The rain began to pound, and thunder cracked the sky. 5:32pm. I didn't particularly care to splatter my legs, I walked slowly and with purpose.
Pause.
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The Royalton's pillars do not out themselves when your tucked into an umbrella. The grouping of thin women puffing cigarrettes and scolding tardy businessmen guided me through the doors. The AC felt artic. I left my blazer on.
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Honey Sling. A tall thin glass filled with Rangpur gin, muddled limes and honey. A raw, earthy straw of ginger leaned inside the glass. The bar keep thought he knew me, "What is your surname? ...You could be my ex girlfriend's sister. I couldn't focus. I had to ask." Further conversation- he'd been to my hometown several times. A San Diego man who's spent several Summers in the Pacific Northwest. The bar maid whipped around, "Which Island?? I knew I knew you!" She went to my rival high school. Here we are, three West Coasters, in Gotham.
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When my company arrived, we took a seat adjacent the fire place to enjoy a cheese plate, shrimp tempura and more cocktails. A man tickled by with a Boston Terrier. A woman pressed herself far back into a couch as a man leaned towards her. Another with cheekbones to the cieling crossed her arms and looked down. I considered the smooth honey texture of my cocktail, even. Satisfying. The cheese was serious. Tangy. Sour. Pungent. The fruit compote reminded me of the spices in baked beans. I looked to the dripping AC. How does it drip up, or consdensation, I suppose- like that? I tested the tempura. Surprisingly light. Fresh.
"I am- an alcoholic," the executive admitted to me. "Don't-go- to A-A- (pause, eyebrows raise) "..they will make you quit drinking." He chuckled. Gulped half of ketel martini.
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Photo credit: Eater.com
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