‘Correct. I am employed to make cocktails. What would you like?’

‘You’re the guy with—like—a cocktail for every occasion, right? And you keep all the orders in your head? You’re that guy?’

‘There may be others with the same skills.’

He addressed the rest of the table, loudly, as the ambient noise was now significant.

‘Okay, this guy—what’s your name?’

‘Don Tillman.’

‘Hello Dan,’ said Loud Woman. ‘What do you do when you’re not making cocktails?’

‘Numerous activities. I’m employed as a professor of genetics.’

Loud Woman laughed again, even more loudly.

Red Hair continued. ‘Okay, Don is the king of cocktails. He’s memorised every cocktail on the planet and all you need to say is bourbon and vermouth and he’ll say martini.’

‘Manhattan. Or an American in Paris, boulevardier, Oppenheim, American sweetheart or man o’ war.’

Loud Woman laughed. Loudly. ‘He’s Rain Man! You know. Dustin Hoffman when he remembers all the cards. Dan’s the cocktail Rain Man.’

Rain Man! I had seen the film. I did not identify in any way with Rain Man, who was inarticulate, dependent and unemployable. A society of Rain Men would be dysfunctional. A society of Don Tillmans would be efficient, safe and pleasant for all of us.

A few members of the group laughed, but I decided to ignore the comment, as I had ignored the error with my name. Loud Woman was intoxicated and would likely be embarrassed if she saw a video of herself later.

Red Hair continued. ‘Don’s going to pick a cocktail to fit whatever you want, then he’s going to memorise everybody’s orders and come back and give them to the right people. Right, Don?’

‘As long as people don’t change seats.’ My memory does not handle faces as well as numbers. I looked at Red Hair. ‘Do you wish to commence the process?’

‘Got anything with tequila and bourbon?’

‘I recommend a highland margarita. The name implies Scotch whisky but the use of bourbon is a documented option.’

‘Oh Kaaaay!’ said Red Hair, as though I had hit a home run to win the game in the bottom of the ninth inning. I was one eighteenth of the way to completing my task. I refocused on the drinks orders rather than on constructing a more detailed baseball analogy around this interesting number. It could wait until my next meeting with Dave.

Red Hair’s neighbour wanted something like a margarita but more like a long drink but not just a margarita on the rocks or a margarita with soda but something—you know—different, like to make it more unique. I recommended a paloma made with pink grapefruit juice and rimmed with smoked salt.

Now it was Loud Woman’s turn. I looked carefully but did not recognise her. This was not inconsistent with her being famous. I largely ignore popular culture. Even if she had been a leading geneticist, I would not have expected to know her face.

‘Okay, Rain Man Dan. Make me a cocktail that expresses my personality.’

This suggestion was met with loud sounds of approval. Unfortunately I was in no position to meet the requirement.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about you.’

‘You’re kidding me. Right?’

‘Wrong.’ I tried to think of some way of asking politely about her personality. ‘What is your occupation?’

There was laughter from everyone except Loud Woman, who seemed to be considering her answer.

‘I can do that. I’m an actor and a singer. And I’ll tell you something else. Everybody thinks they know me but nobody truly does. Now what’s my cocktail, Rain Man Dan? The mysterious chanteuse, maybe?’

I was unfamiliar with any cocktail of that name, which probably meant she had invented it to impress her friends. My brain is highly efficient at cocktail searching based on ingredients, but is also good at finding unusual patterns. The two occupations and the personal description combined to produce a match without conscious effort.

A two-faced cheater.

I was about to announce my solution when I realised that there might be a problem—one that placed me in danger of violating my legal and moral duty as the holder of a New York State Liquor Authority Alcohol Training Awareness Program Certificate. I took remedial action.

‘I recommend a virgin colada.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m a virgin?’

‘Definitely not.’ Everybody laughed. I elaborated. ‘It’s like a pina colada but non-alcoholic.’

‘Non-alcoholic. What’s that supposed to mean?’

The conversation was becoming unnecessarily complicated. It was easiest to get to the point. ‘Are you pregnant?’

‘What?’

‘Pregnant women should not drink alcohol. If you’re only overweight, I can serve you an alcoholic cocktail, but I require clarification.’

As I rode the subway home at 9.52 p.m., I reflected on whether my judgement had been affected by the Rosie situation. I had never suspected a client of being pregnant before. Perhaps she was merely overweight. Should I have interfered with a stranger’s decision to drink alcohol in a country that valued individual autonomy and responsibility so highly?

I made a mental list of the problems that had accumulated in the past fifty-two hours and which now required urgent resolution:

1. Modification of my schedule to accommodate twice-daily beer inspections.