Bast:Singing, Music & Dancing (among other things) (meow_minx) wrote in deities_dot_com, @ 2012-04-09 17:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~bast, ~deimos |
Bad Influence (tag: Deimos)
The place was packed. And by packed, that mean that there were over a dozen people in the place, but less than two. Because even if the sign at the door said Maximum Occupancy: 29, there was no way that many people were going to fit in the place and still allow for room to breath. The Matchbox bar in Chicago, Illinois was 460 square feet of appropriately named real estate. It was tiny. It was crowded with every single one of the twelve bar stools currently occupied. And it was the. Best. Dive. Bar. Ever.
Bast had made sure to dress appropriately for the evening. She was wearing a lycra stretch-mini that was saved from being stripper-esque by the subdued decolletage and subtle color. It was navy, with a squared off neckline and cap sleeves, shirring running up the sides. But Bast wasn't wearing it for the way it hugged her hips. She was wearing it for the way she could pull it up her hips later when she made her way into the bathroom, which was just as tiny as the rest of the place. And she was pretty sure the sink in the only bathroom came from a dollhouse somewhere.
The place started off small at the doorway and got smaller the further in one went. It was not for people who were claustrophobic. Or afraid to make new friends on the way to the bathroom which was at the narrow end of the bar. It was more than a little like trying to get out of the middle of the aisle at the movie theater, with a lot of “excuse me's” and “pardon me's” and “I'm sorry my butt is in your face's.” But Bast had some of her very best nights of drinking in that bar.
Because holy shit did they know how to mix a fucking cocktail.
They had a menu of hundreds, not on a list somewhere, just that many that the bartenders knew how to make, things that were made back with the Rat pack was popular all the way up to the newest thing. The vodkas were infused in house. Margaritas with powdered sugar on the rims. French cherries garnished the Manhattans. Gimlets created with freshly squeezed lime juice. The bartenders were godsdamned artists in Bast's opinion, and they were not shy with the alcohol. In fact, whatever remained in the shaker after the drink was mixed belonged to the ordering patron as well, and it was usually another good long pour of finely blended alcohol. And the best part was between the lack of space and the low prices, it was a decidedly unsnooty crowd that showed up at this particular bar.
When she arrived, there were already people waiting outside to get in. And she could have, as some opted to do, seat herself on the nearby patio and wait for a waitress. It was warm enough to be able to do that for this evening. But Bast wanted to be in the center of it all, in the midst of the action, and that meant getting herself inside. Not a problem for a goddess with her talents. A smile here, a whisper there, a little effort of will to make people do what she want and not only was she in the bar, she was offered a bar stool.
Bast slid onto the well-worn seat, smiled at the bartender, and said, “Gimlet, please. Use whatever new flavor of vodka you guys have this week.”