Wednesday, Apr. 21, 2004 - 12:10 am
Um... I'm sorry.
This relationship just isn't working for me.
I'm at www.dailypreciousness.org now. So change that bookmark.
What would you do if you found a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk? Would you...
(A) dive after it like a homeless guy after a half-smoked cigarette?
Or would you...
(B) look around for the owner? And, if you saw someone who'd just passed by, would you ask if they'd dropped anything?
My buddy "Qwik Fiddy" Brett faced just such an ethical dilemma. He found an orphaned note on the sidewalk. And he did the right thing. (Namely, choice B, for those of you playing at home).
This was the fiscal beginning of our blossom-tini crawl. The concept behind it was a story in the Post...
The Willard Intercontinental Hotel has long been a supporter of the Cherry Blossom Festival, so it's a challenge for bartender Jim Hewes to come up with new festival-related drinks for the Round Robin Bar. In 2003, the menu was based around cherries. This time, saketinis -- cocktails with sake added -- were the first suggestion. "Saketinis come and go," Hewes says. "You don't see too many people focusing on them because of the unique taste."
Of the three sake-based cocktails on the menu, the most interesting is the Fuji Apple Sour. "It's an appletini," Hewes says. "The only difference is that we're using sake" instead of vodka, giving it a drier taste and a more floral scent than the usual recipe found at trendy bars. Not an apple martini fan? There are fruitier recipes, like the Haru Melon, with Midori melon liquor and lime juice, in addition to a special menu of hot and cold sakes.
One of the best fruit-inspired festival drinks I've tried is the Knotted Cherry Stem cocktail at the Kennedy Center's Roof Terrace Bar. Easily overlooked, the bar is located in a small, art deco-inspired nook between the rooftop restaurant and its coatcheck room. Two drinks are available: the Knotted Cherry Stem, a refreshing blend of gin, cherry brandy, cranberry and 7-Up, and a recycled Valentine's Day drink called the Cherry-Chocolate Velvet, which tastes like it sounds. The gimmick? Each arrives garnished with two cherries, their stems knotted together.
The trendy Kimpton hotel bars are also getting into the act, although the cocktails at Bar Rouge and Helix Lounge -- primarily made with raspberry- and strawberry-flavored vodkas, fruit juice and soda -- are best left to "Sex and the City" fans and those with a sweet tooth. I'm more apt to order straight from the Topaz Bar's recently updated drink menu; the new Singapore Swing is a delicious cherry-flavored version of the legendary Singapore Sling. It's garnished with -- what else? -- cherries.
I never realized the fine art of beer in the evening and planning out the map of the crawl until I studied under the masters of the craft: the Irish and the British. Luckily, the plan was right there in front of me, in the Post, so I didn't have to sprain any brain cells to come up with the plan.
Nope, I simply dusted off the tuxedo jacket and ironed my new vintage shirt – the one with the cherry red psychotropic pattern. I frosted my hair blue ('cause that’s what librarians do). Hopped on the metro. Popped out at Foggy B. Took off my headphones and said hello to Brett.
First off, we met and discussed Victor Calderone's heavy rotation list.
Then we hopped on the next shuttle to the kencen. A quick elevator ride got us to the top.
The roof terrace bar lacks a view, but it's a very comfortable spot. I like the décor... very subtly glam. The bartender was well groomed and professional.
We had some duck foie gras, a little tuna tartare and our first round. The barkeep comped us the duck, since we hadn't actually ordered it. I just had a few bites of the tuna and decided to forego anything else. I wanted a mainly liquid diet tonight.
Brett dropped the fifty to pay for the bill... but the only change he got back was fifty cents. He did a comic double take... wondering where all the cash went... but the blossom-tinis and the tuna were steep enough to eat up $49.50!
We chat about the evening's game plan. Before long, we throw down a little more cash then dash outside to the terrace. I mean, we'd already done our part to pay for the view, so I thought we might as well enjoy it a bit.
It was cool and windy outside. The breezy night met us head on. We gazed out above Rosslyn's city lights, all ablaze. The Potomac is a shiny milky blue expanse below us.
I stared out into the cloudy darkness above. A thought occurred to me: what did that darkness conceal? Were there hidden eyes looking down on us that evening? Possibly. According to our staff meeting earlier that day, more than likely. But, just in case we were the only ones there, I snapped the first self-documentary footage of the evening.
As we left the terrace, Charlie began his tradition of doing a cartwheel at each venue. (Interestingly, the cartwheels grew increasingly horizontal with each drink. But he sticks the landing every time. East German Judge: 8.5.)
The shuttlecraft arrives at the station after a bumpity ride through town. We're geared up for the next site. The Willard is just steeped in history. Lincoln lounged here before his inauguration... it seems there were rumors of a domestic terrorist threat – an assassination plot – that preceded his swearing in ceremony.
We saddle up to the Round Robin bar in the immaculately decorated round room in the front corner of the building. It's a cordial setting – people were friendly and engaging there. Even the ones we happened to be making fun of. Case in point: there was a couple at the far end of the bar who looked like an L.L. Bean orgasm. "Look at how Hamptons they look," Brett exclaimed. "It's Brits and Kip," he said, theorizing about their names.
Brett taught us the art of Hampton naming. Sadly, this never came up when my family was there. Brett told me that you just simplify your name to one syllable and pronounce it with the sides of your mouth drawn up in a botox smile sort of way.
