Page 7 of Bastard In A Suit, Vol. 3

Chapter 4

Our drinks are servedin tumblers, Duke’s bourbon and my vodka each encased in a ball of ice. Following his lead, I lift the slingshot rubber band stretched over the glass and let go. The ice egg cracks open, releasing my drink.

I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. “Am I a geek if this impresses me?”

“It’s an impressive place,” Duke says.

The Aviary is more restaurant than bar, serving high-end cocktail concoctions reminiscent of the potions created in my high school chem lab. They smoke, they breathe fire, they pour from hand-blown carafes.

I lift my glass to eye level. “I don’t understand how the drink gets in the ice.”

“One of life’s mysteries?”

I set down my drink. “You’re teasing me.”

The truth is, his amusement eases some of the tension that pulls my muscles tight. I’m wound up over my argument with Forrest, and completely out of my comfort zone in such an up-scale cocktail bar.

“Hungry?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I could eat.”

“If I order something, will you try it?”

His obvious concern touches me. “It seems rude not to.”

He smiles, and then flags over the waitress. “We’ll start with the chips,” he says.

“How normal,” I say.

Duke’s eyes glisten with a devilish twinkle. “I have no doubt you’ll reassess that word in good time.”

He’s right. The “chips” at the Aviary are an artful and towering arrangement of polenta, lotus root, white rice, cheddar and parmesan. Duke points to each ingredient. I’m fascinated by how each component is twisted and manipulated to create a sculpture of food, far too intricate to eat.

“These are squid ink chips,” he says. “They taste best when dipped in the tapioca.”

I tentatively bite in, surprised at the hint of “seafood” that lingers on my tongue. The parmesan is light, crumbly, and strongly cheesy. “It’s delicious,” I say, licking a crumb from my bottom lip.

Duke’s eyes follow the slow motion of my tongue. “Indeed.”

I take a sip of my vodka and clear my throat. “Forrest didn’t take the news so well.”

He looks up from swirling his ice and grimaces. “No, I don’t expect so.” He takes a sip of his bourbon. “I gave the police everything. They said they’d be in touch soon. You may be asked to provide a statement.”

My chest feels hollow. “I figured as much.”

A server passes with a tray of drinks. Smoke billows from a beaker that bubbles with some kind of blue liqueur. Beside it, two tall glasses are filled with green liquid and small balls of ice, all uniform in size.

“How do they do that?”

Duke follows my gaze. “Get the ice all the same size?”

“Yeah.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I mean, I get that they have molds and stuff, but the ice in this place is almost like its own art form.”

“It’s not just about chilling the drinks,” Duke says. “The ice helps to release the flavor as it melts. If you order a margarita, for instance, the ice is spiced, so as it melts, your drink is infused with cinnamon.”

“That’s genius,” I say, fascinated.

Duke dabs at his mouth with a napkin. The movement is strangely erotic, and I imagine sliding an ice cube across his lips.