Lee Nichols - Tales Of A Drama Queen

“The primary liquor. The backbone of the drink. The Broadway of the Manhattan.”

“Um… Gin?”

He starts to shake his head no.

“Right! That’s a Chicago. I meant vodka.” I get the look again and continue: “Vodka is in the Brooklyn. You sure you don’t want a Brooklyn?”

The teddy bear interrupts with a bellow about Texas grapefruit being better than any other grapefruit, and the redhead says, “Maybe you should give me the beers first. Pacify the natives.”

“Two IPAs and two Nukey Browns.” The Newcastles are on tap, and I overpour one, but remember in the nick of time not to clean the drippage with my tongue. Though that’s gotta be a great way to get men interested. The IPAs are in bottles—thank the God of beer—and I plop them down.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I think I’ll have a Cosmopolitan, too.”

“Two Cosmopolitans—coming right up.”

“And, of course, a Cosmopolitan has…”

“Vodka,” I say, because I actually know, and wave airily. “And the rest.”

He sort of cocks his head, grins and returns to the booth with the beers.

As soon as his back is turned, I lunge at Monty. “How do you make a Cosmo?”

“No idea. They’re after my time. But a Manhattan is bourbon, bitters and sweet vermouth.”

“Monty! You could have told me!”

“Don’t look now,” he says. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom, and Redhead is at the bar again.

“Problem with the beer?” I ask.

He smiles. “Just waiting for the Cosmos.”

“Won’t be a second.” I reach for the vodka—and there are six bottles, all different. I grab the closest, aware that Redhead is watching me and I’ve never mixed a drink other than Kahlua and milk in my life. I ease two martini glasses from the rack. So. Vodka, check. Martini glasses, check. And I’m stymied. “You know what?” I tell Redhead. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring them to your table?”

“That’s all right.”

“No, really.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I like it here.”

“No, really.” I smile, baring my teeth.

He smiles, but doesn’t move.

“Go sit down!” I bark.

He goes.

I turn toward the wall of liquor. Vodka, and…Schnapps? Cosmos are sort of pink, so I choose peach-flavored. And maybe brandy. That goes with everything, right? It’s the basic black of liquors. There’s a bottle on the top shelf that looks like brandy, all the way in back, like Maya’s forgotten about it. I splash some into a silver shaker. Adjust until the color is right, add a couple of maraschinos, and ta da! Cosmos.

“Maya should be back any minute,” Monty says, taking his seat and eyeing the drinks.

“Yes, she should,” I say primly, and serve the drinks. One for Redhead, the other for the normal-haired woman with the tortoiseshell glasses. I hover nearby as they sip.

The woman gags. Redhead only coughs.

“A little stiff?” I ask. “That’s how we like ’em, here at Shika.”

“This isn’t a Cosmopolitan,” the woman says.

“Not entirely,” Redhead agrees.

“Let me taste that.” Neil grabs Redhead’s drink and takes a slug. He shivers, a full-body expression of disgust. “That sure as shit is a Cosmo,” he says, suppressing a secondary tremor. “Never tasted better.”

“Have you ever had a Cosmopolitan?” the woman asks, and I’m just glad she’s looking at Neil, not me.

“So what if I haven’t?” he says. “That means I don’t know one when I taste it? Let’s say the first time you tasted a Cosmo, it was really a—I don’t know, let’s say it was a…”

“Manhattan,” Redhead deadpans, flashing me a glance.

“Yeah, a Manhattan,” Neil says. “So what you think is a Cosmo is really a Manhattan. That’s epistemology, baby! The limits of knowledge in—”

“That’s just crap,” one of the extra men says.

“It’s not just crap,” the other extra man says. “It’s utter crap.”

Which sets Neil bellowing again. “Utter crap? I’ll tell you what’s utter crap! The fact that George W was appointed president—”

Maya bounces over from the front door, and they all greet her with great relief. “I see Elle got you started,” she says. She smiles at them, and at me, and I feel I’ve been anointed. Then her gaze settles on my Cosmopolitans and her smile settles into a frown. “What are those?” she asks.

“Chicagos,” Redhead says.

“Well, I ordered a Cosmopolitan,” the woman says.

Maya looks at me.

“Cosmopolitans?” I say firmly.

“You don’t know how to make Cosmos, Elle.”

“They’re pink.”

“I’ll make fresh ones.” Maya takes the woman’s glass, and reaches for Redhead’s, but he stops her.

“I like it,” he says. “It’s unique.” He looks at me. “Sweet.”

“What are you talking about?” Neil the teddy bear says. “It’s awful. You can’t drink that. It’s not even a Cosmo.”

He’s shouted down by a volley of derisive hoots. Redhead sips triumphantly, and winces.

I scurry back to the bar as Maya fixes two Cosmopolitans. As she puts the bottles away, she pauses over the brandy I’ve pulled from the top shelf. “What’s this doing out?”

“Umm…”

“Tell me,” she says, fixing me with a horrified glare. “Tell me you didn’t use it in the Cosmopolitans.”

“Well…it’s not all I used.”

“Elle, this is de Fussigny—it’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of cognac. It’s sitting on the top shelf so nobody opens it.” She doesn’t look mad so much as really disappointed.

“I’ll pay for it,” I say, wanting to shrink into nothing. “You know I have that monster stack of cash.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, though I know it does. “We might as well drink it now. You want a glass?” She pulls out some brandy snifters.

“I’ll have a glass,” Monty says.

“You have to pay for it,” I snap. “It’s expensive.”

“Elle,” Maya warns.

But Monty laughs. “How much?”

“Fifty bucks. It’s d’Fussy. Worth every penny.”

“Ellie,” Maya says.

“Hit me up,” Monty says, and lays a crisp hundred on the bar. “And one for the lady.” Meaning me. He’s now, officially, my idol.

“I’ll take a glass, too,” this lovely, deep voice says from three inches behind me, and Redhead is there for his Cosmos.

“Just one?” I say. “What about your friends?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, and takes the drinks back to his table.

Maya looks harried. “It’s not worth fifty dollars a glass. I can’t charge—”

“Oh, shush,” I say, and clink my glass with Monty’s. Maya snorts—trying not to laugh—and clinks her glass and we drink.

From the booth, Neil the teddy bear bellows something about us all living in a pentarchy while getting redder and redder in the face.

“What’s the deal with him?” I say. “Cute, but kind of argumentative.”

“That’s what they’re here for.” Maya sips her cognac. “Neil has a problem with rage. His wife said she’d leave him if he didn’t deal with it. He wasn’t beating her or anything, she was just sick of all the yelling. So he started this club. They come every Tuesday night and argue.”

“Does it work?” I ask. “Is he less rageful?”

“I don’t know,” Maya says. “I’m afraid to ask him.”

Maybe it’s the cognac, but we all laugh, and Maya tells me to watch the bar again for a sec, while she runs out back.

I panic. “No! Don’t leave me—I’m not ready!”

She ignores me, so I take my post and consider wiping the bar until it shines, but decide it isn’t worth the effort. Shika needs major renovation before cleaning will make it look any better. The booths are brown vinyl, the walls are painted dirty beige. The yellowing photographs of the Lower East Side of New York are fun, but better suited to a funky deli than a happening bar.