Roosevelt Cocktail Affair

Signature cocktails being shaken in the air; classics being stirred—the ambiance is dim, 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 corner of a thirteen-top lobby bar. A friend that joined in presence for the eve, she’s sitting on my right side. The blur of the Roosevelt Hotel sign seeps through the stained-glass ceiling above from the shimmering moonlight, rather dimly to compliment the noir presence, but enough to confirm location. The six-person jazz band begins prepping their night time show in the near background.

She carries herself rather fiercely when approaching us. She's a dominating presence. Her shakers, strainer, double strainer, and muddler were her weapons of choice as she crafted her next cocktail for another patron at the bar. 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—this gentleman that I notice sitting across the other end, he gets to her. The faults in her confidence seep through a bit, like the spilled tequila leaking through the cracks of the rocks glass that had shattered on the ground next to us. Bless the tipsy soul who dropped it—she's seen tumbling away from the bar, assuring her impaired state as she trips on her scuffed, white dress every stumbling step she takes, rose petals trailing her vanishing. The bussers scramble to clean up the mess left behind. What can you say, a Hollywood show at its finest? Back to the bar I pivot my focus. Cocktail gal pretties herself in a quick manner, her focus 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. With a premeditated turn, she approaches this gentleman. Unlike the tipsy soul moments ago next to us, white dress now faded in the distance behind, cocktail gal is careful with each step as she proceeds. The gentleman presented to her like a fine glass of wine. He holds himself up well. Casual and simplistic, yet managing a rather classy, effortless presence with his unadorned white oxford, tapered slacks, and shined black derbies—I notice the subtle scuff mark on the left front shoe. My guess to his charm was his well-formatted, messy hairstyle that foreshadowed sinful intentions; she was waiting to play this game. My hair losing its sheen as I feel it falling in volume as the night proceeds. 

Earlier in the night, the same gentleman was seen gliding through the hotel entrance doors, suit and tie fitted, uncreased, hand and hand with a pretty young gal. She glamoured in a tight-fitted dress with a luring shimmer; he had bought her those red bottom heels just for this night, I can tell—Louboutin. Strikingly compatible the two were, as they grabbed all wanted attention gracing through the lobby space. The grand hotel clock times the10:00 pm chime. She had not too long ago clocked 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 entrance to the front desk, keys now in hand, to the elevators they went.  A paper bag in her hand, shaping what I guessed their dose of a good time—the familiar obelisk shape of Don Julio 1942; a butler wheeling chocolate-covered strawberries to their room at that very moment I confidently presumed. In one hand, he carried a bucket of ice, as his free hand caressed the curvature of her lower waistline. She gripped that one hand rather tightly with her own free hand. 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. With my attention shifted, I excused myself from the conversation. My lady friend waited in the courtyard for us to resume our early eve rendezvous. 

11:28 pm. Diner gal with the bold, red heels was to be blamed for his [presentable] scuffed up hairdo; I could almost guarantee this fair observation with the couple strands of hair too long still knotted around his lush, Hollywood locks. The sleeves of that once-creased long-sleeved button-up rolled up his arms quite well. Dimmed aviators on to hide the scandalous eyes painted with 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 and with [ill] intentions. My friend guessed it would be a bold scotch straight to order; I responded to her guess being too dismal of a choice as we watched him ready his first-round request for the cocktail gal. It was amusing to see her get nervous around his presence. Not the gal she was when we were approached moments earlier. She comes off differently now. Weaker, yet still tactical, extremely strategic, I have to give that to her. That once confident charm she carried becomes the willowed rose I notice left sitting on the now-empty bar stool to my left; remaining bits of shattered glass and tequila on the floor reflect from the chandelier glow above. However, the luring scent she leaves trailing keeps him around and engaged. The mystery she carries. The thing is this, she did carry sure elegance, compounded with a teasing, 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. My friend and I are lucky enough to have been granted front row seats. Jazz melody begins to set the ambiance at perfect tone—the live saxophone from the small stage behind wins the mood of all in presence. She, however, blind to the wave of ease in that moment, finds it difficult to keep herself composed near him; her persona crumbling slowly, resembling a poorly made Manhattan—unbalanced, no sweet vermouth, and too much bitterness. Confident she seems, but she has a soul so delicate. She knows she can’t sway with her words. In fact, minimal word exchange was curated between the two, aside from the exchange of words when she finally takes his order. "Dealer's choice. Surprise me, cocktail gal". The game begins, and the first move has been made; her next move decides everything. She plays it safe and sticks to what she knows best. She gathers herself, grabbing her mixing glass and stirring spoon. With thoughtful precision, an ice-cold glass, and unflawed large cube, she perfects his drink, as expected. It's not her first ball game, and surely wasn't his first rodeo. She’s made this drink many times before. He’s sat at that very bar top many times before, yet the presence of him will forever make her nervous. A dull tone of guilt illuminates the bar setting. Teasing gestures say she knows him a little better than this rye old-fashioned made, however, a smoked peel dropped in glass—my friend passes me a friendly nudge with my right assumption of his drink of choice, as cocktail gal finishes her move, washing her remaining tainted bar tools. We continue watching the charade. The cocktail gal, this sly cocktail gal, she claims back her dominance in those next moments with her cunning next move, her one last trick up those scandalous sleeves. Approaching the gentleman, a delicate Luxardo cherry is placed atop his drink as it's being served, a move never done before. This catches him by surprise, you can tell, as he abruptly adjusts his slouching stature and slips off his shades. A checkmate move landed by her. A strategic, seamless, and wordless subliminal play. So much temptation laced around that one single cherry. I underestimated you, cocktail gal. Well played. He sips in pleasure, fantasizing all pleasure, making sure to sip slowly. Eyes locked upon hers, as he accepts defeat, never forgetting his reason for being there that night. Roosevelt cocktail affair.