The following is my offering for Suze's False Start Valentine's Day event. All participants - there are seven of us this time, plus our hostess - must supply a portion of manuscript, romance as theme. For more info and to read other submissions, please visit Suze at
Subliminal Coffee. Here we go...
Photo via Science of Drink
I had no reason to expect the Long
Island Iced Tea party would offer much beyond the usual drunken carousing. I couldn’t have known she’d be
there. I didn’t know her yet.
Rumor had it Sandra was bringing a
friend, one who lived in some tiny one-room apartment in Tokyo. Such was my original mental image of
Dani: a woman alone in an unfurnished tatami room, a single bare light bulb
dangling from the ceiling. Dani in
the flesh was a bit more glamorous. She was well put-together: a
horizontal-striped tank top, tight fit; an ankle-length, black skirt. Her dark brown hair was cut short after
a lifetime (I would later learn) of keeping it long. Confident – maybe a little off her game in a room of
strangers but ready to hold court once she had her footing.
I met her in the drink-mixing
room. All of the booze and
glassware were set up on a low kotatsu table – not much of a bar but you work
with what you’ve got. I’d been
summoned to mix a bloody mary. TJ, an old southern boy at heart, handed me a
Mason jar for the job.
I was surprised when Dani, not long
after first introduction, moved to sit on my side of the table. I’m slow on the
uptake when a woman shows interest, yet I knew she wasn’t merely curious about
my mixological endeavors. She
moved to be next to me. Well,
hello…
“So, why’s he having you make it?”
“I’m good at Bloody Marys.”
“Are you a bartender?”
“No, I only know how to make one
drink. Bars never get them
right. TJ will order one, then let
me fix it.”
“What
does ‘fixing it’ entail, exactly?”
“I like ‘em hot. If it doesn’t set your mouth on fire,
it’s not a Bloody Mary. The best I
ever had was at a Southern cuisine restaurant in Minnesota.”
“Minnesota? Help me out. My US geography is limited at this point.”
“Upper Midwest.”
“So, not exactly the Heart of
Dixie. Southern cuisine?”
“The restaurant was called Dixie’s,
actually. They loaded up the drink
with vegetable garnishes and served a beer chaser alongside. Without the extras to soak up some of
the spice, it would have been undrinkable.”
“Sounds painful.”
“More like Heaven! My mouth waters just thinking about
it.”
“A Proustean-Pavlovian
response.” Realizing I don’t get
the joke, she goes on, “I thought this was a Long Island Iced Tea party. Do you make those, too?”
“We’ve got the ingredients. I’ll give it a shot.”
“What goes in it?”
“A little bit of everything: vodka,
gin, tequila, rum, triple sec…”
“Any actual tea?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How do you manage the color?”
eyeing someone else’s glass.
“Coca-Cola.”
Long Island Iced Tea had become the
drink of choice among our group, primarily because our regular bar in Yokohama
made a fine one. It’s a revolting
concoction, truth be told, and potent.
I expect it was TJ who ordered the first one. He raved. We
all followed suit. It became a
thing – as good an excuse for a party as any.
