I don’t know if anyone noticed, but I skipped a month at Bemelmans. Alas, drinking overpriced Pinot Noir at a hotel bar isn’t in my budget. To be perfectly frank, I can’t afford a pint of Ripple, let alone an eighteen dollar glass of red, but where there’s a will there’s a way.
I decided to dress up, stroll on over and just not drink.
Anything for an essay.
Sitting at the bar sipping tap water pretending I was waiting for someone was a bad plan. First of all, without alcohol eavesdropping became harder. I suddenly felt guilty listening in, like when this big boobed woman asked the barmaid what she was doing later. I so wished I hadn’t heard that, since after looking down her blouse billowing over the bar, humor went right out the window. You could have attached her to a sailboat and cruised to Catalina. It started me wondering why women feature their boobs like calling cards. I tried consulting mine, but they just looked up at me as if to say…please…you know we’d rather read.
Then I got depressed because it’s been too long since I ended up in bed with some snazzy salesman. It may sound tawdry, but to be perfectly honest, there’s much pleasure in it. You can be naughty and not particularly nice, and never see Willy Loman again…unless of course you want to, and you won’t if you’re smart.
I made the mistake of seeing that Scotsman twice and believe me, round two was like watered down scotch. I would have been better off just taking what was behind the curtain and letting that be that.
Being this clear-headed at the Carlyle is just no fun. I searched for someone to make fun of, but came up empty suddenly feeling sorry for the world.
Then fate stepped in. The barmaid said someone wanted to buy me a drink, so of course I accepted without asking who it was since, I’d welcome a Smurf at this point with an expense account.
I kept waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder or wink across the room, but neither happened. Then I got nervous thinking it was the sailor with tits, but she had already left .
Hmm…who bought me a drink I wonder.
I will say, I’ve never enjoyed a glass of Merlot more (they were out of Pinot), sipping it slowly, positively tickled not to have a check.
When I got up to leave still uninspired by my surroundings, the bartender, fresh on duty, presented me with a bill.
“Uh, excuse me, but this isn’t mine. My drink was already paid for.”
Now he was someone I had never met not having been to Bemelmans in quite a while, so when he gave me a leery look I knew something was awry.
He swaggered over, a corkscrew in his hand and said, “I’ve been around the block before babe, you can’t pull that crap with me.”
Wow, was I stunned. He treated me like a hooker hanging out at the bar. Then it hit me, that’s what I must have looked like sitting here alone, all that time, with an empty glass in front of me. Whoever sent that drink over must have been giving me some kind of signal.
Well, let me just say it was one signal I was happy to miss.
So I took the emergency 20 I keep in my wallet placing it on the bar.
Then I went to the concierges and asked him to accompany me back to where I was sitting and said in front of the bartender…
“This employee seems to think I’m a hooker. Do you think you could tell him he’s been mistaken number one, and number two, it’s no way to treat a lady, whatever her profession may be?”
Both men looked horrified, since I did my best Jackie O with a little Lauren Bacall thrown in.
“I am so sorry,” said the concierges, “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding.” The idiot bartender is now acting like a caterer you caught stealing forks from your china cabinet.
“How can we at The Carlyle make it up to you?” Was he thinking law suit?
I’m thinking dinner for two.
“Come to my office,” he said, taking my arm, “let’s talk about it.”
So I ended up just accepting an apology wanting so much to ask for my money back, but Connecticut, damn her, shoved a white glove in my mouth.
If only I was born in Jersey.