Roosevelt Cocktail Affair

Signature cocktails being shaken in the air; classics being stirred. The ambiance is elegant, politely mysterious, with a slight sense of grim intentions. Wednesday eve, late October—here I was, sitting atop a barstool on the far right side of a ten-top lobby bar. A friend that joined along for the eve, she’s sitting on my right side. The sign of the Roosevelt Hotel peeping through the shimmering moonlight, rather dimly to compliment the noir presence, but enough to confirm location. The six-person jazz band prepping their night time show in the near background.

She carries herself rather fiercely when approaching us. Dominating presence. Her shakers, strainer, double strainer, and muddler were her weapons of choice as she crafted the first cocktail. Intimidating at first glance, but I read her insecurities quite quickly. I observe her presentation from afar. The way she mixes each cocktail is quite convincing, believe me. She had [closely] perfected the art of confidence—however. The gentleman sitting across the other end, he gets to her. The faults in her confidence seep through, like the spilled tequila leaking through the cracks of the rock glass shattered on the ground next to us. Bless the tipsy soul who dropped it—she tumbles away from the bar, assuring her impaired state as she trips on her scuffed, white dress every stumbling step she takes, rose petals trailing. The bussers scramble to clean up the mess left behind. What can you say, a Hollywood show at it’s finest? Behind the bar, cocktail gal pretties herself in a quick manner, peering towards the mirror positioned along the back portion of the bar, hoping no one catches her quick fix of the loose few strands of hair overcoming her forehead. A reflection of him peering her way keeps her at that mirror a few seconds longer. She turns, approaching this gentleman. Unlike the tipsy soul, white dress now fading in the distance behind, she’s careful with each step as she proceeds. The gentleman, to her like a fine wine. He holds himself up well. Casual and confident, and yet manages a rather classy presence with his simple white oxford, tapered slacks, and shined black derbies, scuff mark on the left front. My guess it was his well-formatted, messy hairstyle that did it for her. Mine losing its sheen as I feel it falling in volume as the night progresses. 

Earlier in the nightfall, the same gentleman was seen gliding through the hotel entrance doors, suit and tie fitted, hand and hand with a pretty young gal. She carried on a tight-fitted dress with a luring shimmer; he had bought her those red bottom heels just for this night, I can tell—Louboutin, impressive my friend. Strikingly compatible the two were, as they grabbed all wanted attention gracing through the lobby space as the grand clock times the 10:00 chime. She had just gotten off her nightshift at the diner down the road. Her cheap perfume didn’t succeed in masking the subtle remaining miasma of her six-day work week as they both pass me by. From the lobby, to the front desk, keys now in hand, to the elevators they went.  A paper bag in her hand, shaping what I might’ve guessed their dose of a good time—the familiar obelisk shape of Don Julio ‘42, and a bucket of ice cubes in his free hand; a butler wheeling chocolate-covered strawberries to the room at that very moment I’d presume. His other hand caressing the curvature of her lower waist-line. She gripped that one hand rather tightly with her own. At floor 13 the elevator stopped. The hotel front desk clerk chatted with me some more about how his dog had been diagnosed with dementia. I told him I had to go. My lady friend waited in the courtyard for us to resume our early eve rendezvous. 

11:28. Diner gal with the bold, red heels was to be blamed for his [presentable] scuffed up hairdo; I could almost guarantee this fair observation. A couple strands of hair too long still knotted around his lush, Hollywood locks. The sleeves of that long-sleeved button-up gripping around his arms quite well. Dimmed aviators on to hide the scandalous memories of an earlier night affair—or maybe to cover the tears of a bad one. There was a reason for his bar visit. He came alone with [ill] intentions. My friend guessed a bold scotch straight to order; I responded with it being too dismal of a choice as we watched him request his first round from the cocktail gal. She gets nervous around him, I notice this. Not the gal she was when we were approached moments earlier. She comes off differently now. Weaker, yet still strategic. That confident charm becomes the willowed rose left sitting too long on the now-empty bar stool to my left, remaining bits of shattered glass and tequila on the floor reflecting from the chandelier glow above. However, the bold scent she leaves trailing keeps him around and engaged. The mystery she carries. The thing is this, she definitely did carry sure elegance. She presented promising charm. She makes a mean cocktail, but she’s nothing short of an average gal, sad to say. It’s all a Hollywood show. We’re lucky enough to have been gifted front row seats. Jazz melody setting the ambiance at perfect tone—the live saxophone from the small stage behind wins the mood over. She, however, blind to the wave of ease of the moment, finds it difficult to keep herself composed near him; her persona resembling a poorly made Manhattan, unbalanced, no sweet vermouth, and too much bitterness. Confident she is, but she has a soul so delicate. She knows she can’t sway with her words. In fact, minimal word exchange between the two, aside from the exchange of words when taking his order. She plays it safe, and sticks to what she knows best. She gathers herself, grabbing her mixing glass and stir spoon. She perfects his drink, as expected. It's not her first ball game, and sure isn’t his first rodeo. She’s made this drink many times before. He’s sat at this bar top many times before, yet the idea of him still makes her nervous. Teasing gestures say she knows him a little better than his old-fashioned rye, however, a smoked peel dropped in glass—my friend sends a friendly nudge with my right assumption of his drink of choice. The bartender, she defines her dominance well and garnishes a delicate Luxardo cherry with his drink this time. This catches him by surprise, you can tell, as he abruptly adjusts his slouching stature and slips off his shades. Bold move on her end. Strategic, as if done as a wordless subliminal play. I underestimated you, cocktail lady. Well played. He sips in pleasure, making sure to sip slowly. Eyes locked in, as he never forgets his reason for being there that night. Roosevelt cocktail affair.