The bartender is hands-down the slowest in town. Protocol
dictates that, after a near-eternal wait, when he asks you what you’d
like, you ask him what he thinks you ought to have. The featured
cocktails this evening are the bloody Caesar, the redoubtable Pimm’s
cup, and variations on Jim Beam (ginger ale is a favorite addition).
After brief scrutiny—his solemn gaze through owlish glasses is an
apparent assessment of the state of your soul—a prescription is
issued, and your cocktail is undertaken. Subjects to raise: his recent
trip to London, his sartorial splendor (top hat, bow tie, striped
trousers, tails). He doesn’t say much, and, as noted, he’s not quick
with the mixing, but at his bar, all the drinks are free.
Is a speakeasy still a speakeasy when nothing costs a cent?
Seattle’s longest-running secret lounge, named after a certain
bird of a certain color, has been open Thursday nights off and on for
more than a decade (and before that, rumor has it, in Tacoma). Prior to
the most recent location change—sometime in the last
year—admittance was gained via ringing a doorbell mounted on a
tree trunk on a busy city sidewalk. Then the key, attached to a fluffy
feather, was launched from a second-story window. Now you only need to
know where to go and that sharp dress is best. Men wear fedoras
and jacket and tie, with one in a wifebeater, necktie, and porkpie hat;
women favor party frocks that match the music, which is vintage vinyl
along the lines of “The Watusi.”
Elvis is present, both on black velvet and as a 3-D bust with a lamp
sprouting out of his head. From out of the corner of the eye, the
lamp-Elvis can be mistaken again and again for a real person. Someone’s
given him an artificial red rose boutonniere; next to him, a
maraschino cherry rests in an ashtray, stem still attached. Next to
that, a man naps decorously in an easy chair. There’s shag carpet and a
taxidermied bobcat ready to pounce.
The host/barkeep quietly wonders whether someone might go out for
ice, and the question passes telephone-style back through the line. The
ice arrives within six minutes. Out of the goodness of his heart, he
provides liquor and a place to meet for a rotating set of friends and
strangers almost every week; his wish is everyone’s command.
Those who’re new might only realize they’re in someone’s apartment when
they pardon themselves and find a regular residential bathroom,
toiletries in view.
Approaching sirens cause a momentary panic. “Five-oh, everybody!”
someone shouts, but it’s unclear what to do—everybody
instinctively herds back toward the bar. The sirens continue on by.
“False alarm,” the voice says. “As you were, ladies and gentlemen.”
