There I am at the Century Club for the Thomas Dunne party. Nice joint. They make me check my firearms at the door, so you know it's genteel. The coat check attendants even refuse the dollar I've made sure to bring (after last year's fiasco when Jeff Somers had to lend his very own agent-moi- a dollar to get her jetpack out of coat check!).
I make a dash for the bar. One new Dunne editor, clearly never having met me before, gets in the way. I exchange brief civilities with him then feint left, duck right, and throw myself at the bar. A very nice bartender says "ya, whats yers." I point at the scotch bottle. He misunderstands and picks up a glass. I realize this is a nice place and walking around with a bottle of scotch might send the wrong message.
I accede to the glass.
Then this "bartender" puts ice in the glass. I shriek NO! NO! (the glass breaks).
He says "what? no ice?"
I plead yet again, "no! no!"
He picks up a wine glass. Again, the shriek. NO!
I point to the mixed drink glasses-four ounce tumblers.
Then he pours me a full glass. Not a shot. Not even two shots. He fills the glass like it was a mixed drink. And hands it to me.
The only bad thing about this? Eric Stone and my other Scotch drinking clients aren't actually here to enjoy it with me.
But, all in all, a damn fine party.
10 comments:
You can mail me whatever you didn't finish. You have my address.
I hope you left that bartender a big fat tip...
I used to facetiously say that I'm not a famous writer yet because I don't drink. Haven't earned my dues, y'know ;)
Actually, I have one drink each year. Except in 2006 when I had two drinks on the day of my mother's funeral. The professional drinkers were shocked that I had two different kinds of Martinis: one made with gin and the other with vodka.
I'm still trying to decide what I'll drink this year -- and when.
...
While you were up to that, my extra large hip flask of Macallan and I were at the Griffith Park Observatory watching the lunar eclipse. We even went so far as to hike up there, in the dark. The coyotes howled for a taste, but I wouldn't let them have one. Ah, life in the big city.
Hmmm, you're a scotch drinker? One of my favorite bloggers (no longer around, though) guzzles pails of gin. Ever heard of her? I think you two would like each other.
Many years ago (okay, decades), when I was fifteen (going on twenty-five; you know those girls), my ex (whom I didn't actually marry for another ten years) thought it was a good idea to introduce me to Scotch, "neat". A caraffe of Scotch. Let me just say that I did not throw up (a wonder I didn't die of alcohol poisoning), but I did have to be carried out of the place. I never drank Scotch again. It reminds me of drinking perfume, which I would sooner do.
The 1.75 of Dewar's is never out of arm's reach. I could travel more if had longer arms.
My mother was a Macallan neat kind of girl and her daughter finds herself trapped in Boyland with a Glenlivet-swilling husband,and an heir plus a spare who know exactly where the Scotch aisle is in Sam's Wines and Liquor.
I hope that you left your man at the bar a nice tip since the party probably was such great crack, in part, as a result of the added incentive.
Cheers!
I'm a Laphroaig girl, myself. :-)
NEAT.
;)
Husband? The Glenlivet, straight up. Me? A bit of a wimp. Chivas, Rocks, Twist.
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