My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [102]
“How do you drink them?” Fletch asks.
“Why do you drink them?” I add.
“How about you see for yourself?” The bartender reaches under the counter and presents us with a glass containing two fuchsia pipettes. “On the house. This one’s raspberry.”
I pick mine up and I’m completely flummoxed as to how to get its contents into my mouth. Maybe this really IS one of those Nik-L-Nips from my childhood. Maybe I’m supposed to bite it, drink it, and then chew the container till my jaw hurts? I kind of don’t want to suck on it because I have a small phobia.200
Before I begin tearing it with my teeth, Fletch demonstrates the proper technique. He lifts it to his mouth, tilts his head back, and squeezes it from the bottom. He considers it for a moment before proclaiming it, “Nice.”
I follow suit, taking care not to squeeze it so hard I drown, or so lightly it dribbles on my dress. Raspberry-flavored success! Tasty though it may be, I figure if I get a whole cupful of these, there’s bound to be an accident, so I decide on a different cocktail. We watch as the bartender assembles our drinks. Mine contains a mixture of gin, white grape juice, lime, and brandy. Fletch opts for something made of rye and grapefruit juice—gross—but the bartender assures us it’s a crowd-pleaser.
Assembling each beverage takes a couple of minutes and a lot of concentration. The bartender pivots back and forth behind the bar, grabbing ingredients and measuring apparati. “Sure are lots of moving parts to this operation,” Fletch notes and the bartender nods serenely while he pours and mixes. I can tell Fletch is itching to hop behind there to fix it himself. When we were in college, he always prided himself on his speed as a bartender. His cocktails were never good, he’d make customers jump when he slammed empty bottles into the trash, and he made waitresses cry, but he was fast—I’ll give him that.
The bartender tenderly stirs each of our drinks before using eyedroppers to add the last bits of ingredients. “Enjoy!” he says, placing the chilled glasses in front of us. As soon as we taste them, we understand these were worth the wait.
Grudgingly, Fletch admits, “Yeah, I probably couldn’t have done this myself.”
“Check it out,” I say. “The grapes on my swizzle stick are frozen.”
“Mine’s got a cube of frozen grapefruit juice in it,” Fletch tells me.
“That’s so Schoolhouse Rock!” I exclaim. “ ‘They had a fun time making sunshine on a stick!’ Remember that?” Before Fletch can agree, the hostess informs us our table is ready. She suggests we leave our cocktails at the bar, and someone will deliver them to us.
“I’m already impressed,” Fletch whispers to me. “That’s great service.”
“Oh, please,” I say. “We used to do that when I worked at the Olive Garden.”
We enter a minimalist dining room, dark save for the few pools of light coming from candles scattered on ledges. One wall is lined with padded banquettes in a neutral color and a large, light curtain masks the wall across from it. Tables are small and close together, and each is covered with a simple white tablecloth. There are no centerpieces or art anywhere.
There’s nothing on our table except a napkin, a water glass, and a piece of paper describing the wine pairings for the two tasting menus. When a hostess called to confirm my reservation, I had to choose between the ten- and twenty-course option, as there are no other dinners here. I went for the ten when she informed me the twenty takes over five hours to serve. Who has that kind of time?
After the waiter confirms our order and wine pairing, he returns with two bowls. “This is your menu,” he tells us, referring to the thick piece of printed parchment. “All of your upcoming courses are listed on it. In the bowl you’ll find a balsamic reduction and ramp butter. You can begin your meal by eating your menu. Enjoy.” And with a slight bow, he backs away from our table.
I run my fingers over the menu, which is actually a piece of herbed