Originally published in the New School Free Press 2/23/09
Now don’t drop your highball, but I need to tell you all that I’ve fallen in love. I know that I appear to be a woman without discernible emotions—what with the revolving door in my bedroom, and all—but it’s entirely untrue.
I’m officially off the market. And I legitimately believe that Mr. Beam and I are going to be very happy together.
It all started about a month ago. The temperature had dropped to the teens, and I had sobered up long enough to realize that the economy had tanked. News to me, though later I found out that I’d written several articles on the subject; funny how these things can slip by you.
But I thought, perhaps, this could be a good time to go on a budget. Sure, it’s nice to drink single malt scotch and decadent cocktails, but the pool of witless investment bankers usually so willing to pick up the tab has, in recent months, pretty much dried up.
It was time for me to lower my standards.
I found myself one evening in Warehouse Wines and Spirits, over on Broadway and Waverly, a lovely place if you have a high tolerance for fluorescent lights—and the kind of customer base that would frequent a discount liquor store.
It was there that Jim and I reconnected. We’d had a brief fling during high school—several three-ways with Coca Cola, actually—but I’d long since left him behind. Gave him the fade-out, if you will. He wasn’t as glamorous as his artisanal counterparts, and after a couple weeks of passing him over for Bookers and Basil, we had a little chat. It just wasn’t working out. It wasn’t his taste or his presentation, I assured him, but I was just looking for something that would leave a stronger taste in my mouth.
But that was years ago, all water under the bridge. When I saw him that height in Warehouse, his white outfit no longer looked outdated, but pleasingly retro. I took him home that night—a bit quick, I know, but sometimes that’s how these things happen. Don’t judge. We pent the entire evening together alone in my bedroom, and I haven’t looked back. I talk, he listens, and I fall asleep with him in my arms.
I was so excited to tell my friends I was ready to settle down, but my roommates weren’t nearly as supportive as I would have hoped. When they discovered me alone one night sitting in bed, with my tongue stuck down my Jimmy’s throat, they looked concerned. We can get over the age difference, I assured them. They insisted that the relationship was inappropriate. That it wouldn’t last and, if it continued at this pace, it would be the end of me.
I screamed at them. Told them they were wrong. They couldn’t understand how deep my love was for Jim! They tried to take him away from me, but I cried that I’d be left all alone. I’d already abandoned Sir Hendricks—though I still missed his crisp cucumber taste. I told Mr. Oban that he was a bit too precious, and I wasn’t going to be able to make it to our late-night rendezvous anymore, though I’d always remember his smoky aroma and spicy finish.
My roommates and I eventually came to a compromise. I’d share my true love and they wouldn’t tell my parents how serious it had become. It broke my heart a bit to see him passed around like a common whore, but I suppose we can share—as long as he keeps coming home with me at the end of the night.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Make Mine a Manhattan
Originally Published in the New School Free Press, 2/9/2009
Late one Tuesday night I was perched at my usual bar stool, watching the snow come down on the SoHo streets through the foggy window. Thomas had been pouring me shots of Talisker 15-year Single Malt for so long that he’d given up and left the bottle on the bar.
Buy the time I drained the last drops into my glass, the room seemed to be morphing. Details I’d never noticed began to stand out. I lit a smoke and tapped it into the large crystal ashtray on the bar—funny, I hadn’t even realized they had ashtrays. Thomas’ bow tie was a little off, so I leaned over the wide bar and tried to adjust it, but missed the stool on my way back down.
The snow was coming down harder. I adjusted my hat and tried to smile for Thomas but it must have looked more like I was holding back a sneeze. The door opened and a slip gentleman sauntered inside. “Excuse me barkeep, I’ll have a Manhattan,” he said as he took the stool next to me. I could feel his eyes on my neck and turned to meet his gaze. His weathered British accent sounded uncommon yet familiar.
“A Manhattan? You’re a man with good taste,” I said, trying hard to sound intelligible.
