair had entered the Fly and Flour in over a decade. “You spoke of Ogun, but the beaded chain around your arm is a token of Diejuste, the god of kindness. I believe you. If we begin to serve your spirits, we could surely attract the women around town, we could make Simon here muck the toilets, get Reg off that stool so someone else can use it.” Mr. Benjamin stood up, walked behind the bar, washed his beloved clean in the basin, and placed the glass on the shelf where it belonged. He offered Ms. DeBevereaux his hand to shake, and she gave him a polished boot, bottle included. “Terrific! This is a win for us all! As our name grows beyond Ferrous Point it is only right that we give back to the lands and people around us. You will be in on the ground floor of the train hub. Soon Mr. Reginald will need to fight for his old seat! I just need to show our bookkeepers we can deliver on the level of service our brand is known for. You’ve got a world-class sommelier in young Simon here, and I heard this place once served the best pie in two counties. I’ll be back in a week with our supplies, stay for a month, and see to it the Fly and Flour has a grand re-opening suitable for the flagship inn of the Ferrous Railways.”

Within days the inn was ashes and Serena’s wheat fields were salted. “I’m sorry we lost her so soon, Simon. Thank you for trying, but your mom wanted more for us than to die working here. Wipe that frown, she never liked wine, anyway. Though I bet she never tried one like this.”