“This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear an instructor say something like this,” the man in the front of a makeshift classroom in the center of Prohibition Bar shoves his thick black glasses up his pug nose, “but it’s perfectly okay to be buzzed in my classroom. Notes will be emailed. The most important thing tonight is that you get some hands on experience and that you have fun.”
I glance at Aidy to my right, standing there in a little black dress that hits mid-thigh. She looks at me, lifting her shoulders to her ear and grinning. A loose strand of blonde hair falls in her face, the rest of it pulled back with some sparkly headband contraption that makes her glow under the soft lights above.
It’s dark inside Prohibition, dim lighting and Duke Ellington playing from hidden speakers. Outside it’s pouring rain, and there’s no place I’d rather be tonight.
Aidy mentioned once that she hadn’t been on a proper date in well over a year, and seeing how we’ve been spending a lot of time together, I thought it seemed like the right thing to do.
I could’ve taken the easy way out. Dinner and a movie. Drinks and a show. But I wanted to be original. I wanted to give her a night she’d never forget. So I called up an old friend of a friend who happens to own this bar in Gramercy that has mixology lessons, and we were able to secure a spot tonight.
The instructor’s assistant walks past our table in the back row, lining up barware and things like stuffed olives and vermouth as well as four recipe cards printed on thick, cream cardstock.
“Tonight, we’ll be learning four recipes,” the instructor says, “first of which will be a classic martini.”
Aidy reaches for the cocktail shaker, taking the lid off and peering inside. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”
“Everyone, please check your table and let me know if you do not have one of the following,” the instructor calls out, pacing around the room. “A muddler, a strainer, tongs, a spoon, a shot glass, a mixing glass, and a Boston tin.”
We scan our set up, ensuring we have everything we need, and Aidy gives him a thumbs up when he walks past.
“This is so much fun,” she says, leaning closer and standing on her toes, her breath warm on my ear.
“We haven’t even started,” I whisper.
Her blue eyes are lit, and her mouth is slightly closer than usual since she’s wearing the sexiest pair of red fuck-me heels I’ve ever seen.
“So?” She gives me a wink, her red mouth pursed. Every time I look at that full mouth of hers, I want to kiss it. I’m convinced she wore bright red lipstick tonight to torture me, knowing I wouldn’t kiss her with that on.
It’s okay.
I’ll tease the hell out of her, and by the end of the night, she’ll be wiping that red off her lips and begging me to kiss her.
Another assistant comes by pushing a cart, depositing two chilled martini stems on each table.
“Everybody ready?” the instructor calls out, slicking his hands together. “Okay, I’d like to officially welcome you once again to Prohibition’s Mixology 101. I’m your instructor, Carlos, and tonight we’ll be making four cocktails. If you could, please grab your Boston shaker. There are twelve steps to make the perfect martini, so please pay close attention.”
Aidy grabs the shaker and gives me another smile.
“A few things you should know before we begin,” Carlos says, holding up his Boston tin. “Whenever we mix a drink in a metal container, we swirl. When we mix a drink in glass, we stir.”
Aidy leans in, bumping her arm against mine. “I didn’t know that. Did you know that?”
I nod, “I did.”
As our instructor rattles on about ice cubes, their sizes, the appropriate type and shape for each drink, and the how many to use when mixing a martini – seven or eight – I’m only half paying attention. All eyes are glued to Carlos except mine.
I can’t stop looking at her.
The rest of the evening is a blur. We listen. We mix. We taste. We taste some more. Two hours later, we’ve crafted four cocktails: a classic martini, an Asian pear mojito, an Amaretto sour, and a Moscow Mule.
By the time the class is over, the rain has only let up slightly, and she’s well past buzzed.
“I think we were only supposed to sample the cocktails,” Aidy says, her words slow