We started our night at the Ritz. We’ve been there before, to the bar on the Place Vendome side, and to l’Espadon for one of the best meals I’ve ever had, but we didn’t get a chance to try Hemingway’s. I knew the bar requested “smart casual”, so I insisted the BF wear a jacket and no jeans. Upon arrival, it became apparent that tourists think “smart casual” means ill-fitting jeans and t-shirts (I shudder to think what these people wear on Casual Friday). I wore a simple black satin dress with a sweater, since it was quite chilly that night. Unfortunately all of the bar seating was taken, so we sat at a cute little table that was free. Within a half hour, the place was full, and we felt badly for some well-dressed people who were turned away while the ones dressed for a baseball game continued to hog the bar.
Hemingway’s is a small, intimate place, with room for maybe 30 people. The walls are honey coloured wood panelling, and there are, of course, Papa-themed items all around. The big draw, however, is the bartender. Colin Field has been named the Best Bartender in the World, and it’s easy to see why. I had a French 75 to start, which was light and a good first drink, while the BF had a Sidecar. This was the smoothest, best Sidecar either of us had ever tasted. It was also perfectly composed, which is something I struggle with. It was 30 Euros, so I am guessing it wasn’t made with the $19 Cognac I get at the liquor store in Buffalo. The BF declared it a perfect drink to sip and savour.
For my next drink, I had a glass of Ritz Champagne, as I love it, and was on a mission to try as many kinds as I could in 2 ½ days. Around then, Mr. Field came over to chat with us. I told him about a friend who made his own liqueurs, and asked him for an autograph for said friend. We spoke for some time about the skill of mixing drinks, the best bars in New York, and what it means to translate a vision into something that is both artistic and ephemeral. Then he gave me a pile of Bar Hemingway coasters so I would “never drink alone."
The vibe of the bar encourages talking among patrons, so we chatted with some other folks about the décor, and just leaned back and enjoyed the evening. The bill was astonishing, but we won’t be back for quite some time, so it was definitely worth it.
(Also worth it is the fact that I now know where another bathroom is tucked away in the Ritz. When you want not to just avoid squatters, but to have gold-plated fixtures, this is the place to “go.”)
Then we were off to Harry’s New York Bar, where the Sidecar was invented. After the Ritz, it was a bit of a come-down, but I was there for historical purposes. Our waiter, who resembled Uncle Fester in looks and temperament, finally brought us our Sidecars, and I was able to celebrate “my” drink. This one tasted like I made it, to be honest. It was good, but not in the class of the Hemingway offering. Not in that price range, either, to be fair. Anyway, it was enough for me, and we left the bar for a stroll down the Champs-Elysees.
I was a wee bit tipsy by then, as we had eaten a late lunch, and dinner ended up being the delicious munchies that came with drinks at Hemingway’s. Cashews and home made potato chips are not enough to keep this girl standing up after 4 cocktails, so I began to stagger ever so slightly. No dinner also meant that I would have to pee a lot. I used the Ritzy bathrooms, on the Cambon and Vendome sides, then Harry’s, but I needed another stop on this walk, so I stood up tall, grabbed the BF by the arm, and strutted towards the Crillon. I gave a firm “bon soir” to the doorman, who greeted me back, and opened the door. As long as you look like there is the slightest possibility that you belong, you can go anywhere!
No comments:
Post a Comment