#3: Martini, Shaken Not Stirred
“Welcome, Kurosu-sama.”
Past the rough-textured antique door, the same comfortable half-light drifted through the room tonight.
Roppongi, tucked along a back alley — the authentic girls’ bar Antiqua.
The time was ten p.m. — peak hours for an ordinary bar, but scanning the room, there wasn’t a single customer in sight. Only Shandy’s shape, standing in her usual spot at the bar top, between the counter and the neatly arranged rows of liquor bottles.
“Were you on a break, Shandy-san?”
“Yes, a long one. It was so quiet I ended up watching a movie.”
Shandy met Mikoto’s teasing concern with the same wry tone right back. Small as Antiqua’s seating was, it was still a late-night bar; its true peak hours came later still, once it started catching customers like Mikoto once had, missing the last train home.
Handing her coat over to Shandy and settling into her usual seat against the wall, Mikoto called out to Shandy’s small back as she bustled about with her preparations.
“A movie, huh. What did you watch, out of curiosity?”
“Now, what could I have been watching, I wonder? Why don’t we make that tonight’s contest?”
Shandy set out a simple plate of prosciutto, chocolate, and nuts, flashing a competitive smile. True to her word about a restful break, her amber, full-moon eyes shone brighter than usual tonight.
But a contest.
Mikoto ran back through her record against Shandy so far.
Round one, the Shandy Gaff showdown, had ended in a masterful, humiliating defeat. Round two had been an even more complete loss, no comeback in sight. Two straight defeats — she was overdue for a win.
“I’ll take you up on it — though I’d love a hint first. There are countless movies out there.”
“The cocktail I make you is the hint. A student of cocktails as devoted as you should have no trouble, don’t you think?”
Provocative, needling in tone. Hardly appropriate conduct toward a customer, strictly speaking, but Mikoto couldn’t care less. If anything, turning down a game Shandy had gone to the trouble of setting up would be the real breach of etiquette.
She’d been wanting a win, and she’d kept up her cocktail studies besides. Beat her fair and square this time, and maybe she’d finally get the better of Shandy. Mikoto’s answer was already decided.
“And if I win, what then?”
“What would you like? Anything within my power.”
Time for a little push.
Suppressing the laughter bubbling up inside her, Mikoto kept a straight face and made her declaration.
“Let’s wager Shandy-san’s lips.”
“Ha, how interesting.”
Naturally, a provocation that mild wasn’t going to rattle Shandy. The full moons in both her eyes stayed steady, unclouded, fixed squarely on Mikoto.
“Then let’s be fair about it. If I win, it’s Kurosu-sama’s lips instead.”
Just as Mikoto was thinking how fair that sounded, she caught the actual implication of the terms.
Under this arrangement, whoever won, there’d be a kiss either way.
“Wait, um…?”
Unable to hide her fluster, Mikoto watched Shandy’s face settle into that familiar “got you” smile.
Outmaneuvered again. Doing her best not to let the embarrassment show, Mikoto scrambled to find her footing.
“So we’re kissing regardless of who wins or loses?”
“Oh? Getting cold feet?”
“No — in that case… make it a thorough one, please.”
“Yes. Let’s make it a night to remember.”
Shandy smiled softly. Her amber eyes, brimming with composure, settled into the shape of a waxing crescent moon.
“There are hints in the method too. I’ll walk you through it step by step, so do your best to guess.”
With that, a shaker was set down in front of Mikoto, across the counter. Shandy’s slender, pale fingers traced along its smooth silver body. Mikoto caught herself staring, and was pricked, sweetly, for it.
“Ha. A hand fetish, Kurosu-sama?”
“Ah, no. It’s just my first time seeing a shaker used live.”
“Good catch, though. Shaking is exactly the point of this one.”
A cocktail made by shaking. Working off that clue, Mikoto turned over what half-baked knowledge she had.
Cocktail methods broke down into roughly four categories. The technique everyone pictures when they think “bartender” — rattling that egg-shaped vessel back and forth — was the shake. Shaking helped blend ingredients that wouldn’t mix easily, chilled the liquid with ice, and folded in air to soften the drink’s rough edges. That much, at least, Mikoto knew.
“Since you’ve been studying, I won’t cut corners today.”
Was she usually cutting corners, then? Mikoto meant to needle her about it, but swallowed the words when she caught sight of Shandy’s face in the dim light.
That easy, brimming smile of hers had vanished. This was the face of Antiqua’s proprietress at work.
This round of the game was a genuine contest. Mikoto straightened her back without meaning to, focusing on Shandy’s every movement.
“First, we chill the cocktail glass. The drink I’m making tonight only gets chilled inside the shaker — meaning it’s a short drink, served with no ice floating in the glass itself.”
A cocktail glass, packed full of fine crushed ice, was set down — one with a distinctively long, thin stem built to hold onto the cold.
Next, Shandy produced a squat green bottle, measuring out its contents with a jigger — that cone-shaped double cup — and pouring it briskly into the shaker.
“The main ingredient: dry gin. And dry vermouth. Ratio of five to one.”
With the ingredients poured, she dropped in ice, sealed the lid, and shook. Her wrist, thin enough to look like it might snap, sent the silver vessel rocking front to back and up and down. Each motion sent a crisp, satisfying clatter of ice ringing through Antiqua.
The way Shandy carried herself through the shake had a poise befitting the bar itself. Watching her stand at that angle, Mikoto found herself holding her breath.
“Ha, I can feel you watching.”
“You’re just too beautiful not to.”
“Oh? Already drunk, are we?”
