Considering what she'd been saying, Hemingway decided againt getting her an absinthe. They could try that another day, he wasn't risking her having a bad effect and passing out or something. Because it would ruin her night, not because it would stop him from getting laid. Of course. So he ordered two Manhattans, because it seemed a safe enough choice, and then leaned against the bar as he listened to her, smiling away at how excited she was, kind of glad she couldn't see how fucking smitten he looked with her.
"Oh, sure," he nodded, looking around to see if there was anyone that might have made the cut in her world. "Well , that's Ezra Pound bending some poor suckers ear-" he smirked, gesturing in his direction, then turning to see if there was anyone more interesting. "Oh, Eliot, but I have no idea if you know who that is since you won't tell me," he pointed out, taking the drink from the bartender and passing it over to her. "Oh, I'm sure you recognise the tash on this dude-" he grinned, nodding at Dali, who appeared to be drawing something manically on a napkin... before ripping it into many pieces, swearing, and throwing it in the air.