Poet's Coroner
Ok, about that whole Manhattan fracas.
My simple desire to numb the brain a bit and retreat into the prism of a heavy-bottomed tumbler (I'm describing a kind of glass, not a category of female) was thwarted from the outset. I asked for said beverage, and what should appear at my elbow some two and a quarter minutes later but something that had all the appearances of a heavy-bottomed T crammed with ice and in between that ice the amber outpourings of a bottle of Jim Beam. So far, so G, you say. But I had specifically ordered a Manhattan, and Manhattans, in my admittedly wide experience, usually come to the starting post a tad darker than the main ingredient, due to a generous infusion of dry vermouth.
With words and gestures I tried to make this clear to the servitor at my elbow. Usually, I admit, I would have downed the mixture (if indeed it was a mixture) without comment. I am, as a rule, a man who takes things as they come and would have, in the normal course of things, taken this pale Manhattan in my stride, assuming it to be some local variation on a venerable theme. But I had been sorely tried that day, what with business about the town, and when I had asked for a Manhattan I had in mind the kind of Manhattan where the bourbon and the vermouth vie with one another on the tongue for predominance, each putting forth their best effort to stimulate, and at the same time deaden, the troubled mind.
The whole problem was, I suspect, due to the fact that I don’t get out much. I am not is step with the latest thinking vis a vis bars and barmanship. And so, over those insular years, I have created my own version of the Manhattan, one where a jigger of bourbon and a jigger of vermouth are tossed into a tumbler packed with ice and, after a few shakes of bitters, leisurely sipped in between pulls at the ancestral pipe. The man behind the apron kept insisting that the darker red color I was looking for was due to—of all the hideous notions—grenadine (!) and freely offered to come back with a vat of the Shirley-Temple-makings and violate the sanctity of my personal happy hour with it. But I was firm and, I must say, Basil, you backed me up here staunchly. I don’t suppose you had the waiter in a headlock for more than, say, 45 seconds before he promised to put away the cherry juice, saving it for the next children’s party on the schedule. Rising from the floor and adjusting his apron, he said he would go and see how our mignonettes were coming along. Though victorious we too were gracious, suggesting to the maitre d’ that the man not be fired but merely horsewhipped behind the oldest dumpster in the alleyway.
As far as the liturgical dancer, Basil, I was in full accord with your proposed plan of action. Nothing would have pleased me more than to see the leotarded retard take a toss into the Jacuzzi-cum-font at the front of the edifice. May she choke on her beribboned baton and marry the youngest son of the guy with the fruity voice and the off-key guitar over by the choir bleachers. So far from thwarting your plans for her undoing, I was merely staggering beneath yet another example of liturgical lassitude: the lay Eucharistic ministers lounging at the back of the building swigging what was left of the Blood of Christ the same way they’d toss back a brewski after an afternoon on the riding mower. In my emotion I lurched backward, deflecting your well-aimed foot. When you kicked the walker out from under that retired nun in no habit and sensible shoes, no one could have been more surprised than myself.
Surprised, but not apologetic.
.
Liturgical dancer? Hee-hee. Now I get to make fun of YOUR denomination.
Posted by: NBS | June 08, 2009 at 01:51 PM
Not before I do.
The thing about being Catholic, of course, is that you can rely on the fact that, whatever trendy ephemeral frivolousness is taking place between the pews or at the altar, it will eventually go away, leaving the Truth intact.
In other denominations--and no, I'm not speaking of yours because I don't want to start a fight here...also because I'm not quite sure what your denomination is--the frivolousness becomes the new truth.
Posted by: Mr. Peperium | June 09, 2009 at 01:36 PM
This would never happen in my local watering holes.
Posted by: Crackie | June 09, 2009 at 07:05 PM
We could always try to make it happen...
Posted by: Mrs. Peperium | June 10, 2009 at 03:49 PM
Make what happen, Mrs. P?
Also: I'm not sure what my denomination is either. I'm a lost sheep, and if anyone comes near me with a crook, I run.
Posted by: NBS | June 12, 2009 at 04:06 PM