No Tomatoes

McCoy’s is the real McCoy’s. Who still says that? Is anything the real McCoy’s? And other than McCoy’s what else could be a McCoy? …I see: a quick visit to Wikipedia reveals etymological roots in MacKay’s, referring to a whisky in the 19^th Century. I hadn’t meant for that to tie in so neatly with the subject of this entry, but perhaps the barman knows more than his shaker-spinning lets on. I say shaker, but our drinks were stirred: Martini for myself, Horse’s Neck for Peter in this little Dickensian burrow beneath the stomp and cajoles of revellers on the Roppongi strip. Strip, because that’s what all the bars offer. Except for this one, I hasten to add, though I would not have objected had the girl next to us done so.

One doesn’t swap glasses and taste each other’s drink in occluded whisky dens, it isn’t proper. Far better to judge by reaction: after all, anything that can’t be said with an eyebrow isn’t worth saying. Mine were raised when the flourish like incense over a child ended the swift implication of zest, and the drink was pushed by its base towards me. I think I offended him moments before as I tried to halt the input of too much Vermouth. A brief handshake, nothing more thank-you. But the care is infinite, the drink more mellow, subdued and feminine than my own barbaric slugs of alcohol. I also greatly appreciated him stirring, not shaking, as is correct with translucent mixes ‘Shake if opaque’ is my motto, though as I don’t yet have a twizzler, I also shake if clear. But that’s not a motto.

If I were still in the practise of casting a critical eye, I would have appreciated the wait, the surgeon-like process that produced our drinks, and the chilling of glasses and cuff-flicks. More importantly I would put more bearing on the drop of Hermes citrus essence added by pipette, and the racks of whiskies that surrounded us. But I’m not, and have already spent too long on this entry, and, perhaps, Wikipedia.