Martinis
Duke's.
If you know, you know. There is simply no martini on earth that compares. None. The conversation ends there.
It was a promotion that brought me through its doors that particular afternoon. My boss, Bill, insisted on celebrating properly, which meant Duke's for martinis.
But the martinis, magnificent as they were, are not why I remember that evening.
Duke's is a small place, intimate, almost conspiratorially so. Five tables in the front room. That's it. Which means that whatever happens in that room, happens to everyone in it, whether they've consented to be part of it or not.
Bill and I were on our second martinis when the evening announced that it had plans.
Act One.
A couple arrived. Middle-aged, unhurried, and apparently already well into their own private celebration before they'd walked through the door. They were seated at the last remaining table, and barely had they ordered their drinks before the woman leaned across, unbuttoned a button or two on the man's shirt, and proceeded to run her hands across his chest with a level of enthusiasm that suggested she had entirely forgotten they were in public.
The sounds that followed were... let's say expressive.
The rest of us, Bill, myself, the other guests, exchanged the look. You know the look. Equal parts fascination and mortification, held together by the shared, desperate effort not to make eye contact with anyone, but wanting some sort of acknowledgement that they were seeing the same thing as you were.
About 15 mins in, their drinks barely touched, it became clear their priorities had been established. The couple, satisfied with the preview, settled their tab and took the show to their room in the hotel (we assume).
The room exhaled.
Act Two.
At Duke's, there is always a queue. The world, it seems, has correctly identified the best martini in existence and, this being London, formed an orderly line. And so, the moment our lovebirds vacated their seats, the next guests were shown to the same table.
In walked, a priest.
And a nun.
I want to be very precise here: a man of the cloth and a fully habited nun, seated at the exact same chairs that, not 10 minutes prior, had hosted a performance that would have made a sailor reconsider his life choices.
The priest and the nun ordered their drinks (of course they did, this is Duke's) and sat together in quiet, composed conversation. Whatever they discussed, they kept it between themselves and God.
They finished their drink, rose, and left with great dignity.
Act Three.
The rest of us guests had, by this point, silently acknowledged each other as fellow witnesses to something extraordinary. A kind of unspoken camaraderie had formed.
We were just beginning to laugh, just beginning to compare notes on what on earth we had just watched unfold at that one small table, collectively acknowledging the juxtaposition of the two guests, the next guests were led through the doors
We looked up.
In walked 2 of her Majesty the Queen's Guards.
In full uniform. Scarlet tunics. And the hats, the magnificent, towering, absurd and glorious bearskin hats. They sat at the same table, their hats resting on their knees, martini glasses rising to their lips with the particular composure of men who guard the monarchy and do not explain themselves to anyone. A sight to behold.
There is a specific feeling, somewhere between delirium caused by 2 of Duke’s martinis and revelation, that arrives when reality has simply stopped behaving and you cannot tell anymore whether you are experiencing an evening or imagining one.
Bill and I finished our martinis and left, stepping out into the evening air slightly dazed having witnessed something we (or at least I) will spend years trying to adequately describe at dinner parties.
I still go to Duke's regularly. And every single time, I sit down, the martini arrives, cold, perfect, incomparable, and I think of that afternoon. A promotion worth celebrating. A front-row seat to the greatest unrehearsed theatre I have ever witnessed.
One table. Three acts. No explanation.