“I’ve been drunk on you the whole time, Shandy-san.”
“Feel free, as much as you like. Smiles don’t cost anything.”
This too, Mikoto thought, was one of Shandy’s faces.
The seductive one she wore trading poisoned, sugar-coated words back and forth. The masterless-doll stillness of her, standing alone at the bar counter. And now this — the fluid, practiced grace of building a cocktail.
“Now then. Here’s a major hint: the stuffed olive. Some of you might guess it from this alone.”
The crushed ice that had filled the cocktail glass a moment ago was already gone. Inside the glass, now beaded with condensation from the chill, sat an olive speared on a pick.
“And now, the finish.”
The shaken drink poured in. A faintly pale, cloudy liquid filled the glass around the olive. The very picture of a bartender’s cocktail.
The instant she finished pouring, Shandy snapped the shaker sharply in a straight line. The remaining ice inside gave a single sharp clack — a flourish that announced, both visually and audibly, that the drink was finished.
“Some recipes add a lemon peel, but tonight I’ve kept to the classic version — or rather, made it exactly the way it was ordered by the leading man in the film I was watching.”
Shandy’s pale hand set the coaster and glass down before Mikoto.
The finished cocktail was a short drink, never diluted by ice. Its ingredients, dry gin and dry vermouth, were both fragrant and fiercely dry. The stuffed olive resting at the bottom of the glass had already begun releasing its own essence into the drink, deepening the flavor further.
Mikoto realized, in fact, that she already had a guess for what this was.
“Just from the ingredients, I think I can place it. It’s a Martini, isn’t it?”
“Yes, exactly right. The kind of drink any bartender worth their salt can make — some even call it the king of cocktails.”
Shandy’s full-moon eyes softened. Reading her reaction, Mikoto felt sure her guess had landed.
But if the cocktail she’d made really was a Martini, there was one thing that didn’t add up. It hadn’t been made by the method Mikoto had studied.
“But I thought a Martini was supposed to be stirred. The book I read never mentioned shaking it.”
“You really have been studying. But knowing the method, the recipe, the formula — that’s not all there is to a cocktail.”
Urged by Shandy to “drink it while it’s cold,” Mikoto brought her lips to the shaken, not stirred Martini before her.
Fiercely dry. A sensation like a needle pricking her tongue, followed by the bittersweet taste of olive spreading through her mouth. Right on its heels, the fragrance of gin and vermouth rose up through her nose. A jolt sharp enough to wake her up entirely.
And yet, the sharpness of the alcohol wasn’t quite as harsh as she’d braced for. Whether it was down to Shandy’s skill or something else, it came out somehow smooth, and despite the bitterness and bite, she found herself wanting another sip.
“A bartender’s job is to entertain the customer. Not just serving drinks, but the little bits of trivia, the well-timed conversation. And things like this game with you, Kurosu-sama.”
“There’s more to it than I realized.”
“Well, some people just make it look like there’s more to it than there is.”
“Which one are you, Shandy-san?”
“Which do you prefer, Kurosu-sama? A true enthusiast, or a casual dabbler pretending otherwise?”
Mikoto decided not to answer Shandy’s question-for-a-question this time. She couldn’t pick one over the other — and settling on an answer felt like it would box Shandy into something smaller than she was.
“I like every version of you, Shandy-san.”
Shandy smiled faintly and propped her elbow on the counter, amber eyes drawing in close. A staring match where looking away meant losing.
“Then here’s the real question. Who’s the movie’s protagonist — the one who likes this Martini?”
“Ah, sorry. I’m not exactly well-versed in movies…”
But no further guesses came to her. She’d gotten as far as identifying the drink as a Martini, but her film trivia simply wasn’t up to the task. In the end, she had no choice but to concede honestly.
And waiting on the other side of that concession was, by Shandy’s own terms, Kurosu-sama’s lips. Though Mikoto suspected it wouldn’t actually come to an actual kiss.
“Well, I’m a casual dabbler when it comes to movies too, if it’s any consolation.”
Saying so, Shandy pulled out her phone. On the screen was a clean-cut British gentleman in a well-fitted suit. The order he’d given the bartender: A Martini. Shaken, not stirred.
“The answer is James Bond. The mysterious spy.”
“I see…”
Mikoto answered while stifling a yawn. Sleep was creeping up fast.
Understandably so. The Martini she’d just drunk clocked in at roughly forty percent alcohol. The total volume barely broke a hundred milliliters, but in terms of alcohol content, it was the equivalent of a full can of beer. And she’d downed it in about ten minutes flat, following short-drink etiquette to the letter — enjoy it cold, before it warms.
“Oh dear. That’s what you get for draining your glass at that pace.”
Her tone carried a faintly scolding note beneath the wry laugh. Mikoto tried to force her eyelids open, but the pleasant drowsiness was already pulling her under.
“Won’t you talk with me a little longer, Kurosu-sama?”
“Ss…ure…ly…”
“Shall we call this one my win?”
“…Mm-hm…”
Mikoto’s vision started to blur. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy — heavy enough that even the mascara she’d carefully redone before stepping into Antiqua tonight felt like a weight she couldn’t hold up.
Her consciousness slipped further and further away. Drifting in and out, the bar’s dim light and the classical music playing overhead made for a fine lullaby, and her body was drawn, naturally, down toward the bar counter.
“…Good night, Mikoto-san.”
She felt something soft brush against her lips.
Whether it was real or something out of a dream, Mikoto couldn’t say. She only sank, gently, into a soft and warm, amber-colored sleep.
—Tonight’s game of love: total defeat for Mikoto.