While sitting in the dimly lit, oak bar on the first floor of the Drake Hotel in Chicago I was suddenly hit with the urge to order a martini. I've never had one. Well, I've never had a real, classic martini complete with gin and olives and straight-upness. Shaken, not stirred, or whatever 007 always said.
One friend ordered a Cosmopolitan, the other some sort of martini with a juicy name, something like Pomegranatini or Cranberrytini...whatever it was I certainly didn't consider it a real martini.
Sitting in my red leather chair, looking around at the dark walls with darker wallpaper inlaid in rectangular patterns throughout the place there seemed to be no other cocktail option.
Having never ordered such an adult-like drink I decided to text a friend for advice.
"How do I order a martini? Dry?"
The response was quick: "Dry, up, extra olives."
And then there was a small postscript: "Good night ladies!"
Goodnight, indeed. My brain is in Eastern Standard Time, my body is in the Central Time Zone and with a swirl of gin down the hatch I'm happy to be upstairs in my room with the bed turned down.
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