7:00 PM, Friday.
I’m fresh out of the shower smelling like dark stone fruit and deep amber.
Of course I haven’t the slightest clue of what either of those actually smell like, but that’s what the label on the soap said and it’s enough to boost my confidence to exactly where it should be before the big night out.
After a rushed shave, I slip on my favorite black shirt. There was no time to iron it and I can’t remember the last time it was washed, but it’s too late to ponder such things.
It hung in the bathroom while I showered and the steam smoothed the wrinkles. A quick sniff confirms a twist of that deep amber has made its way into the fabric. Perfect.
7:30 PM, Friday. Go time.
I met her in front of the old library.
Her dark hair tumbled in waves like shadows folding into themselves, and cascaded gently onto the bare skin of her neckline. She wore a slim black dress without a single piece of jewelry, as if anything more, no matter how expensive, would have cheapened her beauty. Just beneath her chin was a small brown freckle which remained hidden until she leaned her head back and laughed. It was a true laugh, unrestrained, unlike so many today. She walked with a natural grace and ease, exuding the form of confidence that captivates everyone. Especially me.
“Let’s grab a drink before dinner. Maybe somewhere with jazz?”
She slipped her arm into mine and we walked down the main strip until we caught the faint tune of a trumpet. It came from a typical backstreet lined with trash bins and brick walls and chimneys pushing blue smoke into the cool night air.
“Come on, we’ll try in there.”
Dim laughter mixed with the smooth jazz could be heard as we approached.
I swung open the door and froze.
What lay before us was not supposed to exist in this world. Certainly not in the backstreets of Belgrade, Serbia.
There were 7 tables, all wrapped in thick white linen guarded by beautiful wooden chairs that seemed more dignified than anyone who’d ever sat in them. On top of these tables lay enough crystal and silver to satisfy an old-blooded country aristocrat. Indeed, this was exactly the type of place you’d expect to see a handful of forgotten barons puffing on their ivory pipes while they murmured about fine brandy and hunting dogs.
Yet, there were no barons in sight. Besides the owner's table, the restaurant was empty.
The owner waltzed over to greet us.
“Right this way, right this way. Will this table do? Of course it will! It's the most romantic table in the house!”
With a magical wave of her hand which was heavy with silver and stones, she lit the candle on the table.
“My name is Bouboulina.”
Bouboulina went on to tell us of the Greek naval commander with the same name who was the first woman to attain the rank of an admiral in 1821 during the Greek War of Independence. As for the restaurant itself, it was originally a home of a noble French family with a last name no one could pronounce.
“You two certainly are gorgeous together. Really, quite the pair! Do you mind?”
She held up her cigarette and politely waited until we shook our heads.
“Oh good.” she said before lighting it and inhaling deeply.
“It’s a terrible habit, I know, but I just love to smoke!”
As Bouboulina was handing us the menus, I asked if we could start with Negronis. She waved that magical hand again and I half expected them to appear right below our noses.
“You’ll excuse me my dear, but my barman is out and the only thing I can remember about Negronis is that I like to drink them in the summer!”
She laughed the melodic and soothing laugh that all great restaurateurs and entertainers share.
I looked at my date then back at the host.
“Bouboulina, I can make the drinks if you don’t mind?”
Her head tilted slightly to the side and one of her thin eyebrows raised.
“Oh? Well that’s a splendid idea! It will be more interesting for the both of us!”
As I rolled up my sleeves, I felt an overly confident air start to envelop me.
I’d never worked as a barman, drinking was not my vice of choice, and the only reason I ordered Negronis was because I had fond memories of drinking them in the summer!
Oh no. The dark stone fruit and deep amber must have gone straight to my head!
Too late to turn back now.
Bouboulina was clapping her hands, my date was laughing, and the jazz must have still been playing, but all I could hear was the echo of my thumping heart.
Easy now. Pull yourself together, man. Haven’t you watched James Bond do something like this at least 100 times?
I asked Bouboulina for fresh oranges and ice then turned to the bar to take inventory.
What a minute… What exactly was in a negroni again?
A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead.
