Erik had to smirk a little at that; he'd never seen one either, until he'd stumbled off a space station into a sunlit arboretum and a charming cynic from the 1920s offered to buy him a drink. But at this point he'd seen Jordan coach several bartenders through the making of them (some with more patience than others) and felt reasonably confident in his ability to do the same.

He pointed to the mini-fridge behind the bar. "Peach puree's on the top shelf. Two spoonfuls in a champagne flute and top with Prosecco." Erik watched the man assemble the drink, occupying the space behind the bar without any of the economy of movement he was used to from seasoned bartenders. Add to that the notable absence of the Nexus staff's usual prim dress, and Erik felt suddenly sure he was being served by a hotel guest. "Did Marcel quit, or were you just tired of sitting on this side of the bar?"