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“Ahhh, let me see what I can do,” Amani says, his lips twitching into a smile. He thinks for a moment, then turns toward the back bar, picking up random bottles.
I watch as he pours four different kinds of rum into a mixing tin with random fruit juices. Adding ice, he shakes the tin, then pours the mixture into four shot glasses.
“What is that?” Amanda asks.
“Looks like a rum punch,” I answer.
“Very good, yes. My own special recipe,” Amani says, a giant grin covering his face. “Here is to your wedding.” He picks up his shot glass and toasts Amanda. Giggling, she toasts back. Clinking our glasses together, we throw back our shots.
The concoction was delicious. I could’ve had that as a drink and been happy. I nod my head toward Amani and smile. “Excellent,” I tell him.
Slamming her glass down on the bar, Amanda says, “We need two more margaritas. This one,” she says, motioning toward me, “is a lightweight.” Miranda laughs.
“Well, I will not be the one puking up my guts tomorrow morning,” I mutter under my breath.
Fifteen minutes until show time, I finally finish my margarita and the girls are just about finished with their second. Instead of ordering another drink, I ask Amani for a bottle of water. If we’re going dancing after this, I need to be slightly sober.
The hostess finally comes over to announce we can now be seated and I wave Amani over, asking for the check. “I’ve got this, no arguing. Consider it a wedding present,” I say, smiling as I fish the money out of my clutch. “Besides, it’s actually on Chase.” I wink and both girls nod their head.
“In that case, you can cover the drinks all night,” Amanda jokes, nudging me with her elbow before she and Miranda turn toward the hostess.
Sliding the amount for the tab plus a huge tip across the bar toward Amani, I mouth, “Thank you,” and turn toward the girls as the hostess escorts us inside the dark club.
As we enter the club, I can feel it’s authenticity. The way the club is designed, it evokes the intimate atmosph
ere of 1950’s Havana. High-back wicker arm chairs flank white-clothed tables, all grouped around a lit stage. Floor-to-ceiling windows are darkened by rattan shades, further adding to the Old World charm. I counted about fifty seats, all with great views of the stage. At least the club is air conditioned. Even though it’s evening, it’s still Africa hot outside.
We’re seated at a table right in front, slightly to the right of the aisle. This is the hot zone, and depending on the comedian, could go either way. Having been to my share of comedy shows, the comedian always picks on the front row, and Amanda is ripe for the picking. I know how to take a joke, but I’m not so sure about these two.
“Can we have a wine list?” Amanda asks as a waitress comes up to our table.
“Finally, something I can drink,” I tease. Nodding her head, she scurries away.
“What kind of wine do you drink, Olivia?” Miranda asks me.
“Any white, for the most part. Some chardonnays, as long as they aren’t oak barreled. I prefer steel barreled, so I usually drink pinot grigio or sauvignon blanc.”
“No reds?” Amanda asks.
“Not usually. Sometimes I’ll have a pinot noir with a steak.”
“Okay, white it is.” The waitress walks back up to the table and hands Amanda a wine list.
“What would you suggest?” Amanda asks, handing me the menu.
“What is a really good white wine?” I ask before the waitress can reply, skimming over the extensive list. There are a lot of French and California wines to choose from, but I’m not familiar with any of them .
“Our featured white wine is the Furst Pinot Blanc, a sumptuous white French wine from Alsace.” I turn to the girls and both have blank looks on their faces. It’s like looking at deer caught in headlights. Shaking my head, I turn back to the waitress.
“We’ll have a bottle of that, thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have it right out for you,” the waitress says, picking up the wine menu and scurrying off as the lights in the room dim. A single blue light shines on a stool set center stage. I adjust my seat for a more comfortable view and place my attention on the stage.
An older man comes from behind the blue curtain and sits on the stool. Taking a sip of a water bottle, he looks into the audience. “It’s okay. I’ve never heard of me either,” he says flippantly. The crowd gives a chuckle and he smiles before continuing. “I was a little nervous before coming up here, so I prepared a few lines. Now that I’ve snorted them, I feel great!” I chuckle and look at the girls, both with half-smiles on their face and an arched eyebrow.
Scanning the crowd, he pins his gaze on Miranda. “I’m thirty-eight, single, unemployed, and have erectile dysfunction. If you want to come back stage and try to turn this dough into a baguette, I promise you might regret it.” Miranda lips twitch into a full smile and her chest shakes in silent laughter.
He uses our table for his entire act, focusing on Miranda at first, but once she tells him Amanda is getting married tomorrow, it’s all over. Toward the end of his set, I’m laughing so hard, I can’t breathe. Miranda laughs right alongside me, but Amanda bristles, clearly not thrilled with the attention.
