Ernest nodded along, making a mental note, and incapable of keeping the thrill from his expression. "It's somewhere to start, but a full list would be happily received," he insisted. "Don't worry about my preferences. I like to read anything, especially if it's been influential or critically acclaimed, because even if I hate it, I can learn from why I hate it, what I hate about it," he explained.
"No, no, not adverse to poetry at all. Often envious as hell because I just don't have that skill, but not adverse. The Imagists, mm- in fact, I owe a lot to Pound; he's forced me upon publishers, and talked me out of suicide and loaned me money far too often. And Eliot- did Eliot make it? The Waste Land?" he asked, genuinely unsure.
Ernest laughed with her, clinking glasses, and drinking the expertly mixed cocktail.
"See? You can't take your own advice, challenging me already," he teased lightly, as Gatsby seemed to perk up and examine the bottles he had on offer.
"All our booze was so horrid during the prohibition, that we only did cocktails and rarely shots. But from what I've learned from others here-" Gatsby produced the bottles as he named them. "Tequila. Sambuca. Goldschlager. Jagermeister. Unless you want one of the really weird ones-" he said, pointing to the colourful Aftershock & Sourz bottles.
"Jesus Christ," Ernest mumbled, only familiar with the Tequila.