Chapter 49
The bartender began mixing the cocktail by putting ice into the mixing glass.
After stirring the ice a few times with a bar spoon, he sprinkled a drop of dark red, or perhaps orange-tinted, chemical on top.
It was likely bitters, a concentrated liqueur sometimes used for medicinal purposes. It is also used to add aroma to cocktails.
I could tell just by the way he casually dropped it in and put the bottle away.
That he was a bartender who at least had the basics down.
But ultimately, the important thing was the next step.
The base liquor is the alcohol that serves as the foundation of the cocktail.
For a classic cocktail, the quality of the base liquor is especially important.
In the case of a Manhattan, that is whiskey.
If going by the book, one should make a cocktail using an excellent bourbon or a rye whiskey.
Depending on the quality of this whiskey, even within the same Manhattan category, completely different cocktails result with completely different tastes and aromas.
However, no matter that it was a shop operated by the “Red Dragon” and that there were competent and secretive bartenders, Dragon's Lair was ultimately a franchise bar.
There was bound to be a limit to the ingredients they handled.
They couldn't use the ultra-expensive, genuine brand whiskeys of the same quality as those in a classic bar in the upper levels of a hotel.
The shop itself didn't have the weight class to handle such products, and the customer base couldn't pay the corresponding prices.
It seemed that special customers who fell into that exception occasionally visited... but that was generally not the case.
It was also the reason why the lineage of classic cocktails was gradually dying out in ordinary bars, overflowing with only the kinds of advanced cocktails that were visually flashy and struck the tongue intensely.
In fact, Dragon's Lair was practically the only shop maintaining classic bartending methods throughout the entire mega district encompassing the nearby East Monica and Sprawlfield.
That was the reason he and a few other customers consistently visited this place despite the strict rules and formidable prices.
How would the bartender in front of me attempt to break through? I watched with a strangely pounding heart.
Trickle—
First, as a base, he poured a golden factory-made grain whiskey that only looked plausible in color, laying down a truly basic aroma, taste, and alcohol as the foundation. In terms of painting, it was like laying down a white canvas.
Now it was time to draw a picture on top of it.
He added the essential elements that shouldn't be left out in the form of powder, capsules, and syrup. The aroma of rye and malt, the woody scent of a charred oak barrel, and sweet air were present.
The liquid added last gave off a spicy and dry aroma.
It was the standard chemical combination form of whiskey, a recipe that elevated the taste of cheap whiskey to the maximum possible extent using scientific methods.
The problem was that the exact quantities weren't clearly defined, so the balance of taste and aroma could either fall into place or be completely shattered by just subtle control.
Perhaps because he knew that fact, the bartender's hand trembled slightly as he picked up the jigger again.
How would the combination in front of me turn out? Would it be balanced, or would it be disastrously ruined?
It was a question that could only be answered by drinking it.
Next was the turn for the sweet vermouth. Without needing any grand combination, he simply added synthetic red wine, powdered flavoring agent, and a little extra cherry syrup into the glass.
It was practically finished. Now, only the application of technique remained.
The stir is the cocktail mixing technique used to make a Manhattan, involving stirring the beverage using a bar spoon.
And coincidentally, sitting right next to me was a bartender with the nickname “Perfect Stir”.
Although he benefited from his prosthetic, if everyone could do that much just by attaching a mechanical arm, the profession of bartender would have lost its value long ago.
bartenders would long ago have been replaced by robots that only execute a set process.
The Magician's stir skills were the real deal.
He knew exactly how much and in what way to mix the beverage to create a perfect stirred cocktail.
If I had learned even half of that, the result wouldn't be completely terrible.
The bartender gripped the twisted bar spoon and placed it into the glass. He stirred and rotated the back of the spoon against the mixing glass.
At first, it slipped a few times and didn't seem to turn properly, but gradually momentum built up, and the liquid and spoon swirled together.
It was not too fast, yet not too slow—just the right speed. It was the optimal direction that the bartender himself could control.
The speed gradually slowed down, and after a few more rotations, he pulled the spoon out.
It had clinked against the glass or ice a few times, but it was decent enough.
