Harvey had never visited this part of town before, but he had heard stories. Now he was here, and the old weatherbeaten pub stood before him. There was not much on the outside of the pub to make it stand out from the rest of the block, so that if you didn't know it was there you might miss it. Harvey was here for a reason. The light from inside was not bright, but it warmed him as he stood in the wet breeze. He strained his ears, and faint tavern sounds reached him, like a distant carnival. He smiled and looked up at the sign that waved gently over the simple wooden door. It was carved of wood, and the lettering was painted on. "The Gilded Hog," Harvey read to himself. Then below it, in smaller letters: "Drinks, Any Time."
Harvey had an interest in drinks. He had put himself through college as a bartender, and was really quite good. There wasn't a drink he couldn't make, and make well. He had heard about the Gilded Hog from a co-worker, and his curiosity finally won over his fear of going downtown after work hours. He took one last look and a deep breath and pushed his way in.
Despite its outward appearance, the place had character. Harvey stood there in the entranceway for a moment, taking it all in. The air was blue with smoke, but the combination of cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke somehow produced a bearable fog. Harvey cautiously breathed in this blue air, testing it, and found that he liked it.
The Gilded Hog seemed comfortable in size, with about ten tables and a long bar. The fixtures were all of wood; there wasn't a spot of chrome or formica anywhere. Nice touch, Harvey thought. A good bar should have plenty of wood.
The place didn't seem crowded, but it was full. The clientele were from all walks of life - at one end of the bar there was a grubby group of bikers, and college professors were discussing a period of Roman history in another corner. One particularly loud group of what looked like sailors were sitting at a table laughing and singing songs about bowlegged women. There were women at the Gilded Hog, too, although it obviously wasn't a place where single people gathered in search of a one night stand. There was no dance floor, but music filtered through the hum of the crowd. People weren't here to dance or to play pool, they were here to talk and have a good time. Harvey had always believed that it was hard to get to know someone by writhing a foot or so in front of them to music so loud that even an exchange of names took a good set of lungs. The women in this place seemed to be comfortable with the men they were with, and there were also one or two groups that were all female.
Harvey gave the bar a second look as he headed toward it. It was all wood also, and one end of it had a solid black screen in front of it. The three bartenders kept disappearing behind this screen for a moment, and then coming back out again with drinks in their hands. They didn't seem hurried at all, but it was clear that they were efficient. There were two waitresses as well, and they moved with the same easy efficiency. Harvey smiled as he took a stool, marvelling that a seat made out of wood could seem so soft. He watched the bartenders working for a few moments until one with round glasses and a balding head raised his eyes toward Harvey. "Hi, my name's Fred...what can I get for you?"
"Well, Fred," Harvey asked, "What do you suggest?"
Fred looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugged. "History's been a long time in the making, pal...it's kind of hard to say."
Well, Harvey thought, at least that means they're not just pushing one or two specialty drinks to make their claim seem legitimate. With competition being what it was, he wouldn't have been surprised to find them trying to pawn off some cheap gimmick like that. He still expected a catch. He thought a moment, then made his request with a grin. "How about the first drink? In history, I mean."
Fred didn't miss a beat. "Coming right up," he said, and ducked behind the opaque screen. Harvey found that it was arranged so that you couldn't see behind it even if you were sitting right at the bar. Fred returned in a moment or two with an eight-ounce glass filled with a purplish-looking translucent liquid. "Here you go, pal," he said, "That'll be two-seventy-five." Harvey fished into his wallet and gave him three. When Fred came back with the change, Harvey left it on the bar. Fred nodded. "Enjoy," he said, scooping the coin up, and he went off to wait on another customer.
