The Lieutenant's Drink
Flick here.
Sometimes you sit at a bar and find out you're not the most interesting person that night. In fact, there might only be two of you drinking and you come in third.
A while back, this happened to me.
I say a while back because I'm too old to remember when.
I was sitting at my favorite bar in Buffalo called Wilshire's. My pals and I were regulars, but that night it was just myself. It was a slow night and I had outlasted the other diners. However, just as the bartender declared Last Call, an elderly gent like myself pulled up a stool near by and ordered a Black Russian.
"Black Russian. Dirty."
The bartender looked annoyed, not only by the late comer ordering their first during Last Call, but he also didn't know what a Dirty Black Russian was. I didn't either.
I was intrigued. The seniors that frequented Wilshire's usually lived at Starbright Tower, which is where I lived. This man was not from there. He wore a suit that was military crisp and form fitting. And his right pinkie finger was severed at the middle joint.
Then there was the matter of his drink. What makes a Black Russian dirty?
When the bartender asked the same question, he was answered with a calm declaration from a man who has explained his "dirty" for his entire life. There was no enthusiasm of a college kid trying to recreate a drunk Thursday. No annoyance of the entitled.
"Cola."
You might think that all of these details spurred me strike up a conversation with this man, but I simply sat there and pretended not to watch him.
His hands rested on the bar and when his drink arrived, he simply lifted it and sniffed. After he was satisfied with the aroma, he placed the drink back on the bar and watched it. I sat there and watched them both.
Nothing happened. The drink sat there and waited to be drunk. The man sat there and waited to drink it.
I thought there must have been something wrong with how the bartender had prepared it and words left my mouth before I could catch them.
"It's why I order drinks I don't have to explain," I said.
"It's the first drink I never had and it'll be the last drink I never had," he said and then he turned to me with a grin. "This one and all the others are just impostors."
"It's a little late to be so cryptic," I said.
"Not cryptic, I'm just being honest. This is the only drink I ever order."
"Do you ever drink it?" I thought I was being funny, but when he didn't respond I realized how insensitive I had appeared. "Your drink is on me, but first you have to tell me why you only order a Dirty Black Russian."
There was a long hesitation, but he told his story. There were no hand gestures or facial expressions. He didn't elaborate any details, nor did he back track on his story. This was the story that had defined his life.
He had been a lieutenant in the second war and lost in Belgium. In their attempt to reconnect with Allied Forces, he had led the remains of his platoon to a town overflowing with enemy soldiers. They fled, but were followed by a tenacious group of Germans. For the best part of two weeks, they played a deadly game of cat and mouse. They suffered casualties and it seemed the German group only grew in numbers.
Every day, they could see the Germans gaining ground. Every night they feared closing their eyes. Then one afternoon, they crossed a river and the Germans disappeared. For three days they were followed by no one. It was at once more terrifying. The Germans who had been behind them, could now be anywhere.
On the fourth day, they came across another town. This time he had his men surround the town and simply watch its people for the rest of the day. When no Germans were spotted in the town or approaching, it was decided they would introduce themselves.
Still fearing for the lives of his men, the lieutenant ordered them to stand guard in their positions around the town's perimeter. With a breath of courage, he walked into the town alone. He was greeted politely by civilians, but none stopped to speak with him. When he tried to approach anyone, they would point in the direction of the pub.
With nowhere else to go, he entered the pub and spoke with the bartender. The man spoke a few words of English and managed to assure the lieutenant that the town's leader, who spoke perfect English, was on his way.
With nothing to do but wait, the lieutenant sat down at the bar. It was an odd feeling. He had never been in a bar before. His parents were stout, dry Christians and he had been raised the same. However, he had always marveled at tales of men drinking their cocktails and his friends swapping stories of their fathers' whiskey.
The bartender must have been unaware of such a practice as dry Christianity, because he never asked the lieutenant if he wanted something to drink. He just prepared him one anyway. It was only polite.
The lieutenant watched with rapt attention as the bartender place a glass in front of him and added a handful of ice. He covered the ice with a strong smelling clear liquid and then added another that turned the drink brown. The lieutenant recognized the third ingredient as a child's cola. The bartender slid the drink a few inches closer to the lieutenant and turned his palms up, signaling his work was finished.
There was a moment of doubt. There was a moment that he thought of his parents. He thought of how the good Lord had protected him through these past troubling days.
He thought of his troops hidden around the town waiting for the safe haven he was now enjoying. He should have shared that drink with them.
Then he he began to wonder how delicious the drink would taste. He thought about the cold ice as he reached out his hand. The ice exploded as a bullet tore his finger from his hand and shattered the glass. While the first bullet found his drink, the second bullet killed the bartender. A third shot was fired and tore the head off his would-be assassin. One of his soldiers had saved his life.
Fears subsided when it turned out the German was alone. He had been secretly living in the town butcher's house. When the butcher had disappeared, everyone assumed he had run off to find his missing family. It turned out, he had been murdered and was lying dead under his bed.
During his short stay, the lieutenant inquired about the bartender and his drink. The town knew it well and though many people offered to recreate it, the lieutenant turned down their offers. The image of the sinful, but enticing drink was so strong in his mind, he feared their attempts would never lived up to that bartender's perfect creation.
Although the memory of the drink haunted him, he managed to return to his strict and dry Christian lifestyle. But a few years after the war had ended, he found himself walking into bars and ordering the drink.
"I never drank it," he said. "I would just sit there and remember those men. I would remember that drink and how I selfishly decided to drink alone. That drink...my finger...those were punishments for my sin."
I had been so engrossed by the man's story, that I failed to realize the young bartender had joined me in listening. Without a word, the two of us watched as the man stood from his seat and placed a tip worth three Dirty Black Russians on the bar, before leaving.
We looked at each other for awhile. We looked at the drink as well.
"What should I do with it?" the young bartender asked, finally finding the courage to speak.
"You leave it alone," I said. "But, he paid for two more. One for you and one for me."
Until next time. Drink up.
Dirty Black Russian
1 1/2 oz Vodka
3/4 oz Kahlua or coffee liquor
cola
ice
Pour Vodka and Kahlua over ice. Top with cola. Cherry garnish optional.
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