The worker at the cash register took the bottle of wine, scanning it and looking up at Izak with a smile. "ID please?"

He nodded obediently, the license already in his hand, since he was used to be carded.

She took it, comparing the picture to his face, and blinked. "Huh. That's an interesting way to spell Isaac."

Izak shifted slightly, debating whether he should just let it go. Instead, the words slipped. "It's not pronounced Isaac."

"How is it pronounced?" The worker asked, giving him back his license and ringing up the register.

"Ezack. EE-ZA-CK." Izak explained.

"Oh, but it's spelt with an I? Is that Russian?"

Izak screamed internally, but shook his head gently. "No no, it is Polish."

"Ohhh," the woman smiled, "Poland is a state of Russia, right?"

At that moment, Izak decided that ignorance should remain bliss, and sighed. "Da, is Russian."

She laughed, handing him his wine. "I'm surprised you didn't get vodka instead of wine." She joked light-heartedly.

"Yes," Izak sighed to himself as he walks away, "because I'm not a chef that uses wine to cook. I drink vodka straight out of bottle."

Sometimes, Izak hated Americans.