It takes a Negroni.
Sometimes it takes a Negroni to remind us, Happy New Year she said, almost smiling. Few hours earlier, she’d walked into the bar. She didn’t order champagne. She didn’t want bubbles pretending everything was light. She ordered a Negroni—the most honest drink in the room. Bitter doesn’t apologize, sweet doesn’t dominate, strength doesn’t shout. They coexist. Equal parts. No lying. No pretending one flavor wins. “How was the year?” I ask her, with a loud celebratory voice—as if
Stefanos Oungrinis
3 min read
December, the Saturday of the year.
The city starts dressing up, and people become sentimental in public again. Lights go up on streets that passed unnoticed just days before, and suddenly everything smells like cinnamon and expectations. They call it the most wonderful time of the year. And maybe it is. But I haven’t seen daylight in a week, and we’re “doing great,” which is hospitality code for: nothing is on fire, but everybody is one breath away from crying. I just had coffee with the manager. He brought co
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
Nostalgia soundtrack
He always started his set with Mulatu Astatke. No matter the night, the crowd, or how many people were actually paying attention. That slow, confident swing of Ethiopian jazz was his ritual, his anchor. “Because it reminds me of when music had patience, when people did too,” he said, when I asked him why always Mulatu. The way he said it made the room feel older for a second, “Oh, you’re one of the old ones who romanticize nostalgia,” I teased. He laughed, shaking his head as
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
The One Behind the Bar.
There’s a moment in every shift — usually right before the first guest sits down — when you realize you’re about to see a whole new set of stories. People don’t mean to bring their lives with them, but they always do. You’re there to welcome the early birds, manage the chaos when it peaks, and witness the small truths people reveal when they think no one’s paying attention. Every shift becomes a collection of moments, some loud, some ridiculous, some touching — and you’re the
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
New York.
He sat down tonight the same way he always does, quiet and confident, like he already knew which conversations were worth having and which weren’t. He’s a regular, the one that I look forward to. Mostly because he’s from New York, and every time he talks about it, the whole bar shifts a little, and also my mind. He is a bit late tonight. He ordered a Negroni, the one drink he never had to explain. While I stirred, he glanced around the room, sharp and quick, taking inventory
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
Ego.
He always poured his own Negroni last — a small superstition from better days. Back when the bar was full, the music was loud, and people said his name with respect, not caution. Back when he believed he built this place with his bare hands, not with the help he pretended he never needed. The barstools look like a lineup of quiet accusations. And he stands behind the counter like a king who outlived his kingdom. It wasn’t the economy. It wasn’t the competition. It wasn’t even
Stefanos Oungrinis
3 min read
What if ?
She walked in, shaking the rain off her jacket like she was shedding a whole day. Her footsteps were soft, heavy; she had been fighting the weather and something else she hadn’t named yet. “Long day?” I asked. “Long year,” she said, laughing and exhaling at the same time. She sat at the bar, her fingers tapping lightly on the counter. “What are you drinking?” she asked. “Negroni,” I said. “Is it good?” “I don’t know, but you definitely need one.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is th
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
