It’s Sunday at 11 a.m. I’ve never been here quite this early.
Okay, that’s not exactly true. There was that fella from Wales.
So, I’ll change that to, not in a long time. I popped in after going to the Apple Store for a quick tweaking of my new Mac, now waiting for my library to open.
A Bloody Mary seemed the perfect pal to kill 45 minutes with, but forgetting, no alcohol served till noon on Sundays.
Sitting in the little ante room off the bar, my disappointment is audible when the waiter reminds me of this.
“Are you kidding?”
“Señora perhaps would like some cafe instead?”
Shit, do I have a choice? Señora indeed.
I’m alone, except for a young couple eating ala carte across the room. It’s either that or the 37 dollar buffet, and when you’re a thin girl who eats like the Amish, unless you’re packing Tupperware in your Boat and Tote, it’s not worth the price.
Coffee immediately appears in a lovely silver pot. Despite its lack of spirits, there’s nothing like a hotel brew that’s always the best in town.
So it’s 9 bucks. The ambience alone is worth 20, and who knows what’s coming round the bend.
As I sit sipping, smelling the eggs benedict wafting from the hot buffet, the couple, as they make their way out, slyly leave a napkin on my table.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” the guy says with a gangster’s wink, his girlie-girl grinning like the perfect moll.
As I carefully unwrap it, buried in its folds is a mini bottle of Jameson.
The little imp I’ve been known to be, privately peppers her pot of pricey coffee, and no one is the wiser.