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?”