Sweetbitter: A novel

“Tasting is a farce,” she said with her eyes closed, nose deep in the bowl of the glass. “The only way to get to know a wine is to take a few hours with it. Let it change and then let it change you. That’s the only way to learn anything—you have to live with it.”

Their innate hospitality. Their anticipation of others’ needs. That was when service went from an illusion to a true expression of compassion.

“Aging is peculiar,” she said, moving a piece of parsnip around the plate with her fork. “I don’t think you should be lied to about it. You have a moment of relevancy—when the books, clothes, bars, technology—when everything is speaking directly to you, expressing you exactly. You move toward the edge of the circle and then you’re abruptly outside

First you must relearn your senses. Your senses are never inaccurate—it’s your ideas that can be false.”

It is a strange pressure to be across from a man who wants something that you don’t want to give. It’s like standing in a forceful current, which at first you think is not too strong, but the longer you stand, the more tired you become, the harder it is to stay upright.

A palate is a spot on your tongue where you remember. Where you assign words to the textures of taste.

A dagger of morning prowled outside the open windows. The

So—some tomatoes tasted like water, and some tasted like summer lightning.

When you can’t see in front of you life is nothing but surprises. Looking back, there were truly so few of them.