It was a stir that stayed true to its original role. Thanks to it, the ice melted appropriately and the ingredients mixed together.
Since the cocktail had become sufficiently cold and diluted, the ice had done its job. It was time to strain it.
He placed a strainer, a stainless steel plate that serves to filter out ice, over the mixing glass and poured it into the inverted triangle-shaped transparent martini glass he had taken out beforehand.
The sweet yellowish-brown liquid fell, drawing a single line.
On top of the cocktail, which was filled just enough to appropriately fill the glass and highlight its deep color, he placed a pin skewering a pitch-black cherry-flavored synthetic.
He made a total of three glasses in that manner, Manhattans, which each had differences in terms of quantity, combination, and the subtle method of the stir.
Finally presenting the completed cocktails, the Bartender caught his breath and spoke.
“Three glasses of the queen of cocktails, here you go.”
The artificial cherry, propped up at an angle on the surface reflecting a reddish-brown hue under the bar's lights, wavered.
The saying that it looked like the red sunset and dusk of Manhattan came about for a reason.
To anyone's eyes, it was a plausible Manhattan on the outside.
Though the problem was that most cocktails only looked plausible on the outside.
The detective tried not to get his hopes up too high, lifting the glass as elegantly as possible with his thick fingers.
He soon tilted the glass to his mouth.
He swallowed the captivating queen's liquid into his mouth.
He savored a sip in his mouth, and as soon as he swallowed, words popped out.
“...You said it's only been five days since you started learning.”
It had only been five days.
Just five days.
That is about the amount of time it would take for the Earth to rotate five times with an additional twenty or so minutes left over.
Hah.
As he let out a hollow laugh and looked to the side, Antonio shrugged his shoulders. That sly smile was particularly detestable today.
The detective shook his head from side to side.
He felt as if he had been thoroughly tricked somehow.
He had deliberately chosen a difficult order to tease him a little and give him some feedback.
Good grief.
This was the skill of someone who had learned for only five days?
A chuckle leaked out again, and he had to raise the glass to his lips once more just to hide it.
Who had ever seen such a ridiculous case.
* * *
...Why did he keep shaking his head?
As his mouth twitched repeatedly, it seemed like he was trying to sneer.
My lips went dry at the troublemaker detective's subtly distorted expression.
His face, grimacing with all sorts of expressions as he had the cocktail in his mouth, amplified my sense of foreboding.
What kind of evaluation would that troublemaker detective, who was cold-hearted only when it came to cocktails, give?
If harsh words came out, I might get a little hurt.
Honestly, I did my best.
In that situation just now, it was the best Manhattan I could present with my skills.
Of course, it would be a lie to say there were no mistakes.
Faltering a bit at the beginning of the stir, or agonizing too long over the whiskey combination.
They were all regrettable blunders.
If I were to do it again next time, it would be better than now.
Even though I knew that drinking alcohol didn't help much with thirst, my throat was burning, so I swallowed the contents of the Manhattan glass placed in front of me.
The first taste was cold and also bitter.
Even though it was on the sweeter side among classic cocktails, it was still this much:
a texture that was smooth yet sharply biting, a liquid that went down the throat with the feeling of other subtle tastes and aromas covering up the bitter sensation.
With just the first sip, it was somewhat ambiguous.
The amount poured was deliberately small because of the high alcohol content. I brought the cocktail, which seemed like it would disappear after a few more sips, to my lips again.
From the second sip, I started to feel a bit of sweetness. The taste of rye and cherry and the scent and umami of spices—cinnamon and citrus—pierced the tongue.
And even the subtly spicy lingering scent was left behind.
Was this the taste of a Manhattan, the cocktail called the queen? I felt like I knew it, yet I still didn't.
It seemed to have the taste and aroma intended in the recipe, but also seemed like it didn't.
Since I didn't know how to drink it as much as I didn't know how to make it, I still didn't get a clear feeling of whether I made it properly even after tasting it myself, unlike when I cook.
After I drank a few more sips like that, the troublemaker detective opened his mouth right around the time my glass was nearly empty.
The evaluation began.
“Honestly, the balance of the whiskey I'm tasting isn't that excellent.”
Gulp.
