USA. A diner. I ordered a cola, and they handed me a cup that was ninety percent ice. I have learned how to measure an American’s honor. The drink came in a cup the size of my helmet. Inside: a mountain of ice, and somewhere beneath it, a rumor of cola. I tilted it. The ice did not move. It was load-bearing. In Japan, a few cubes, politely. Here, an avalanche. And once I stopped being confused, I was moved. Ice is not free. Someone must make it, store it, guard it through the heat. To bury a man’s drink in it is not stinginess disguised. It is the opposite. It is a lord opening his treasury and saying: take all of it, take more than you need, I have so much that I do not even count. The ice is the boast. The drink is just the excuse to deliver it. So now I judge every establishment by the ice. A weak handful, and I know the house is humble, careful, perhaps struggling. A roaring glacier, and I know I am in the presence of abundance, and I bow before I drink. The waiter came to refill me. He lifted the scoop, and he gave me more. More. I had not finished. He gave me more anyway. I nearly stood and saluted. “Most generous,” I told him. “Your house is rich beyond measure.” He said, “...you want less ice next time, buddy?” Less ice. As if I would insult him by refusing his treasure. I told him no. I told him to bury me. I drank for forty minutes. The cola lasted four. The remaining thirty-six were spent honoring the ice directly, one melting cube at a time, until the cup held only cold water and my own deep respect. I left the fullest I have ever been, having ordered almost nothing. A man does not come to America for the drink. He comes for the mountain it is hidden under.