Harvey sat and peered at his drink. This place was not at all what he had expected. He had been prepared for something like custom-made glasses for each drink, sporting different types of liqueur fashioned only to imitate history. But here in front of him was this plain, bar-type glass, no frills. He sniffed at the contents. The aroma was fruity, which made sense. Obviously, the first drink would have been fermented fruit juice of some kind. He sipped it a little, just to get some idea of the taste. A little was not enough to convey the flavor, so he took a mouthful and swished it around in his mouth. Harvey didn't recognize it at all, but it had some sort of seeds in it. The seeds were small, but they were not from a raspberry, or a blackberry, or even a mulberry.
The next time Fred happened by, Harvey called out to him. "Say, Fred, what's this stuff made of?"
"Berries," Fred answered, and he was off again. Harvey finished the rest of it. Whatever it was, it wasn't very strong, maybe only fifty proof.
When Fred went past again, Harvey flagged him down. "That was pretty good," he said.
"Another?" Fred queried.
"No, I'll try something else..." He thought about history again, and wondered what he might drink out of it. He didn't know much about history, and so he had to stick to the more obvious choices. "How about whatever was the most popular drink in ancient Egypt?"
Fred beamed. "Better yet," he said. "How about the most popular drink from the Golden Age of Atlantis?"
"What was it? I mean what is it?" Harvey asked.
"Sort of a heavy wine."
"Sure, Fred, that'll be fine. Thanks." Again, Fred shuffled off behind the screen. He returned with a wine glass. This time the contents of the glass were clear. The only aroma it gave off was a sort of a salty wet odor, and the taste came through with just a tiny sample. It was apparently distilled from some kind of seaweed.
So there was an Atlantis after all, Harvey thought. It's a shame it sank, because this stuff is pretty good. It tasted like nothing he'd ever had, in all his years of drinking. It made sense, since there wasn't an Atlantis any more, but it was more than that. There was something about the place that got to Harvey. He looked around again, scanning the patrons of the Gilded Hog.
The women were still chatting. Every now and then they would all lean forward and giggle a little at some inside joke. Harvey strained to hear them even though he knew it wasn't a very nice thing to do. It didn't matter, because he couldn't hear them. He thought that if he could hear them he would somehow be a part of their group, but the laughing itself brought him into the fold in its own way. It warmed him some.
Soon he was distracted from the women by the sailors. One of their songs grew in volume a bit and took him under its power. The sailors were too rowdy for his tastes, though, and although he might smile at their bawdy songs or enjoy their hearty laughter, he knew that was the sort of group that he would never be a part of. He smiled and took another sip of his wine. Again he pondered at the taste.
"What's this stuff made of?" he asked Fred, who was in the middle of passing by him again.
"Seaweed, I think." Fred answered. Harvey watched Fred for a while. He was an artist, Fred was. He had mastered the art of bartending and was practicing it with consummate precision. He had the uncanny ability to draw a beer or mix a drink and take an order from another customer while also looking up and down the bar to see if anyone else had an empty glass. It was amazing, and it nearly made Harvey dizzy. It was like watching a complex pattern form in front of your eyes. The pattern never repeated, never retraced itself. Almost like a ballet, one which Harvey had danced before.
After he finished off the Atlantean wine, Harvey toured the rest of human history. There was mead and ale from the Dark Ages and rich warm liqueurs from somewhere in Russia's past. At various points throughout the evening Harvey watched the crowd, and grew to like them. The college professors were a pretentious group - but there was an intelligence about them that Harvey liked. It wasn't just their facts and figures, but an air of common sense that appealed to Harvey. Their speaking tones and argumentative manner were good entertainment. Their argument was an age-old one about war and peace -- to them it was as if they were deciding national foreign policy. The conversation rose to a little bit over Harvey's head and he turned his attention back to the bar.
Harvey tried the wine from King Tut's coronation and the homemade apply brandy that Benjamin Franklin made in his own bathtub. He glanced over at the grubby-looking bikers and had to stifle a laugh. It occurred to him that they might also feel as if they were discussing matters of national importance. In that light, it seemed to him that maybe they didn't look so grubby. At least, not out of sheer grubbiness, but out of some kind of desire to stand out. He finished off the brandy and ordered something else, again marvelling at the smoothness of his bar stool. He had to look to make sure that it wasn't padded.
