Bordeaux in Toronto
“Hey, bartender,” the old guy gestured at me, almost whispering in a sonorous rumble. “See those gentlemen over there? Ask them if I can have two fingers of their wine.”
I looked over my shoulder to where a couple of brokers had just ordered a $700 bottle of Bordeaux, then back at Sonorous Rumble and hesitated, not sure how to politely tell him he was nuts. He looked a little nuts, all decked out in an admittedly stylish tweed in the middle of summer. Shrugging amiably, the old guy got off his bar stool and circled the big marble slab to go speak directly with the brokers. I watched the way you watch a shopping cart rattle toward a Porsche in a parking lot: morbidly curious, shoulders slightly hunched in a pre-loaded cringe.
“Kelly!” I called the other bartender over, compelled to share the scene.
“Dude’s mooching a hundo worth of red off Merrill Lynch there.”
Day bartenders didn’t get much excitement, especially in our fancy financial-district venue. Kelly slid closer and put a hand on my shoulder, trying to look like we had something to discuss other than Sonorous Rumble and the brokers.
“When I asked what he wanted for lunch, he said ‘You on a bun,’” she told me.
The brokers didn’t bat an eye when Sonorous Rumble sauntered up and shook hands. They gestured to Kelly and asked for another glass, then poured the old guy a full serving with a big smile. The three of them chatted quietly, with the usually-boisterous brokers manifesting more civility than I was accustomed to on a post-martini Thursday afternoon.
“Huh.” Kelly shrugged at me and we went about our work.
The restaurant was quiet and I could feel, more than hear, Sonorous Rumble’s voice from the end of the bar as he joked with the younger bankers. Drama avoided, my attention drifted back to my regulars and I leaned on the marble to gossip while Kelly served a young couple behind me.
“Another one of these, on my tab,” Sonorous Rumble rumbled at us an hour later, tapping the empty bottle of Bordeaux. I pierced the cork while Kelly polished three fresh glasses, all conversation paused during the ritual. The cork came out cleanly and I let out a silent sigh of relief while Sonorous Rumble waved off his taster. Spidery fingers of wine clung to the inside of their glasses as the old red settled. I had offered them a decanter, but evidently no one was standing on ceremony.
At the end of our shift, the bar manager came over to wrap up the afternoon’s cash-out. “How was Leonard Cohen?” she asked. “Nice guy?”