I
There is something seductive about a
cocktail glass, not a coupe, not the ones with
rounded bottoms, used (wrongly) for champagne.
A cocktail glass, perched on a reed-thin stem,
connecting a solid flat base to the working
part, the essential part, the triangle with an oval
opening that whispers elegance, urbanity,
recklessness, sophistication, tantalizing flavours
and aromas, crystal clarity, decadence.
All that, and more, is held in the five-ounce bowl
of a classic cocktail glass.
II
Nick and Nora Charles, the fictional Thin Man and his
wife, drank from coupes. Well, OK. They can be
excused. They had a dog, after all, that went
everywhere with them, and Nora's clothes were
never covered in dog hair. They had cocktail
parties for criminals. Not big, bad ones. The
1930s version of midnight tokers. Prison, sure,
but for nothing much. Nick was a PI, you see,
and hung out with low types. Did I mention,
even now, a friend of mine in Tennessee faces
jail time for pot? No elegance in US society
today. Not even any sense.
III
This was supposed to be about Henry's Manhattan,
but it went someplace else. Henry's Manhattan was
made with Jameson's Irish Whiskey, not much sweet
vermouth, and three cocktail cherries. Always. So,
now, are mine. Henry was old when we met, over
80, and died a few years later. I mixed his Manhattans for
his daughter's guests the night of his funeral, a wake
of sorts.
IV
Dorothy would only eat lobster salad for lunch, served
with champagne. Only champagne. I don't know
whether Stanley agreed. He didn't stand a chance.
He married a former Ziegfeld dancer ten years his
senior, and they had lived happily ever after. And then
of course there was Frances who took Valium every
day for years and would not watch a mystery because
she said they upset her. She wouldn't cook, either,
except matzoh brie and coffee, instant. She took all
her meals out. Not wealthy. Single. Small apartment,
big restaurant bills, enormous heart.
V
I wonder what people will write about me when
I'm old. I AM old. I can't believe it. I am old, over
60. People have begun to die. These people, all of
them, have died. And yet
they live. Here, on this page, and deep in my
heart, joined by more, so many many many
more who informed my life in ways too odd
and numerous to count. But count them
I will. There is time, yet, for a few stories, and
I mean to tell them.
VI
Thank you, Henry, for teaching me about a better
Manhattan, and heading a section in my
book of life.
Copyright 2014, Laura Harrison McBride