Black Cat Chrysler

The place has magic in it. “…Recalling certain men of other days who made of drink one of the pleasures of life, rather than one of its evils.”This article is about neither food nor soil, though merry collaboration it does involve. The collaboration of gin and ginger, of honey and rum and cream, relationships built among unidentifiable flavors. Bees’ Kisses, Ginger Gin Mules. The drinks were more than dishes, and the night a masterpiece of art and ambience. Where we were must not be named. It was behind a curtain and a tailor-masked window, dusty and distinguished. And as we stepped finally from the unmarked threshold into last night’s late night chill, the Chrysler building shone in the distance, and a black shadow darted ‘cross our path, too big to be a rat. Back behind the curtain, the man of bottles and pitchers, spices and spirits, resembled a cobbler, we’d thought, or a tailor. His salt and pepper hair swung low above old-school suspenders, well-pressed trousers standing in a space the size of a cupboard, where he mixed each sweet, savory, bitter, or spicy concoction of the hour. The brick and embossed tin walls and ceiling turned our minds to memories of Colonial Williamsburg and Renaissance Fairs. Long dark hair and luring hats led us into the candlelit corridor of booths, as soft piano keys played in the background and we sipped our first of two rounds, gins and whiskeys with lime and ginger, a negroni straight up with a twist of orange. The tables were wooden thrones for each delectable drink dispersed, each cushioned with a ribbed napkin, and flanked by water one might easily neglect. Our attention repeatedly forwent conversation as each sip’s flavors hit our senses. We were tired to begin with – a midnight reservation got us a table by 1am – but something was mesmerizing about the place, quieting and soothing, relaxing us into forgetfulness of the hour. We sat simply noticing: a soft white hat glowing in the dim candlelight of the bar, the flicker of dangling earrings, our server’s thick hair, pinned with a large black bow that reminded me of the poofy holiday dresses of my childhood. At Carla’s suggestion for the second round, we switched to creams. The Bee’s Kiss, the Dominicana, and something incredible with strawberries. The layers of cream, coffee, and whiskey flowed flavor-by-flavor onto my tastebuds, a jigsaw puzzle joining together at the tongue. The sweet, cool warmth of Jesse’s rum, cream, and honey brought to our table the silence of complete thankfulness, and of growing admiration for the cobbler-like man in suspenders. We shamelessly cleaned our cocktail glasses, licking our fingers, wishing for more, beaming smiles of exhausted, beloved bliss.We may not have consumed anything locally grown last night, nor did we ask the origins of the ingredients of our drinks, but we did devote several hours to the appreciation of skillful preparation and taste. Our appreciation led to reflection, of the year that’s ending, and consideration of the future that’s beginning, excitement in the present we’re enjoying, and immense comfort, in the sharing of a lovely, memorable evening with others.May all who need it have such an evening this season.