A little story

Quiet streets enveloped by large, white buildings, I stroll with myself a while, heels clacking deliberately in rhythm, with intended precision, to occupy my attention. As the neighborhood morphs, I identify my destination, and am shocked by a splash of bright red on an otherwise brown street: “Boisdale Wine & Cigar Club”. This place needs to work on its first impression. While I appreciate the exciting color, it’s the bottles of champagne dressed in cheesy labels on display in the window that turn me off, and the menu, posted on a board, is that of typical tavern food either lacking in ingenuity, or execution which was the fault I encountered during our meal.

Entranced in my anylizations, I don’t immediately notice my friend approaching from up the road until I hear a little shout and find her accomponied by a striking stranger. Awkward introductions, after this experience I am well prepared for the 3-kiss greeting, and we are escorted by Monsieur British to the upstairs lounge. Passing through the dining room, past the deck, up the stairs, and to the lounge, I cannot help but chuckle to myself at the ridiculous green carpeting and excessive plaid accents. I feel as though I have been transported to some overdone, geriatric, hunting lodge… in Scotland! Rather than swiftly turning around and walking right out the door, there is the promise of champagne, an impressive wine list, and a live jazz band later in the evening. After watching this… gentleman… interact with my friend for a few minutes, I become aware that I am in for a treat tonight. Mr. British has made it very clear that he intends to get her into his bed tonight. He has put on full display, the peacock unfurling his magnificent feathers, his dry English humoUr and self-effacing while self-promoting charm. As the night progresses, and the champagne starts to make me all smiley, I have started to admire his show. Luckily, I am not the target audience, and while it’s working on me, my friend reacts alternatively with disinterest and disgust. The jazz soon, well not soon, but time has passed rather quickly, starts up. With our plate taken away, we adjust and try to find comfort in the dining chairs. All the while, conversation ebbs and flows with the ending of a song, on the subjects of jazz musicians, higher education, other things that do not make the lasting impression for me to remember now.

Then whiskey is mentioned, and this I remember. Aparently I am the only one in a good mood tonight, and browsing through the list on my own, I catch the name Coal Ila. I know not a thing about scotch whiskey, but I know this name. It was a proclaimed favorite of one of the owners of the wine shop I was employed at, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to taste it, seeing as how I do not shop for and keep scotch whiskey. A slick glass with a portion of just a few ounces is brought to me, along with a small glass pitcher, and I find myself more excited than expected. Cupping the glass in my hands, and taking a deep breath, I am entranced by its aroma. It is oaky, so subtley smoky, it has a wonderful earthiness more reflective of rocks as opposed to dirt, and with a splash of water, the smells intensify and I cannot resist a minute longer. The scents carry to the palate and I am greeted by such a wonderful taste, there is no harshness, it is balanced perfectly, and I am thankful for having found this thing here.

I return back to earth, and try to share my experience but it does not translate quite so significantly, so we linger a bit longer. The band takes a break, and after more than a few minutes we decide to go. As pure comedy, although he certainly did not intend it as so, our benefactor asks my friend if she would come home with him, and she replies with a kurt no. Out of nowhere he turns to me and asks if I would, and without even thinking I respond with a shameless laugh and a… no. Ah well, he always has a girl on Saturday night!, but I am not too worried for his well being. Things remain quite friendly, unchanged, and he walks with us to the train station. I get a pleasant farewell and am witness to a fair attempt and a passionate kiss goodbye which, poor thing, was singular directional. Like young girls, we giggle as we make our way to the platform, astonished at his gaul and the irony of the situation. We make our way into the night, my friend contemplating the best way to politely thank him for the evening, and I, dreamily remembering the sensory mignificence of the scotch.


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