Whiskey Ginger

A whiskey ginger is the perfect drink.  Somedays it's a little bipolar, and other days it's perfectly normal.  All days it's totally solid.  If I were a drink, I'd be a whiskey ginger.  Sweet and bubbly fresh on arrival, but I'll leave you with a little kick.  And if you have too much of me, you'll probably like it and you'll definitely get drunk.

The Orbit Room Cafe on Market Street is a great place to get a whiskey ginger. They are known for their mixologists, but I go there because the bar has a really great vibe.  And they make a delicious whiskey ginger. One of my favorite Orbit Room memories is a time when I got off work early on a sunny Friday in San Francisco. Two things about this story are rare, I got off work early enough to be in San Francisco in the afternoon, and it was sunny and warm.  I was in a good mood and had a few hours to kill before the afternoon wore off.  My friends were all still at work (although I tried to change this), and my house seemed dark and cold for such a lovely afternoon.  The only conclusion I could come to was to belly up to a whiskey ginger at the Orbit Room.

I was delighted to find that the big picture windows were opened wide, calling me in for a voyeur's afternoon delight.  I nestled up to the bar, smiled, and ordered a Jack and  Ginger in calm anticipation.  The bar tender smiled and got to work.  As I watched him carefully make the drink, a healthy dose of whiskey, equal parts fresh ginger juice and soda water, and a candied ginger garnish, I pondered my order.  Jack and Ginger - they sound like movie stars.  Or maybe they are just really cool everyday people.  Right now they are my friends.  A day dream begins. Jack and Ginger - the names roll off my tongue, more maybe that was a little saliva.  I blink and transport back to reality.  My cocktail is ready.

He slides the beautiful drink across the bar to me, and we both smile with satisfaction.  The perspiration begins to coat the edge of the collins glass as the ice settles between layers of whiskey, soda, and juice. I pay and tip the tattooed man, master of mixology, and head for the open window.  The air is warm as it blows into the bar and tickles my nose.  I sit at a high backed wooden chair at the large metal table and gaze down Market Street. I plop the wedge of candied ginger onto the ice, give my drink a quick but gentle stir with the straw, and take my first sip. I am content.