Time and Place for Cocktails
Certain drinks don't work in certain places. I have always known this but unless you change your geographic location and always drink the same thing it is often hard to tell.
Think cocktail bar vs dive and what you would order at each one. What if instead of a cocktail bar and dive it was urban and rural settings? What . . .
He never had to order at this bar. They always assumed he would be having his usual martini and they were always right. The day was too nice out to be crammed in the subway though. Instead, he decided to walk the fifteen or so blocks down his favorite street to his favorite bar. In doing so his order changed.
He had . . .
The ride to the airport was easy and the surly TSA agent didn't say anything about his mismatched socks or the fact that he had no carry-on bag or luggage. His last-minute ticket made the buzzer go off when it went through the scanner. He realized it was the return ticket that would be used to fly back in a few hours.
. . .
The grill was warming up and the ballgame had taken an annoying turn after a bobbled ball in the outfield. He turned the radio down and went inside to get the chicken and zucchini she had prepped. A ribeye would have been more up his alley, but words like "healthy" and "cholesterol" had been floating around . . .
As his eyes opened and the sunlight cut through his retinas he felt around to make sure he was alone. It had to have been the second bottle of Champagne. It always was.
He shuffled to the kitchen one naked foot and one socked foot in front of the other. His counter needed a chalk outline around the General Tso's he . . .
It was a warmer day than it was supposed to be and he was either too late for lunch or too early for a cocktail. Nothing sounded all that good but as he was both hungry and thirsty the problem needed to be solved. A proper conundrum for a Friday afternoon.
He found a place that had a wooden sign set up advertising oysters, . . .
He reached for the tall heavy-bottomed crystal shaker he had used almost every day for as long as he could remember. It was a gift from his mother-in-law from some fancy place whose name he had forgotten. The sticker that signified it legitimate had long been removed the same way he always pulled the band off of a cigar before he . . .