Dry saliva went down. Sweat formed on my hands.
“The woody taste is too strong, and you put in too much sweetness. The body and finish are also lacking.
The aroma is on the better side, but it's still ambiguous all the same. The base liquor isn't harmonious.”
Every single word was piercing.
The explanation was long, but ultimately it meant the taste was dead because the whiskey combination that served as the base was ambiguous.
What I had worried about had happened. I did feel anxious while making it, but I didn't know it would be ruined to this extent.
Tsk, it didn't seem that bad to my taste buds, though. The problem was quite big, huh.
Towards me, who was struggling to manage my facial expression, the troublemaker detective continued speaking.
“And other than that, there are no problems.”
“...Yes, I see.”
Even if he said there were no problems other than that, it wasn't a very pleasant thing to hear when a serious flaw already existed.
Somehow, the aftertaste of the alcohol seemed even more bitter.
Upon my smacking my lips, the troublemaker detective cleared his throat and spoke again.
“Ahem, to sum it up, it was a decent Manhattan made with cheap whiskey. I enjoyed the drink. It's worth its price to some extent.”
Did that mean it was decent, or not decent?
After giving harsh criticisms like it being ambiguous, unharmonious, and cheap, he suddenly said he enjoyed the drink at the end, making me wonder what he meant.
Did he think he had criticized too much, and deliberately added a few words of clumsy praise at the end so my feelings wouldn't be hurt?
That was actually more shameful and unpleasant.
Perhaps because my displeasure was clearly revealed on my face, the troublemaker detective looked flustered as if thinking, “This isn”t it,' and Tony was sitting next to him holding back his laughter.
He seemed to be giggling, but soon put on a serious face and said:
“Nakamura, from your expression, it seems you're misunderstanding. You were just thinking that you didn't make the cocktail properly, right?”
“Yes... well.”
When a customer gave such a cold evaluation, wouldn't saying “No? You”re wrong? I made it well?' in front of him just be denying reality?
I had to admit what needed to be admitted.
I had received quite a bit of praise after making the Americano last time, but a truly proper classic cocktail still seemed to be too much for me.
While I was pouting my lips like that, Tony shook his head.
“No, you made it well. This is an excellent Manhattan. Even more so if you take into account that you have little experience.
Making a whiskey-based classic cocktail is your first time since I had you practice lightly last time, right?”
“That's right.”
“Compared to then, you've improved to a ridiculous level. The synthetic liquor combination you made back then was a complete mess.”
This was confusing again, whether it was a compliment or not.
As I stared with a sour expression, Tony leaned forward and said,
“Think about it carefully. That guy is just so stingy with favorable reviews for classics, but that much is practically high praise.”
“That was?”
“It's cheap; the harmony is broken... It doesn't sound good to hear. But the point you need to keep in mind is that even while pouring out such harsh criticism, he acknowledged that the synthetic liquor you made produced the taste and aroma of whiskey.”
“...!”
Come to think of it, that was true. A whiskey with poor balance, a cheap whiskey... But not once did he say, “What went in here is not whiskey.”
That stubborn cocktail enthusiast detective who had said “That is not a Fallen Angel, so I will not drink it” just because I tried to mix the Fallen Angel in two parts by shaking it.
“It means your whiskey combination achieved the minimum requirement to be acknowledged as whiskey even in the eyes of that strict troublemaker.
Look at him, he criticized it so harshly, yet he's still drinking it just fine right now. It means he likes it in the end.”
At those words, I looked towards the troublemaker detective, and he was facing my way with the glass to his lips.
He had a stern expression as if saying he had never praised it, but his pupils rolled around, avoiding my gaze.
After the Detective continuously sipped away, his cocktail was already showing its bottom.
And the glass doesn't lie.
“And considering that to that guy's taste buds, over 90 percent of the synthetic whiskeys distributed in the market would be nothing more than “fake whiskey”, the evaluation you just heard was definitely not a criticism but...”
Tony finished his sentence with a grin.
“Rather, it's a kind of certification mark proving that the liquor you mixed is at a level fit to be sold, and that your bartending skill is on a better tier than that of those low-quality bartenders who are only flashy on the outside.”