This is bad. I can’t pull out my phone and search for a step-by-step guide now. What would my date think? No, that’s out of the question. Come on. It’s three equal measures of alcohol, but which ones?
I scanned the labels of dozens of bottles I’d never seen in my entire life. They seemed to be laughing at me.
Damnnit.
DAMNIT!
I turned back towards the smiling faces and quickly swept my hand through my hair to push back the sweat.
“Ladies,” I said in the deepest voice I could conjure, “this is going to be the best Negroni of your life.”
I quickly spun back around before they could catch the uncertainty in my eyes.
Three parts. It has to be gin, not vodka, and obviously there is that red tint. So that means Campari?
I pulled the two bottles down.
What am I missing? Something sweet? No, the Campari covers that. Maybe the last part is vodka?
From behind her cigarette, Bouboulina’s deep crackling voice broke my concentration.
“Darling, why don’t you make the drinks facing us? We’d love to see your handsome face!”
I turned and saw her pinching my date’s arm while she rolled her head back in laughter.
If she keeps this up, I’m going to crack.
“Bouboulina,” I said, clearing the shakiness out of my voice, “this isn’t enough ice. Can you bring me some more?”
Good, she’s gone. I have at least two minutes to think.
Now what is the last part? Vodka?
I could hear Bouboulina singing somewhere in the kitchen. It was one of those famous opera songs that everyone has heard and no one knows the name of.
Focus.
Wouldn’t vodka make it too stiff? It could be Aperol, that would match the orange color of a Negroni. Wait, does that mean it doesn’t have Campari after all?
I was three seconds away from changing the order to a Molatav cocktail to end my suffering when a hand touched my shoulder. I winced, thinking it was Bouboulina’s magic hand already back with the ice, but then I heard a soft whisper in my ear:
“Thank you.”
Her lips pressed gently against my cheek and I could no longer hear Bouboulina’s opera, the jazz, or even my own heart. The world became silent.
Gin, Campari, and vermouth.
That’s it. Preferably a sweet vermouth, one with enough weight behind it to balance the Campari. Is that Cinzano 1757? Good. That will do. That will do just fine.
My hands moved without instruction, as if they’d been doing this my whole life. Bouboulina was back but I hadn’t noticed because she was standing there in silence, watching in awe.
“Bouboulina, I’ll take that ice now.”
She handed it over quickly and I started on the oranges.
It’s a mistake to add full orange slices to a Negroni. Unless you’re 18 and on spring break, leave the chunks of fruit and mini umbrellas out of it.
Simply carve off a thin and wide sliver of the rind, twist it over the glass, and drop it in.
At some point, a towel found its way over my shoulder and I would reach for it whenever my hand was damp or whenever my hand wasn’t damp but needed somewhere to go.
“Is that Chet Baker on the trumpet?”
Bouboulina nearly burst. She couldn’t help but pinch my date’s arm yet again and whisper something in Serbian.
We carried our drinks back to the candlelight table in the corner and our hostess floated away in a trail of blue smoke and laughter.
We sat there for several minutes looking at each other.
Neither of us wanted to disrupt whatever it was that had made this evening so perfect. It was as if something magical had descended upon us and if we raised our voices it would vanish.
She reached her slim hand across the thick white linen and rested it on top of mine. I took another sip. She smiled. The candle flickered. Still, no words.
Freddie Hubbard was somewhere in the background playing the trumpet. Interplay, Bill Evans Quintet. I couldn’t remember who was on the bass, but they were taking it for a nice walk.
It’s now or never, old sport.
We leaned forward at the same time, holding each other's gaze. Her hand wrapped tighter around mine. This was it. The unspoken tension had boiled up to this very point.
My eyes fell to her lips.
Were they always that perfectly shaped? That enticing?
I leaned further over the table, she did the same. Her foot brushed against mine. This was it. Separated by inches. This was it!
As my eyes closed and my lips pressed together, my ears were suddenly drowned in a wave of operatic shrills and bellows. My lips came apart but my eyes stayed shut. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.
“Darlings, darlings. Oh my! I told you this was the most romantic table in the house!”
