Letter #8
City on the Verge
“San Francisco is the only city I can think of that can survive all the things you people are doing to it and still look beautiful." — Frank Lloyd Wright
Dear San Francisco,
In the spirit of looking both back and ahead, I’m turning over today’s letter to one of A Bridge for the City’s supporting characters. In the scene below (edited to eliminate spoilers), Andy Venn, close friend to protagonist Frank and his wife Kelly, makes his final visit to the opulent Residents’ Lounge in San Francisco’s latest, greatest, all-bells-and-whistles condo tower. Andy, a curmudgeon deeply suspicious of such projects because, to him, they highlight how San Francisco has lost its identity in the era of tech and big money interests, wonders what’s next for his city. His ruminations are aided by a superb cocktail crafted by a bartender whose skills Andy reluctantly admires, in line with his growing conviction about the direct correlation between demonstrating superior mixological capabilities and being a punctilious jerk.
Andy sat alone at the bar in the Eternity Tower’s lavish Residents’ Lounge, considering what to order on what he realized would be his final visit. Somewhere behind him, across the floor, beyond the lounge’s storied high-performance glass floor-to-ceiling windows, and outside in the gathering darkness, he could hear the faint, intermittent whistles of stiff gusts and a low hiss that betrayed the mounting velocity of a driving rain. Andy shifted from right to left on his barstool, then transferred his weight back from left to right.
The solace of a strong cocktail beckoned. Andy’s visit to the Eternity tower to attend a business meeting on behalf of Frank and Kelly had gone smoothly, but it had been trying for him. As he’d shaken hands with the woman representing a developer, the strength of her grip had made Andy feel older than he was. And lonely, he admitted to himself. He unfolded the newspaper he’d brought to the lounge, quickly finishing the last two paragraphs of an in-depth article chronicling the seemingly unstoppable rise of Frank’s company Sofly to the top of the software development heap. Unbridled douche-baggery, he thought, listlessly pushing the paper away from him. Andy slumped forward, resting his elbows on the bar.
"I prefer a wet San Francisco to a dry Manhattan," Henrik quipped, materializing from behind the black curtain shielding the lounge’s kitchenette. He approached slowly. With a nod towards the massive windows – visible since Henrik had parted the ponderous velvet curtains obscuring them, exposing the nearly deserted street scene below – the mixologist leaned forward. He placed both palms on his side of the bar, mirroring Andy’s assumed position.
As Andy raised his head and opened his mouth to ask for the source of the quote, Henrik supplied the answer, with his customary half-smile: “Larry Geraldi. Man among men, San Franciscan, restaurateur in the mold of old, local legend, drinker, and – for a brief period in his latter years, shortly before he left us – mentor to yours truly.” Henrik draped a freshly pressed bar towel over his left arm and bent slightly at the waist in a sardonic bow.
Five minutes later, Andy found himself gazing at the drink on the bar before him. He’d ordered a Cosmopolitan, a concoction typically too sweet for his liking. But knowing the quality of the vodka used in the lounge; confident the lime would be freshly squeezed; and with faith in the bartender’s skill (Henrik would deploy his Grand Marnier sparingly, and his simple syrup not at all); Andy had ordered it anyway.
The drink Henrik delivered was of the palest possible shade of pink, its apparitional hue indicating the barman’s judicious use of cranberry juice. Only the faintest layer of tiny ice fragments, produced by the bartender’s vigorous yet measured shaking, floated teasingly on the drink’s surface. These glittered elusively in the antique, gilt-rimmed coupe in which Henrik had served the drink, placing the fragile glass gently on the bar and backing away stealthily with a satisfied, smirking air Andy knew he would miss.
The vestiges of crystallized ice disappeared with Andy’s first sip, like the wake of a windsurfer into the San Francisco Bay. Andy struggled to get on board with Henrik’s mission to deliver a drink that outstripped its quintessence as much as his flawless execution and carefully controlled presentation. Pinnacle of precision, Andy thought. For whatever that’s worth.
Andy twisted in his seat, languidly surveying the opulent lounge, empty but for him and Henrik. Errant endeavor, he mused. City got ahead of itself. Again. Turning back towards the bar, he sighed. San Francisco stood at an interstitial threshold, Andy felt certain. Don’t know what’s ahead, though, he admitted to himself, sipping his drink. Or where the crossing is.
Andy Venn paused momentarily to consider the cocktail after returning the glass gingerly to the bar. It dawned on him that he couldn’t remember beholding anything quite so perfect, and he wondered when he might again.
Until next time ….