Considerations | Bottle Services

I knew instinctively that it was a dream, but my senses were working overtime. It was a penguin, but pure white and drawn, like something out of an anime. Not perfect, but every bit as alive. The apparition spoke in a man’s voice, upper-class English, about 70 years old. “You are going on a summer holiday, you begin with this grasshopper.” Cool, smooth, and green, equal parts crème de menthe, white crème de cocoa and cream. The first sip transports me to NYC. It is 1952, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. I walk into 24 University Place. Two young women, Kay and Claire, are at the bar in deep conversation with the barman. “I’m telling you, I cannot make you a Grasshopper, this isn’t a grasshopper kind of place.” Kay isn’t having any of it.

“You have crème de menthe?” she asks. “Yeah,” he says.

“You have crème de cacao?”

“Maybe,” the barman responds, begrudgingly.

“I can see it, right over there.”

“OK fine,” the barman gripes. “But I don’t have any cream, and you can’t make a grasshopper without cream.”

A man steps to the bar.

“There a problem, Gus?”

“No problem, this young lady wants a grasshopper and I told her we don’t make grasshoppers here.”

“You have crème de—”

“Yeah, we got crème de menthe, yeah we got crème de cacao. But as I was just telling her, we ain’t got no cream.”

“Ahh. Wait here ladies, I won’t be but a moment.” The man trots out the front door.

“Let’s get out of here,” says Claire. “I don’t know why you dragged me to this pit in the first place.” Kay, though, is wide-eyed.

“Do you know who that was?”

“No idea. Looked like a bum to me. Handsome bum, but bum nonetheless.”

“Excuse me,” Kay asks Gus, the barman. “But was that Jackson Pollock?”

“Why? He knock you up?”

“No, I just saw his picture in ARTnews. He’s such a great painter.”

“Like Da Vinci?”

“Well, he’s more modern.”

“We got one hanging over there. Paid his tab with it.”

The sisters examine the painting. “That’s art? Looks like somebody threw up paint,” says Claire.

Gus chuckles. “Jesus, don’t tell him that. He’s pretty sensitive.”

Pollock walks back in carrying a small bottle. “Your cream my dears—I will drink my coffee black this week.”

Gus resignedly begins assembling a pair of grasshoppers.

“Would you like one?” volunteers Kay.

“No thanks, I’m more of an Old Fashioned guy myself.”

“Couldn’t tell it from the painting,” says Claire.

“Excuse me?”

“She means you seem very modern,” Kay interjects. “And good. Modern and good.”

“Ah.”

“Oh look, the drinks are here! Gus, would you make Mr. Pol- lock an Old Fashioned, please?”

“Call me Jackson.”

“I’m Claire, this is my sister Kay.”

“Yeah, the art critic. Claire, are you old enough to be in here?”

“She turned 18 in February,” clarifies Kay.

“Uh-huh.”

Gus produces the drinks. “To your coming of age.”

They toast as a young man approaches.

“Hey, Jackson.”

“Jack.” A moment of silence.

“Listen, Jackson, do you think you could—”

“This is Claire and her sister, Kay. Ladies, this is Jack Kerouac. He’s a writer.”

“Oh, a real writer?”

“You can tell he’s real because only a writer would try to bum a drink off a painter. Why don’t you hit up De Kooning?” Jackson suggests. “He just made a big sale I heard.”

“You know how tight he is, he’s probably got the first dollar he ever made.”

“And when you make yours, I’m sure you’ll rush right in here and pay me back. Gus, get Mr. Kerouac a gimlet.”

“A gimlet? Jesus, Jackson.”

“It’s a gimlet or a grasshopper, your choice.”

He grabs Kay’s drink from the bar and takes a sip. “Gimlet,” confirms Kerouac. “Definitely gimlet. You know, Jackson, that green might be the only color you haven’t used.”

“Could I have that back please?” asks Kay.

“I am terribly sorry my dear. Your grasshopper.” Gus drops off the gimlet.

“Mmmmm, thanks, Jackson. Why don’t we grab a table?” Claire starts to move off with them, but Kay has other ideas.

“We can’t, we have to be somewhere.”

“Be somewhere? Baby, you’re already at the apex.”

“Give it a rest Jack,” Jackson says. “I do not think this is her scene.”

“Thank you for being so perceptive,” Kay shares. “I’m not sure this is the best environment for my sister.”

“Yeah, we’re still working out the details of what will happen next,” says Jackson. “Claire, come back anytime once you’re really 18.”

And that is how Jackson Pollock did not become my father. I was whisked through space and time lamenting this cruel twist of fate.

1973. The Barnsider. A steakhouse in upstate New York with a very popular bar. It is the week before Christmas. I see my pre-teen self standing in the crush of patrons, men sporting leisure suits, women wearing Santa hats, everybody smoking, and everybody on their fourth drink. It is the age of the Harvey Wallbanger (Galliano, Vodka and Orange juice), the Godfather (Scotch and Amaretto), and the Tequila Sunrise (Tequila, Grenadine and, again, O.J.). But tonight is Tom and Jerry night. An annual tradition here where dozens of eggs are whipped slowly with sugar and brandy and served hot in pewter mugs. Everyone’s had a few, including Kay and her little sister. They are chatty, flirty, and generally the life of the party. They meet three men who proudly announce themselves to be Texaco executives. The sisters immediately burst into that once-famous jingle, ‘We are the men of Texaco, we work from Maine to Mexico, there’s nothing like this Texaco of ours.’ Eventually, they get the entire crowd to sing along and march around the bar. The Texaco men, unimpressed, glide away. Claire chases after the cute one, but not before slipping on the ice outside and breaking her wrist. The Texaco executive rushes her to the emergency room. Two months later, she divorces her husband, but never ends up marrying her knight in shining armor. It took Kay 45 minutes to realize her sister was gone.

December 26th, 1986. Tijuana. My father had died the previous January, and Kay and I go to Vegas to spend the holiday at Caesar’s Palace with my Uncle Tom. The morning after Christmas, we meet for breakfast and both realize we needed to get as far away from Vegas as possible. We grab a rental car, leave a note for Tom, and hit the road. Around two o’clock, we pull into Tijuana. After a disappointing lunch at Caesar’s (their famous salad was served on a Styrofoam plate covered with plastic wrap; they’ve since been completely reimagined and I eat there, happily, several times per month), we venture up to a rooftop cantina where a man in a pith helmet gives us a ‘Special Margarita.’ Here’s how you do it; first you are fitted with a Barber Cape, then you tilt your head back as far as it will go. The man in the pith helmet—it is important to note that he communicates not with words, but by blowing into a small whistle—then pours Tequila and Triple Sec down your throat until you begin to choke. Then he grabs your head and shakes it violently. The drinks are gratis, but tipping is required. We do several rounds of this, declare it the best Christmas ever, and find ourselves in Beverly Hills for a late dinner. But that’s another story.

Bearing a miracle, Kay will not see another Christmas. But she has lived a life of extraordinary grace unfettered by social norms and a lifelong pursuit of pleasure. She taught me an appreciation for a well-made cocktail and was the best mother anyone could ask for. Cheers everyone. Call your mother. And buy a bottle of Galliano and make a Harvey Wallbanger in her honor.