He turned from the bar with two drinks in his hand and walked towards me, sitting at the dining room table. Handing me one of the glasses, he said with a smile, “I hope you enjoy it.”
The bar was located in the dining room of his house, which was in between the kitchen, in the back of the house, and the family room at the front of the house. The bar was along the wall in which the stairs go up to the second floor. There was a natural walkway through the dining room so that the dining room table was at least five feet away from the bar. The bar spent many years in the family room before figuring out, from living in the house and rearranging furniture many times over the years, that it made sense to be in the dining room.
The bar was actually an old sideboard or buffet or server, repurposed as a bar. It was meant to store dishes and silverware and the like, but now there were assorted bottles of alcohol, sodas, mixers, and glasses of all kinds. Originally, the art deco sideboard had marble tops, he was told, but they had been replaced with two pieces of 1/4" mirrors. The sideboard was symmetrical in three parts. It had two longer side sections and a taller, narrower central section. The central section was an inch or more higher than the side sections. It is believed that the missing marble tops were probably the same thickness so that all three sections were at the same height. Each section had a top drawer and a lower cabinet area with a lockable door. The key came with the sideboard and was placed in the door with the keyhole that had a missing nail in the faceplate. If the key was not in that particular keyhole, the faceplate would swing from the sole nail at an angle and block the keyhole. A new nail was never added. The sideboard, or bar, was not in particularly great condition. The drawers were in need of some gluing. The skirting at the foot was not properly attached. And the wood veneer paneling was kind of peeling and cracked. But it was an impressive piece of furniture. Grand in its symmetry and presence in a room.
The old art deco sideboard caught his eye at an antique market somewhere in Pennsylvania. New Market or Glen Rock or some small town near his in-laws. He bought it on the spot, but then had to get it home. He wasn’t driving his Wagoneer on that trip, so he would have to go home and schedule a time to pick it up later.
(The Wagoneer. 1987 Jeep Grand Wagoneer With The Wood on the Sides. It was such a cool looking vehicle. Because of this, versions of it have been in many movies and tv shows. His was white with a red interior. He had a photo of it somewhere, collected with photos of all of his other vehicles. In between the sky blue 1987 Honda Civic Hatchback which he had for nearly twenty years and the cherry red 2003 Ford Ranger two-seater pick up that he only had for a year. When he found out he was having twins, he soon realized a two-seater was not going to cut it. As he would tell it many times over, the Wagoneer was kind of like a Femme Fatale or a Siren. Its lure and beauty hid unforeseen dangers. The engine leaked oil without remorse and it was breaking down all of the time. He would own that vehicle for less than nine months, putting more money into it than he paid and sold it for.)
Finally settling into life in the dining room, the bar eventually had a grand painting placed over top of it. His parents bought the painting many years ago. The painting was an al fresco scene showing a large dinner table overlooking a vineyard. It portrays a festive meal that he imagined had taken place in Napa Valley. When his father died, he asked his brothers if he could have it, knowing it would fit really well in his dining room and over the bar. In keeping with the symmetry, two identical floor lamps were placed on either side of the bar to light the painting. Having the mirrored surfaces created some nice visual moments with the painting above it when standing in front of the bar.
He had always been a whiskey and bourbon drinker. Starting back in his high school days with Jack Daniels. Not realizing until years later that Jack Daniels is not actually bourbon, but sour mash whiskey. He would start learning about bourbon, even stealing his father’s practice of having tasting parties. His father tasted single malt scotch. He tasted bourbon. He had a theory about bourbon. If the topic ever came up, he would go on about how bourbon, and the history of its production, was actually the origins of the industrial revolution in America. That story is for another time, told while enjoying another drink.
At some point, he decided to change things up. About a year or so earlier an old friend of his came to visit and was discussing the merits of the negroni. At the time, he took note of it and that was all. But recently, he started making the cocktail regularly at home, nearly daily. The campari, he said, could be kind of addictive. Something about that bitterness, which is the same thing that turns many people away from the aperitif. He had looked into the ingredients and found recipes with different ratios, eventually developing one to his liking.
On the bar he had a cocktail mixing set that included a metal shaker. After he had been making negronis for a while, he realized a tray or platter would be good to have, as the campari and vermouth would get the glass surfaces all sticky. In the kitchen, he found an unused hammered aluminum tray that suited his needs perfectly. It was the perfect size so that the metal shaker and a glass could sit on top of it. It was also similar dimensions to his cocktail mixing set. Now, the tray’s location is on the left side of the bar, in front of the mixing set. Just like the bar itself, which took using it and having it in different locations over the years, the tray has now found its proper place within the home.
He had originally used the jigger from the mixing set to make his negroni. But that became messy, even with the tray. Next, was a shot glass. This worked fine enough, but he found that the thick-rimmed glass also created unnecessary dripping. Finally settling on a small juice glass that had three red rooters printed around the circumference.
That evening, as we were sitting at the dining room table, catching up on our lives, he offered to make a drink. He walked over to the bar, grabbed two tumblers from under the left bar cabinet and the shaker and then walked into the kitchen, placing the items on the kitchen table. He grabbed a clementine orange from the large bowl of fruit next to the refrigerator; a small plate and a steak knife; and then cut the fruit three times, creating two slices and an end piece. With the end piece, he squeezed the juice into the cocktail shaker. Then he placed the full slices into the bottom of each of the tumblers. He pulled two handfuls of ice from the freezer and placed them over the slices in each glass. He told me he preferred the humble location of having the slice under the ice as opposed to locating it proudly at the rim. Plus, then it is not a hindrance when sipping. A third handful of ice went into the shaker and then he made his way back over to the bar.
The shaker was placed on the tray next to the rooster glass and the two tumblers were placed beside the tray. He leaned down and reached into the right-side cabinet and pulled out, in order, the campari, the vermouth, and the gin.
He opened the campari and picked it up with his right hand. In his left hand held the rooster glass. Before pouring the campari, he turned to me and said, “Italians consider campari a symbol of pleasure, of intrigue, of passion, representing our soul. For this reason, we fill the glass to the rooster’s heart.” And then he poured the liquid up to the rooster’s chest. The contents went into the shaker. Replacing the campari with the vermouth, again turning to me, “vermouth was traditionally made by adding aromatic roots and bark and herbs to fortify the wine. It was thought to be medicinal, for our health. And for this reason, we again fill the glass to the rooster’s heart,” and repeated the process. Moving on to the gin, he said to me grinning, “now any time you have some gin, you are bound to be getting in a bit over your head.” This time he submerged the rooster completely, pouring the gin nearly to the top of the glass and added it to the shaker.
Placing the lid on the shaker, he turned toward the kitchen and began to shaking. It seemed like, after about seven or eight shakes, he was counting to himself. I never did ask him if he was counting or how many shakes he had given the concoction. He opened the cap of the shaker that contained the strainer and poured the liquid into the tumblers with the slice and ice. The color of the cocktail was a marvel and, to me, unique in all the world. It almost looks as though it was radioactive in its glow, and after that first sip, I was certain of it!
We may have had more than one negroni that evening. And we may have told more than one story. And the evening unfolded as effortlessly as the stories that were told. And I felt a warmth in my heart.
