But that wasn’t the kind of rarefied drinking the guests did at the resort, where Sherri felt like a real redneck as Bunny Starr taught them about the most important part of their jobs. “The drinks need to be ordered and served in a sequence. Whiskey, bourbon, gin, vodka, tequila. Got it? Whiskey, bourbon, gin, vodka, tequila. Say it after me. Hard liquor comes in a shot glass with a separate twelve-ounce highball filled with ice.” She held up the glass and clicked it with her painted nail. “Unless the drinks are already blended, you mix them for the guests at the table. Remember, it’s all part of the show. Slow down and exaggerate your guest’s experience of being waited on by a Bunny. And smile the whole damn time.”

A week ago, Sherri didn’t even know what went into an old-fashioned; now she knew every variety. Mike, the head bartender, who bore a striking resemblance to Burt Reynolds, led a session on drinks. He said they could be made with bourbon, brandy, or rye, with soda water or 7UP to make it sour, sweet, or press, and served with two maraschino cherries. The Bunnies, not the bartenders, garnished the drinks with the bunny-head plastic stir sticks the guests liked to collect. He said that Cuba Libre was served with lime, and a whiskey sour was served with a citrus cherry flag. Daiquiris were made with Malibu rum, Harvey Wallbangers with Galliano that smelled like butterscotch, and Rusty Nails with Drambuie. There were seemingly infinite combinations and preferences: neat, up, on the rocks, shaken, dirty ice on the side, salted rim, blended, stirred. Sherri focused intensely on everything he said, imagining that he was reciting a poem for her to memorize. She broke his advice down into lines and stanzas, repeating his words back to herself again and again.

“Always be nice to the bartenders,” Bunny Starr said, winking at Mike. He had giant biceps and a vampire-like widow’s peak on his forehead. “They’re the most powerful people you’ll work with.”

“She’s right,” Mike said while drying out a glass with a bar rag, the bottles of liquor arranged on the wall behind him like books in a library bookshelf. “We can make your life a living hell, or paradise on earth.”