Snapshots From My Uneventful Life by David I. Aboulafia

Author:David I. Aboulafia [Aboulafia, David I.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78099-331-7
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2018-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

A Shot In The Dark

THE CAMPBELL APARTMENT is a highly ornate and remarkably beautiful cocktail lounge tucked into a discrete corner of the world-famous Grand Central Terminal in the heart of New York City. Legend has it that it was originally leased by an early twentieth-century tycoon, John Campbell, who used it as his private office simply to be physically closer to his investments. He ultimately abandoned it, and his office was sealed and forgotten until the terminal’s massive renovation in the 1970s. Then, the room was unsealed, a New York architectural treasure was re-discovered, and an unfortunate homeless man who had been occupying the lavish space for years cruelly evicted.

It’s also an expensive place to drink, as I discovered, particularly when one enjoys a good, single malt scotch now and then.

Always a rum or vodka drinker, I discovered single malts around 2012, and began my experimentation properly with a foray into the many offerings of The Macallan distillery, which will part with any of its bottles if you’re willing to part with at least a fifty dollar bill. I would pop into Campbell’s every once in a while and have a scotch or two before boarding the commuter train home. On one particular afternoon, I enjoyed a 12-year-old Macallan, and then enjoyed another, and then as was typical, turned to go. As I did, I noticed that the bar stocked numerous varieties of the brand and, in particular, a 25-year-old selection.

“Is that a 25-year-old Macallan I see?” I innocently inquired of the handsome bartender sporting a white formal shirt, a black vest, black bow tie and neatly slicked back hair.

“Yes, it is, sir,” he replied.

Curious, and still a scotch neophyte, I eagerly replied, “Let’s try the Macallan 25, then!” I was pleased with my obvious sophistication and taste, and clearly all those who overheard my selection were impressed, as well.

I should have sensed something as I watched the bartender pour from the sacred flagon. He steadied the bottle with his right hand, never removing it lest the flask somehow leap from his grip and shatter into a million pieces. His left hand sought out a silver-plated shot glass, apparently used to measure this stuff. Five minutes seemed to pass as he carefully poured the liquor into a crystal glass, refusing to allow a single drop of it to fall to the bar, or worse, linger somehow on the rim of the glass and evaporate into an unforgiving atmosphere.

When he was through, he cautiously placed the glass before me, rapidly glancing at me with a surreptitious narrowing of his eyes as if to ask whether he could trust me with such a spirit. Somehow convinced, he returned his gaze to the glass and slowly withdrew his hand. Apparently, this shot was to be vigilantly guarded until I took full possession of it.

I was terribly pleased by the entire display and quite awed with myself for bringing it about. I secured my drink; the bartender leaned back with a sigh of relief, and then spoke.

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