"I prefer an Old Fashioned,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trust that man to make it well, what with the cocked bow tie. Manhattans are simple, and long overdue for a revival.” His love for drink intrigued me and I gave him my name. He introduced himself as Kingsley Amis and after a brief chat I ordered a Manhattan of my own. Thomas asked me for the specifics (Sazerac rye with a twist, please) and got down to work. I watched him with a genuine smile as he strained the amber mix into a chilled glass.
I turned back to my new friend. The smile had left his face.
“I do believe that bourbon would have been a better choice,” he said.
“Bourbon’s too sweet for a Manhattan,” I replied. Sobriety suddenly swept in when my expertise was questioned. “Rye has more pepper. More bite.”
The bitterness of rye is too distracting for a Manhattan. Next you’ll tell me that you use dry vermouth instead of Italian sweet!”
“Preposterous!” I shouted—we were the only customers lift in the bar and the friendly conversation had quickly escalated into an argument. “Everyone knows that a dry Manhattan isn’t even worth the cherry!”
“I appreciate your passion,” he said, “but not your sentiment.” With that, he took his had and exited the establishment. As the door slammed behind him, a rush of cold air hit me and I became disoriented. Someone had taken away the ashtrays and when I tried to light another cigarette I was asked to go outside; Thomas had taken off his bow tie so I asked him where it had gone.
“Bow tie?” he asked, looking down at his t-shirt. “I wasn’t wearing one. But how was your nap?”
Late one Tuesday night I was perched at my usual bar stool, watching the snow come down on the SoHo streets through the foggy window. Thomas had been pouring me shots of Talisker 15-year Single Malt for so long that he’d given up and left the bottle on the bar.
Buy the time I drained the last drops into my glass, the room seemed to be morphing. Details I’d never noticed began to stand out. I lit a smoke and tapped it into the large crystal ashtray on the bar—funny, I hadn’t even realized they had ashtrays. Thomas’ bow tie was a little off, so I leaned over the wide bar and tried to adjust it, but missed the stool on my way back down.
The snow was coming down harder. I adjusted my hat and tried to smile for Thomas but it must have looked more like I was holding back a sneeze. The door opened and a slip gentleman sauntered inside. “Excuse me barkeep, I’ll have a Manhattan,” he said as he took the stool next to me. I could feel his eyes on my neck and turned to meet his gaze. His weathered British accent sounded uncommon yet familiar.
“A Manhattan? You’re a man with good taste,” I said, trying hard to sound intelligible.
"I prefer an Old Fashioned,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trust that man to make it well, what with the cocked bow tie. Manhattans are simple, and long overdue for a revival.” His love for drink intrigued me and I gave him my name. He introduced himself as Kingsley Amis and after a brief chat I ordered a Manhattan of my own. Thomas asked me for the specifics (Sazerac rye with a twist, please) and got down to work. I watched him with a genuine smile as he strained the amber mix into a chilled glass.
I turned back to my new friend. The smile had left his face.
“I do believe that bourbon would have been a better choice,” he said.
“Bourbon’s too sweet for a Manhattan,” I replied. Sobriety suddenly swept in when my expertise was questioned. “Rye has more pepper. More bite.”
The bitterness of rye is too distracting for a Manhattan. Next you’ll tell me that you use dry vermouth instead of Italian sweet!”
“Preposterous!” I shouted—we were the only customers lift in the bar and the friendly conversation had quickly escalated into an argument. “Everyone knows that a dry Manhattan isn’t even worth the cherry!”
“I appreciate your passion,” he said, “but not your sentiment.” With that, he took his had and exited the establishment. As the door slammed behind him, a rush of cold air hit me and I became disoriented. Someone had taken away the ashtrays and when I tried to light another cigarette I was asked to go outside; Thomas had taken off his bow tie so I asked him where it had gone.
“Bow tie?” he asked, looking down at his t-shirt. “I wasn’t wearing one. But how was your nap?”
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