Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [69]
Damn it, though. Not quite right. His bioalchemist instincts, having studied carefully Jabba’s other favorite drinks, had synthesized a theoretical perfect amalgam, a liqueur that would delight the huge wormthing.
This was not quite it. A certain element was lacking. A certain gagging whisper of illusive yet ineffably attractive decadence.
Damn.
The bartender went to get his apron, and to trudge wearily up the stairs to where his smoky den of work awaited.
“Water!” demanded the green alien in its annoying language. “Bottled distilled water, bartender, and make no mistake! I’ve got the credits for the real stuff. This nose can tell if it’s anything more or less!” The alien touched its absurd proboscis with one of its green digital members.
Wuher’s nose twitched. Was it him, or was the stench in this pangalactic hole worse than ever? “Well, buddy. It’s your call, but you look as if you could use something a little stronger.”
The alien’s jewellike eyes glittered with fury and its ears seemed to flap indignantly. “How dare you call me by a familiar name, you piece of human trash. Believe me, I am a valiant drinker of all manner of manly, powerful drinks. However, I make it a rule to accept such only from real bartenders.”
A mangled face pushed itself across the underlit bar and into the conversation. “Actually, this guy makes some damn fine drinks for a lousy dung-eating native. Take it from me—Dr. Evazan. I’ve had many drinks in all twelve systems in which I’ve obtained a death sentence and these drinks here pass muster!”
Wuher nodded surly thanks. However, the arrogant alien would have none of it. This guy was a Rodian, Wuher knew—and a bounty hunter from the boastful affront of him. A particularly egregious combination.
“Nonsense,” said the Rodian, tiny satellite addenda atop his head turning back and forth as though searching for some television channel. Disdain dripped from his tone. “Humans don’t have what it takes to be a proper bartender. The two terms are mutually exclusive!”
This was the song that Wuher heard all too often. From the very first day that he’d graduated from his chemistry kit to a taste for interesting drinks and had parlayed that knack into a successful application to a sleazy but effective bartender correspondence school, he’d been dumped upon for wanting to take on the duties of serving drinks to an array of peoples from different planets, biomes, ecologies, what have you. Bartenders in these sorts of places, frequented by different and unique biochemistries, were more xenoalchemists than simple pourers of drinks. You had to pay attention to what you were doing. Wouldn’t do at all to serve up a nice glass of the variation on sulfuric acid that Devaronians enjoyed to, say, a Gotal. Likewise, a simple beer could make a Jawa shrivel up like a slug. It really wasn’t that humans couldn’t handle the challenge, it was generally that most of them didn’t care to bother. Indeed, there were a few in old xenophobic Republic days who used the opportunities to slowly poison enemies.
“Hey, greenie,” snarled Wuher defensively. “You go to Chalmun’s office. My certification is right on his wall.”
“I shall! And I shall make every effort to have you fired from this post. Your kind doesn’t belong here.” The Rodian leaned over the bar with its wide orby eyes and stared directly into Wuher’s: his species very confrontational mode for expressing supreme contempt. Wuher’s nostrils were immediately assaulted by a stronger dose of the odor he’d noticed before. He cringed backward.
“Pah. Coward!” The Rodian spat on him. “And be it known to you, ‘bartender,’ that I, Greedo, am highly valued in my employ by none other than Jabba