Harvey wound up very drunk. He was not a big man, but nonetheless it took quite a bit of drinking to make him feel tipsy. Fred disappeared behind that opaque screen a score of times, while Harvey loosened up and laughed and sang with the rest of the crowd. After finishing off some rum that had been smuggled across the border during Prohibition, Harvey started to get curious. Every time he ordered something Fred flashed off behind that damn screen. It was getting downright annoying. It seemed, however, that a man a few seats down at the bar was more curious than Harvey was. He was one of the bikers, and he was leaning way over the counter, nearly falling over it to try to get a glimpse behind the mysterious screen. Fred went over to where he was and eased him back to his own side of the counter. The two exchanged words for a moment, and then Fred nodded in the direction of a huge hairy guy who stood solemnly at one end of the bar with his arms folded. He could easily have been mistaken for a wall. This bouncer came to life and escorted the biker out of the bar by the scruff of his neck.
The other bikers roared with laughter and stayed right where they were.
When Fred returned to Harvey, Harvey asked him what happened.
"He wanted to know how we do it," Fred said. "But that's impossible." He pointed to a sign next to where the bartenders had been disappearing behind the screen that said Employees Only.
Harvey smiled. "Still, it doesn't stop one from being curious..."
It was late, and the crowd was thinning out. An idea occurred to Harvey. He waved Fred over.
"Yes?"
"Is the owner here?"
"Yes..." Fred's answer was cautious.
"Could you get him for me?"
"What for?"
"I want to know the secret, Fred..."
"Look, Harvey, he's not going to tell you."
"Just get him for me, Fred -- please?" Fred looked at Harvey for a moment, measuring him up, and then nodded.
"Fine. But he's going to give you the same answer..." He disappeared through a door behind the bar for a minute. When he returned he was accompanied by an older guy, maybe in his fifties or so.
"Hi," he said, taking Harvey's hand and shaking it. "My name's Jones, I own this joint. What can I do for you?"
"I just want to know how you get 'em," Harvey said.
Mr. Jones exchanged glances with Fred, who shrugged. "I'm sorry, mister," Jones said, "But that's a secret, like the sign says." He pointed to the sign.
"Since I am dead set on finding out how you manage to run things, and you are dead set on keeping them a secret to anyone but employees, all you have to do is give me a job!" Mr. Jones didn't even crack a smile.
"Give me one good reason why I should hire you," he challenged, "I already have three bartenders."
Harvey didn't even have to think. "I'll give you two reasons," he said. "First, I'm a damn good bartender. I can mix with the best of them. And I probably know more about drinks than anyone in this room - including yourself. And second, I like this place. It's a classy operation. The atmosphere is just right, and I belong here."
"How do I know you know so much about booze?" Mr. Jones asked.
"Give me a test," Harvey said. "I'll bet you a job that I can come up with three drinks that you've never heard of - I'll mix them myself. If I can come up with the three, you give me a job."
"And what do I get if you can't?"
"I walk out," Harvey said, "And never come back."
Mr. Jones agreed. Fred was designated go-between so that Harvey wouldn't have to go behind the screen himself. Harvey was to name the three drinks one at a time, and if Mr. Jones couldn't give the ingredients Harvey had to make the drink himself. Then the drink would be passed to Mr. Jones for a taste test. If it tasted awful, or if Mr. Jones had known the ingredients without Harvey making the drink, then Harvey would lose and he'd have to leave the Gilded Hog forever.
"Mr. Jones," Harvey challenged, "Do you know how to make a Monkey's Ass?" Mr. Jones thought for a while, making sure. Apparently, nothing came to him, and he shook his head. Harvey called to Fred and whispered the ingredients in his ear. Fred came back with a glass, three decanters, and some ice. Harvey's hands twiddled for a moment and the drink was finished. He slid the glass over to Mr. Jones. "That, Mr. Jones, is a Monkey's Ass."
