The bartender didn't seem bothered by his request for a spoonful of absinthe in his martini. Normally he took a martini as any sensible person would: gin with a touch of vermouth and a squeeze of lemon oil to garnish. Today, however, he was in the mood for something slightly different.
To anyone looking at his drink . . .
He had to fight the wind as he pushed through the revolving doors that separated the outside from the inside. The quick pace he usually walked at was carried out in double time. When he made it to the stairs that led down to the subway his cheekbones already ached from the cold.
The train was packed--standing room only for . . .
As he crossed the tracks on Canal he could faintly make out the gruff voice of a trombone from deep within the Quarter. He glanced down at his wrist out of habit and laughed because he had intentionally left his watch at the hotel. No matter. Crossing this historic street was as close to stepping back in time as one can get. The . . .
The time had come. It was do or die. If he dawdled it would all be a waste. The pearlescent liquid winked at him in the bottom of the straight sided crystal glass. "Goodbye."
No longer flirting with freezing temperatures the drink had grown-up. Mellowed. Aged. He remembered only ten minutes ago when it was fierce . . .
Walking through the revolving door he dragged his feet to remove the snow. It was coming down a bit too hard to finish his pipe so his walk had been cut short. He waved at the doorman and took the elevator in the opposite direction of the falling snow.
He was a touch out of sorts. The week had drifted by without much . . .
Water sputtered out of the tap as he turned the knobs to full blast. He couldn't remember the last time he actually drew a bath for himself. While the water ran he went to make a drink in the kitchen. A tub cocktail would surely help during the soak.
He looked funny standing in the kitchen; bare-chested with a stiff . . .
6:30 sharp...or YOU have to make the drinks!
For the last few months, my wife and I have been enjoying a cocktail hour at home. This is a daily thing unless we happen to be out for some reason. It is in both of our calendars and whoever is late has to make the drinks...which are martinis more often than not.
Why Cocktail Hour?
We are both pretty intense in . . .