“Here he comes Ruth,” Nancy said.

Ruth, a short woman with deep blue eyes, didn’t bother to ask who was coming. She already knew who it was. She smiled and turned to face him from her position behind the bar. It was busy that night. The cacophony formed by low voices stuck in circular conversations, competing with shouts at the city’s dimwitted NFL team losing again on national television, always made Ruth feel good. The beer, wine and whisky glasses provided a solid backbeat, clinking in time with customers scraping their plates of what was left of Sunday’s spaghetti and meatball special. She hated when it was quiet.  

“You’re late Robbie, as usual. The game’s almost over,” Ruth said.

“You know I don’t come here to watch the game on that dinky TV of yours. Don’t come for the food either.”    He had a full head of black hair. He would have been handsome were it not for a port wine stain birthmark that covered almost half of his face.

“I know, Robbie. You come for the ambiance and to annoy me, that’s why you come.”

He took a good look at the rundown bar. “Ambiance? There’s a damn Knickerbocker Beer clock on the wall. They went out of business before most of your crazy customers were born.” He wasn’t off by much and Ruth knew it. The Knickerbocker brewery closed its doors in the seventies.  Robbie took a seat on the bar’s last empty stool. “How come you never did anything to fix this place up Ruth? You been here what, thirty years now?” The place didn’t just smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke; if you were old enough, the so-called ambiance could remind you of the Johnson administration.    

“Yep, next year it’ll be thirty. What’s your point?”  

“He doesn’t have one,” Nancy said. “He never does. He just came to lose his bet like he does every Sunday.”

The only thing Ruth changed when she bought the bar was its name. For twenty years it was called the Doubleheader Bar and Grill. In spite of people insisting the new name was too long, she changed it to The House That Ruth Built, a play on words that had a double meaning. The bar was only two blocks from Yankee Stadium.

“You ready Ruthie girl?” Robbie asked, a big smile on his face. The regulars stopped talking. They were in on the game if not the joke. What would it be this time?

“Shoot,” Ruth said, trying not to smile.

“Make me a Sidecar.”

Ruth took a step back. This was her favorite part of the game. She put her index finger to her lips and tapped. She made her eyes roll toward the dingy gray ceiling, deep in thought. “How much time do I have?” She asked.

“You always ask me that, Ruth. Same as every week. You got three minutes and you already used thirty seconds.” Robbie winked at the woman sitting on the stool next to him.  “Anybody want to make me a side bet? I stumped her good this time.” Everyone looked away. More than a few customers hung around every week to see this game play out. Ruth never lost to Robbie before. A Sidecar was an interesting choice though, a sophisticated drink. Only a few customers claimed to have even heard of it. Still, maybe he would stump her this time.   

After all, one of the rules of their little game was that Ruth had to have all of the drink’s ingredients either on the backbar, or in the well in front of her. She wasn’t allowed to look up a recipe of course, and she had to prepare the drink exactly the way the recipe called for. She couldn’t simply stir and pour for example, if the recipe called for the bartender to shake and strain.

Ruth picked up her bar towel and started twisting it. “Give up? Robbie asked?

“Hmm, it’s too quiet in here now. I can’t think when it’s so quiet. Make some noise, people.”

“Thirty-five seconds Ruth,” Robbie said.

“Stop, you’re making her nervous,” Nancy said.

Ruth put her towel down and straightened up, ready to go to work. She filled her cocktail shaker with ice. She handed Nancy a martini glass. “Put some sugar around the rim and cut me an orange peel, please.” She turned her back to the crowd and picked up a bottle of Cognac. “Pouring one and a half ounces. Then she picked up a bottle of Cointreau. “Adding three quarters of an ounce.”

She looked up at Robbie and he shrugged, already resigned to losing again. Ruth walked to the middle of the bar and picked up a lemon, which she cut in half and squeezed. “May not be exactly three quarters of an ounce, but close enough.” She placed another cocktail shaker over the one with the ingredients and shook the drink. Expertly, she separated the containers, grabbed a strainer and poured the Sidecar into the glass that Nancy was holding for her. With a flourish, she added the orange peel and placed the glass on the bar.    

“That will be $50 please.” The crowd applauded. The regular price of the drink was ten bucks. He shook his head and handed Ruth a fifty. As he usually did, Robbie let a few patrons taste his drink. Seven customers decided to try one.

When the bar closed, Ruth went to the kitchen and poured herself two fingers of Scotch. She was tired. Sundays were always busy. There was a knock on the back door. She opened it and he walked in. He took a sip of her drink.  

“Came to collect my fifty.”

“You mean forty. You drank that Sidecar, remember?”  

“Yeah, I did. I was thinking. How about a Negroni next week?”