I had just shown Bernadette the door when a smartly dressed Indian geezer sqeezed into the bar and I gave him a look and told him we wouldn’t be opening for another month.
Undeterred he explained in a plummy English accent that he was frightfully sorry, and he knew it was an awful imposition, but would I be so kind as to give him a chance of personally explaining why he would be the best fit for this establishment.
Well he threw me for a loop, and all I could think of to say was, I didn’t think your lot were allowed alcohol.
He gave me a puzzled look, than with the hint of a smile replied that I might have mistaken him for a Muslim and his religion was actually Hindu and he did like the odd martini from time to time.
So I let out a sigh, sat him down, and he continued in a rush to state his case, explaining some unfortunate choices he had made and was thus in a little bit of a pickle, if you know what I mean, and needed to lay low for a bit, and this was exactly the type of environment where he could disappear.
He further explained that he was a mean martini mixer, and his friends at Oxford had nicknamed him Martini in lieu of Mahendra and he would willingly pass on his skills, and I sighed knowing I have a soft heart for people in trouble so I decided to hire him.
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