Lomo saltado — I’ve ordered it twice here. The first time was at a table for five in the back. The second time is at the bar in the front.
The bartender recognizes me; I have a friend who used to flirt with him when he would take her order. He looks surprised.
“Your friends not coming today?” he asks.
“Nah. There was some kind of mix-up, so I’m in the wrong place.”
He can tell I’m lying. “You don’t want to meet them?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I answer.
He smirks a little and then turns around to make a half-pitcher of sangria. I bet he is a good liar.
