Lieutenant Sar had not intended to linger in Observation Lounge 7.

He had planned to observe the plasma flows skimming the trailing edge of Starbase Bravo’s upper pylons while sipping a diluted kelp tea. His attention had been captured by a flamboyant bartender, dancing as he mixed drinks.

“Step right up to the best Manhattan on this side of the quadrant,” the man said as he slid a scarlet-amber cocktail toward a half-dozing lieutenant in operations gold. “This blend of rye, vermouth and bitters is magic in a glass. Try a classic Manhattan. Who’s next?”

Sar arched a brow. He had observed the proportions, the mixing method and the garnish. He stood from his seat near the large viewport and approached the bartender.

“That is incorrect,” Sar said.

The freckled man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You added too much vermouth. I counted approximately point two-five ounces above the desired total of exactly one ounce. Furthermore, the beverage was shaken, not stirred. You have over-diluted the base spirit and disrupted the desired clarity and texture. A proper Manhattan is translucent. This is cloudy. Your choice of orange as a garnish lacks the visual appeal and sweetness of a standard cherry.”

“If anyone can do better, I’d like to see them try.” Orange hairs bristled along the human barkeep’s chin.

A murmur rippled through the lounge. A few heads turned. Someone snorted and pointed towards them.

Sar regarded the crowd without expression. “I can make a proper Manhattan.”

“Oh, this I have to see,” said Lt. JG Caaral Topaz-Smythe. The Trill hybrid grinned as he nudged his co-worker, Ensign Matthews. “The Vulcan thinks he can make cocktails now.”

A small crowd formed around the bar’s curved countertop. “Be my guest.” The barkeep ushered Sar around the corner’s bend.

Sar moved behind the bar with smooth precision. He aligned the bottles of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and Angostura bitters in a triangular geometric pattern.

“The Manhattan is a cocktail of Terran origin, first appearing in the late 19th century in the borough from which it derives its name,” he began as he reached for the mixing glass. “Its continued popularity is due to its elegant construction and robust flavor profile. It has been traditionally favored by individuals of strong constitution and regrettable emotional impulse.”

He added exactly 2 ounces of rye whiskey. “The base spirit is selected for its spiced character and dry finish.”

Sar added 1 ounce of sweet vermouth next. “Fortified wine, aromatized. This particular label is optimal for its notes of vanilla, bitter herbs, and dark fruit. It counterbalances the whiskey without eclipsing it.”

Two dashes of bitters were added next. “The binding element includes Angostura bitters. These re composed of gentian root, cloves, and numerous botanicals. This next step is essential.”

He added large, crystalline ice cubes. Tongs were used to drop each cube with surgical precision.

“Stir,” he said as he counted exactly thirty-two rotations. Each twist was met with the same smooth arc. “This chills the mixture while preserving textural cohesion. Shaking, by contrast, introduces aeration and fractures flavor distribution.”

A flaxen-haired woman near the bar coughed. “He’s lecturing the drink to death.”

“I heard Vulcans don’t even have taste,” Matthews whispered to Smythe.

Sar ignored them.

The Vulcan picked up a chilled glass, as condensation formed along its outer surface. He strained the cocktail into the glass with a surgeon’s hand. It emerged perfectly clear into a rich red-gold.

A single maraschino cherry, dark as obsidian and glossy as a shuttle’s hull plate, was chosen as the garnish. Sar lowered it with reverent care.

He placed the finished cocktail on the bar in front of Ensign Matthews.

“It is complete.” His monotone voice somehow projected a sense of accomplishment.

Martin glanced at his friends, shrugged, and took a sip. His eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline.

“Holy…” Matthews blinked. “That’s incredible.”

The blonde woman snatched the glass and tasted it. After a long sip, she froze. “I hate that this is amazing. I wanted it to be terrible.”

Caaral leaned forward to smell it. “The vermouth is balanced. The rye is there but isn’t punching me. This is textbook.”

“Textbook?” A voice spoke in an accent heavy with notes of outermost Brooklyn. “This is a symphony.”

The bartender scowled faintly as more patrons stepped forward, eyeing Sar expectantly.

“Are you making more of those, Vulcan?” The tan New Yorker with hazel eyes squeezed through the crowd.

Sar was already selecting the next glasses. “A logical assumption, Lieutenant Lopez.”

As Sar blankly stirred the next Manhattan, the woman asked, “How do you know all this?”

“I once memorized the Encyclopedia of Terrestrial Spirits and Cocktails to expedite a cultural exchange program. I found the subject efficient in its insight into human neurology and irrational bonding rituals.”

“Have you ever had a Manhattan?” Ensign Matthews asked.

“My olfactory and gustatory senses are sufficient for chemical analysis. I have indeed sampled the drink,” he added dryly, “A sense of ‘taste’ is rarely required to properly follow instructions.” Sar shot a long look towards the barkeep that could only be interpreted as judgmental.

“Have you ever been to Manhattan?” Caaral rubbed his spotted neck as he waited for a drink.

“I have been to Secaucus”, the Vulcan said dryly.

“I swear,” a portly man said in an accent mixed between British and Irish, “if this turns out to be the best drink I’ve had in months..”

He sipped and stared before slowly setting the glass down.

“I’m furious,” he muttered. “But I’m finishing it.”

Sar adjusted the bottle alignment and poured again. The golden-complexioned Trill hybrid snatched the glass. Caaral took a deep swig. His head tilted back as the flavors danced across his tongue. After a hearty gulp and exaggerated exhale, he said, “That’s it. I’ve seen it all.”

Caaral had only been to Manhattan a few times in his life. He did go somewhat frequently during his years at the Academy. He found the place too distracting during his final two years. The drink did bring back memories. He remembered a group of cadets celebrating the end of another school year with Manhattan cocktails.

His golden-brown eyes turned to peer out of the lounge’s massive viewports. He watched Mellstoxx III rotating below. The synthahol slowly began to warm and dull his senses.