Mr. Jones blinked and looked at the glass. The drink was neatly made. He picked it up and smelled its contents. It had some bite to it, but it didn't smell too strong. He raised it to his lips and tasted it. It was good. "Well, Harvey," he said, "What's in it?"
"How about if I tell you when I'm hired?" Harvey asked.
"No deal, Harvey. How do I know this isn't some other drink that you're just calling a Monkey's Ass?"
"Simple. Fred knows the ingredients. I just know the proportions. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough. Now let's have number two."
"Know what a Chameleon is, Mr. Jones?" Jones thought again for a little while, and then shook his head no.
Harvey whispered to Fred again, and he went behind the screen again. This time he brought out two decanters and a lemon. From under the counter, he drew a fresh glass and a knife. Harvey mixed up the drink itself, which turned out a sort of bright green color. His hands flashed for a moment and the lemon was sliced up. He grabbed two pieces of it and mashed them together over the drink, squeezing the fresh lemon juice into the glass. It instantly changed to a fairly dark red color, almost brown.
"I present the Chameleon, Mr. Jones." He handed the glass over to Jones, who smiled.
"That was a neat trick, Harvey. But the test is in the taste." He tried it, and again nodded his appreciation. Harvey smiled. This job looked like it was in his pocket. He looked around the bar, appreciating the atmosphere. It would be a very nice place to work. Just one more drink.
His mind, however, had other ideas. Harvey drew a blank. He knew tons of drinks that Mr. Jones would know about, but trying to come up with another one he wouldn't know about just wasn't happening. He was finished. His face flushed red, and Mr. Jones caught it.
"Well, Harvey, how about number three?"
"I'm thinking," Harvey said. Indeed, he was. But it was like banging his head against a brick wall. Impenetrable. He was about to give up when another thought occurred to him. Obviously, he couldn't remember a third drink that Jones wouldn't know. He would have to invent one on the spot. He wasn't sure he could do it, but he had no choice. His memory wasn't working correctly - maybe the creative part of his mind was.
He quickly found that it was. His mind raced through all the possible combinations he could think of, discarding those that would be too strong or too weak, or those whose taste would not be appealing. It wasn't easy - there were so many combinations that had already been combined. Harvey broke out into a sweat.
"Come on, let's go, Harvey," Mr. Jones said, "It's almost closing time..." Harvey still had too many possibilities. He chose one of the stronger ones, in hopes that the heavier alcohol content would mask the flavor if it didn't taste very good. He mumbled the ingredients to Fred, who went back behind the screen one last time and came out with four more decanters and a cinnamon stick. He looked at Harvey and raised his eyebrows in question, but Harvey nodded. He'd gotten what he asked for. He used the four decanters that Fred had brought, plus four of the ones that were already out on the counter, and then swizzled the drink with the stick of candy, leaving it in the drink. Taking a deep breath, he slid the glass toward Jones. "That's it," he said.
Mr. Jones picked up the glass, swizzled it a bit himself, and took a gulp of it. At first his eyes watered a bit. His eyebrows knitted together and he raised the glass for another sip. This time he smiled.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's called - Seventh Sin." Harvey said. "What do you think?"
"I think you made it up on the spot."
"Don't like it? It's sort of an acquired taste..."
"Bullshit, Harvey. You made it up."
Harvey's shoulders sagged in defeat. He got down from his stool and turned to go. "See you," he said.
"Wait a minute, Harvey. I know you made it up on the spot - but it's a good drink. I liked it."
Harvey blinked. "You did?"
"Yeah, I did." Mr. Jones shook a finger at Harvey. "But if you're gonna be working here, you're going to have to learn how to follow the rules."
"Such as?" Harvey regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
"Such as customers aren't allowed behind the partition. But you are." With that he extended his hand to Harvey, who shook it and smiled, and then went behind the partition and fixed himself a drink.
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I hope you enjoyed this work. It is copyrighted 1995 by Steven Coallier.