For example, Brett=Brits, Charlie=Kip and Jeffrey=Jacks. Those were our designated code names for the night.
Soon we drifted off to the lobby to soak in the Glamour. This was big G glamour -- the entire lobby was flush with springtime scents and scenery. This was Frou-frou writ large; there must have been fifty huge vases containing cherry blossom branches. A little bamboo fountain churned out a peaceful little water music.
But that music wasn't quite enough. We needed a little something more. So, after my third drink, I was ready to play on the piano in the lobby. Well... almost ready. So when Brett confessed a little clandestine music making in the downstairs conference room, I moved that we take the party underground. And so we did. We were a lounge act.
Charlie's hidden talent (besides cartwheels) was tickling the ivories. He played the songs that make the whole world sing. He played the songs of love and special things. Show tunes. Movie tunes. Queer classics. Charlie played the BEST SONGS EVER. (I don't mean that as an editorial comment. The songbook that was stashed in the bench was actually entitled "The BEST SONGS EVER".)
Meanwhile, I draped myself on the shiny grand piano and soaked up the wholesome camp goodness of it all. Holding my apple-tini, I toasted him and sang along. Atop the piano, we talked about the important stuff. You know, the real issues: music, alcohol, guys... and we bonded, as we drew the Venn diagram of our desire: we both liked cute Jewish guys.
We discussed all of their wonderful physical characteristics – and that delightful Jewish sense of humor. We even agreed that their politics often match our own. Oddly, Charlie said that he thought I was Jewish when we first met a few hours earlier. (I guess Christian isn't the only one who thinks that.)
I even confessed to Charlie that I thought Henry was Jewish when I first met him. I mean, who can blame me – those luscious dark features, those intelligent, expressive eyes, that perfect olive complexion – it all spells Judeo-hunk to me. However, he is actually Polish Catholic, I explained. Fortunately, he was blessed with obvious genetic similarities to God's Chosen Sexy People.
Before long, the security guard came around to check on things. She reminded me of the sassy black guard on Night Court. No nonsense and with very short, functional mildly dyky hair.
We were absolutely honest when she asked if they'd given us permission to use the piano. No lying. And a good thing, too. I was too drunk to lie. After those strong drinks and so little food, I was at optimal buzz. Brett and made some endearing apology and she told us we had to leave after one last song. This was fair, I guess. I mean, we weren't really bringing in any business for the downstairs meeting room. And we were probably freaking out the cleaning staff. (Could they handle gay men, show tunes and cocktails? Or would that have been an all-too-frightful vindication of their stereotypes? Probably.)
I don't quite recall how we got from the Willard to Helix. But I suspect it was a quick zip up the metro line. Helix wasn't too busy, so we found some seats near the front door to the lounge. The air there is usually a little fresher than elsewhere, so I was glad we got a sweet atmospheric spot. Plus we could do some great people-watching.
Charlie wanted to play with the light-up white stools that resemble radioactive marshmallows on steroids. (They'd be the marshmallows that Godzilla and Mothra would use while sitting 'round the campfire singing folk music.) In the hallway of Helix, he performed a chemically altered cartwheel. His long legs went through the air and nearly collided with a print of Andy Warhol. (Andy nearly ended up with 15 minutes shattered and on the floor!)
By this point, I'd had more than five drinks. Or was it six? Not sure. I am sure of this: there is some kind of chemical release in my brain that leads to (frankly embarrassing) chattiness and increased candor. I can also veer towards being a philoso-drunk. However, this only works out if everyone has the same low tolerance as I do. And also they have to share similar idealistic leanings and the charming "can't we all just get along" naiveté that I embody.
So we might have talked politics or philosophy, but I frankly can't recall a thing. This is the point at which I become one with my cocktail, in a very Irish zen sort of way. It's basically hijacked my central nervous system. My usual self just morphs into a sort of a back-seat driver to my ego, which has, by now, taken the wheel with Alcohol riding shotgun.
I have a blurry memory of me taking an even blurrier picture of Jackie and the boys in the back hallway, though. But that's about all I can remember.
And the memory cells just didn't get a chance to Tivo the rest of the evening, either.
I think we might have shot the kneecaps off of and then gang-raped a homeless person before stumbling over to J.R.'s.
All I remember there was that it was kind of smoky and the crowd was fairly attractive. Oh – and I somehow got the bartender to pick up the tab for our round. (I wish I could remember how I managed that!)
I know what you're thinking... J.R.'s wasn't actually listed in the WP article. You're right. And they didn't (to my knowledge) have any special cherry blossom drinks, but I guess we just wanted to round out the evening with a predominantly gay spot.
I vaguely recall interacting with an auto repair guy and asking him if he could come over and help me change out a broken taillight (sans any double entendre). Strangely, he'd never heard of Click and Clack. What a sad, bleak existence he must lead on Sunday afternoons!
Before long, I realized it was time for me to catch my carriage home.
And I left.
But it was a fine evening of friendly blossom-tinis with wonderful company. Brett is always an absolute Blossom. (I don't care what they say on rate-a-date.com about him. Lies. Vicious lies, I tell you!) And Charlie is a doorbell as well. Like the cocktails, they were sweets with no sours. Just like I like it.
