Seven & Seven in Seattle
A sunny day in the Northwest was a delight in February. I had packed all my waterproof gear and umbrella for a two-week stay in the city, which was unnecessary. I remembered Seattle differently than when I had visited 10 years ago. It was bustling and cosmopolitan. It had the feel that things were happening. I found the city to be walkable so I parked the Lincoln in the hotel-parking garage and took a jaunt to Louis Piano Bar; the type of place you would find in New York City. It was very old school with wood paneling and antique moldings. I took a seat on a sturdy wood stool, which swiveled. I was in the back of the restaurant at a small bar behind the grand piano. I said hello to the man sitting alone next to me and then flagged down the bartender.
“Welcome to Louis. Can I start you with a drink? I’m Roco and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.
“Hello Roco. I’m Cecil and you can start out my telling me if I smell?”
Rocco looked at me funny. “Excuse me sir.”
“I sat down next to that man who is sitting across the room. He moved immediately as if I stunk.”
Rocco laughed. “He comes in from time to time. He’s very serious and straightforward. He probably wanted to be alone with his thoughts.”
“Hmm, I’ll have whatever he’s having. It’s brown so I’m guessing it’s a scotch and Soda.”
“It’s a Seven & Seven to be exact. Really any whisky and lemon-lime soda.”
“Sounds what I’m in the mood for. Seven & Seven it is.”
Roco went to work on my drink. His back was to me as he faced the massive mirrored bar. The various liquors were lined up on tiered shelves. He put his hand around the brown bottle marked with a red foil “7”. One scoop of ice from the pewter ladle filled the highball glass. A quick pour of the brown liquor swirled around the ice. From the soda gun, he filled the remainder of the glass with 7-Up. Roco popped in a red drink stirrer. He laid it on a cocktail napkin as the pianist began to play.
“I’ve been watching that man at the end of the bar eat his chicken breast. It’s as if he’s dissecting the thing. He’s pulling the meat from the bone and using his utensils like they’re surgical tools. Ever notice that about him before.”
“No Cecil. When you work behind the bar you see all types and I guess I don’t notice much anymore.”
“I was reading the paper this morning about a surgeon at the University Medical Center. He’s world famous for his skills with the scalpel. He’s operating on brain tumors that most surgeons refuse to touch.” I paused to take a sip of my drink. “The man is young for someone so accomplished; late 30’s like the guy at the bar. I bet that’s him because the article says he’s a little peculiar. He graduated from med school when he was 22 and for as long as he can remember, he’s wanted to save lives. He’s treating his food like a brain. The guy has no off-button.”
“I doubt it Cecil. There are plenty of bars around the hospital. I don’t know why the guy would choose this place in the financial district.” Roco threw a peanut in his mouth.
“Maybe he likes getting away. He would be recognized around the hospital.”
Roco looked at me as if I needed to be in the hospital. Some people were more cynical than others were. I polished off my drink and turned to say goodbye to Roco. He was hunched over and choking on his peanut. I recognized him giving the universal choking signal. I looked to the end of the bar at the man I thought to be a doctor. He jumped into action as if he were a superhero. He dislodged the peanut from Roco’s throat, saving his life. The man returned to his spot at the bar and casually picked up his drink.
“Good thing I was right – eh Roco?” I winked and said goodbye.
The doctor looked in my direction; nodded his head and smiled.
