Memorial Day Eve. Slow. 8:45, server V, working downstairs, lets me know, gleefully, as I run downstairs for something, to say hi to the Holmgrens maybe, "Tim, Tim," imitating the famous Mr. Tap, who has my name wrong. He's a legend of bon vivant cosmology. He has a fur coat of every kind, and when he came once with a waist length mink coat one late fall, the conservative Sunday night customers of Bistrot of the Dying Gaul downstairs dining room turned and almost sneered. Which didn't faze him. Sometimes he might get a little close to being a bit happy lets say. He has a good cocktail, he has some champagne, he orders a three course meal, he has maybe a half bottle of Bordeaux, then an espresso series, along with a digestif. V. is happy, as she's almost done, fall on the ball, let the clock tick away, she's going home soon anyway. And the famous Mister Tap is going to be eating upstairs with "Tim," a name I will readily respond to when called over. And Mr. Tap will be with me 'til midnight at least.
But Jesus Christ, it's been a slow slow night, and now, fuck, we all just want to go home. As Mr. Tap is sat, V brings up 3 new customers--almost 9 by now, kitchen closing in half an hour, to look over and see what dining room they might be comfortable in. She tries to sell them on the beauty of eating with me, upstairs, with no busboy. They sit at a couch, it doesn't fit them. They decide to sit downstairs. They'll end up lingering at the front table by the window, but V doesn't have to close anyway.
Mr. Tap calls me over, Tim... He's had a cocktail with bartender so n so at La Plume chic restaurant in fancy hotel, drink called a red devil, takes muddling, ingredient special blend... Mr. Tap, as you know, I'm not up to date with all those hipster time consuming craft cocktails. (This is a bistrot. You have to do things fast here, everything all at once. Slow craft cocktails just aren't part of a realistic approach to service, wham bam thank you ma'am.) You know I'm a classicist here. I like to keep things simple and clean. Maybe... a sidecar? Oh! Oh!! Wonderful. Wonderful, Tim! That's exactly what I was thinking of. By now he's not so nervous as he was earlier. He was cut off, and/or given a lecture about by the boss, laying ground rules about what he might drink if he is going to have a bottle of wine, that sort of thing. The man's been a partier for a long time, and it seems he likes to throw in a little medication, ambien or something, into the blend of his buzz. I've had to carry him to the men's room before, where it seemed he reclined on the floor to relax for a while.
I bring over a fresh lemon muddled sugar rimmed beauty of sidecar, made with cognac and cointreau, the rim sugared, to his specs. "Oww! Tim, Oww! Thank you." Mr. Tap is happy.