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The bartender gives me a little half-smile and sort of laughs at me. I honestly don’t know whether he is amused by me or feels sorry for me. Quite frankly, I don’t even know why I care which it is, but I do.
“How about you try one of my favorites? It’s a small batch brand out of Colorado. They age it fourteen years in rum casks. Smooth as a baby’s ass. No bite or burn at all on the way down. I think you’ll like it.”’
I nod. All of that sounds fine. Especially the way he says it. My Inner Sex Goddess could listen to him talk about smooth asses and burning body parts until the cows come home.
“OK, how much?”
“It’s on me,” he insists. He reaches for a small bottle behind him with a baby-blue label that has the wordBreckenridgescrawled across it in black letters. He pours an inch of the dark leather-colored liquid into a short glass and slides it across the bar to me.
I lift it to my nose and inhale. It smells sweet. I can detect hints of cinnamon and other spices and what smells like cocoa or maybe caramel. I swear I could dab this stuff on my wrists as perfume, it smells so tantalizing. Of course, I’d probably attract every AA dropout from here to New York City. But honestly, that would probably be an improvement over the guys who have shown interest in me lately. Just more evidence of my complete lack of a life. #single.
I throw the contents to the back of my throat and work to swallow it in large gulps, praying my esophagus neither catches fire nor dissolves under the slow-burning heat of the alcohol.
Choking and gasping, I reach clumsily for the glass of water the bartender is sliding toward me and guzzle it down within seconds to hopefully extinguish any flames. Doesn’t burn going down, my left ass cheek!
I watch the image of him wobble and roll around through my watery eyes. He’s laughing at me. And not a light little chuckle, either. No, he’s enjoying a full-on belly laugh over me. Jerk.
“You’re not supposed to shoot it, honey. It’s a sipping whiskey. That’s why I didn’t pour it into a shot glass.”
Well, that would have been good to know before I nearly died on 1.5 ounces of Colorado’s finest.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I manage to rasp and pick up my purse to leave. A flush of embarrassment washes over me. Or maybe it’s the lingering flames from the firewater Tarzan here tried to kill me with.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he asserts and grabs my glass. He refills it and drops in a huge sphere of ice. The splash sends ribbons of amber liquid trailing down in long, thick fingers against the sides of the glass. “You need a do-over there, Tenderfoot. And don’t worry. It’s still on me.”
I cast him a warning glance, but resettle myself onto the stool and try again. I take a tiny sip. My throat closes up in anticipation of the burning sensation, but it doesn’t come. Instead, my mouth and tongue explode in a cacophony of flavors that slide and smash into one another in the most unexpected ways.
The sugar sweetness of honeyed caramel and the perfume of the rum and spices all marry together with the hints of flavors I detected earlier. This time, there’s no burn as the whiskey eases down my throat and gently heats a line from my mouth to my stomach. The warmth spreads back up into my cheeks and down into my arms. It feels like a magic spell twinkling through my entire body. A warlock’s magic potion of sorts.
“Wow,” I confess, fully experiencing the drink as it was intended. And more than a little grateful he challenged me to try it for a second time. “That’s terrific.”
“Glad you like it,” he winks and gives me a sly smile.
I scan the room to discover hardly anyone else inside. A real shame, if you ask me. This is a cool place and it’s got a mellow vibe. A balding man with a protruding belly hunches over a beer at the opposite end of the long bar where I’m sitting. Sadly, he looks nearly too drunk to hold his barstool down for much longer. In a corner booth, an elderly gray-haired couple shares what looks to be a basket of fish and chips. And in the center of the small dining room is a group of six young professionals in their power suits, obviously discussing their next big business deal or where to club on Friday night.
“Not very busy today, are you?” I comment. I’m not sure why I always feel as if there needs to be conversation in the air. But my whole life, it seems, silence has always made me feel uncomfortable. Silent people think. And it’s been my fear that all they’re thinking about is me. And not in a good way.
“Well, it is two o’clock on a Wednesday, so …” Tarzan, the bartender, informs me.
“True,” I add, realizing with more than the slight embarrassment that he’s right. Oddly, I don’t worry about feeling embarrassed like I normally do. This place seems homey to me somehow — like I belong here among the people and the silence and stories that have been written within these walls. Or maybe I’m just feeling the effects of the whiskey. It’s a bar for goodness’ sake. It’s just the whiskey.
“We tend to get busy after five and on the weekends.” He lets his head drop to an odd angle and studies my face for a split second before asking, “Have you eaten today? You want a menu?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good. I had a granola bar and two bottles of water earlier today.”
He blanches as if I’d told him I eat puppies for breakfast.
“Birdseed and water isn’t a meal, honey. Let me grab you a menu.”
He slides a laminated list of offerings in front of me and I have to admit, the smells emanating from the kitchen combined with the irresistible photographs of their food make my stomach rumble. I read over the menu, finding my eyes struggling to focus properly. Hmm … must be the dim lighting in here.
“What sorts of salads do you have?” I ask. My voice finally sounds more like my own.
My burly tattooed bartender rubs a long-stemmed wine glass to a gleaming shine before reaching up and sliding it into an overhead rack. His bicep flexes and the thick veins that map over his hands and arms make me want to order him, lightly tossed, with dressing on the side. Inner Sex Goddess mentally places her own order.
“No salads, honey. How about a cheeseburger? If you’re a vegan or something, we can do mushroom or black bean.”
My mouth waters at the mere mention of a cheeseburger. Well, and the view of him. I hum almost audibly and then nod slightly. I really am hungry. For the cheeseburger, that is.
