The Bee's Knees, a Prohibition cocktail on the menu at 8Bells, an Irish pub in Camden, Maine
John swirled the liquid in the jelly glass and peered at it. “The Thorndike’s got a certain clientele. The richer they are, the better quality they expect. Let me try something.”
John motioned for Elray to follow him as he walked over to the curtain concealing the small bar and pulled it back. He poured the whiskey into a jigger. “Got this recipe off a guy in New York,” he said as he scooped ice from a wooden bucket and filled a tall glass.
“Normally, I do this with gin,” he said, pouring the white whiskey into the glass of ice. “They call it the Bee’s Knees.”
Elray smirked. It seemed like such a childish term; it was hard to believe that the sophisticates in New York City were ordering a drink by that name.
He watched John pick up a Mason jar of viscous liquid and drip it into the glass of ice.
“What’s that?”
“Honey and water syrup.” After squeezing a quarter of a lemon in, John then capped the glass of ice with another glass and gave it a vigorous shake. His jowls shook; his belly shook; his entire frame reverberated, but his nonexistent upper lip remained a thin line. When done, John pulled up a deep V-shaped glass from below the counter.
“Now, what the hell am I looking at?”
“A martini glass.”
Elray looked at the fancy glass with appreciation. When everyone drank out of canning jars and tin mugs on the island, this fragile glass was like a glimpse of a naked woman through a dirty window.
John motioned for Elray to follow him as he walked over to the curtain concealing the small bar and pulled it back. He poured the whiskey into a jigger. “Got this recipe off a guy in New York,” he said as he scooped ice from a wooden bucket and filled a tall glass.
“Normally, I do this with gin,” he said, pouring the white whiskey into the glass of ice. “They call it the Bee’s Knees.”
Elray smirked. It seemed like such a childish term; it was hard to believe that the sophisticates in New York City were ordering a drink by that name.
He watched John pick up a Mason jar of viscous liquid and drip it into the glass of ice.
“What’s that?”
“Honey and water syrup.” After squeezing a quarter of a lemon in, John then capped the glass of ice with another glass and gave it a vigorous shake. His jowls shook; his belly shook; his entire frame reverberated, but his nonexistent upper lip remained a thin line. When done, John pulled up a deep V-shaped glass from below the counter.
“Now, what the hell am I looking at?”
“A martini glass.”
Elray looked at the fancy glass with appreciation. When everyone drank out of canning jars and tin mugs on the island, this fragile glass was like a glimpse of a naked woman through a dirty window.
