Greyhound in North Hampton MA
I wasn’t sure if I was more pleased to hit the NYS Thruway or was my ’63 Continental. I’d been hopping around upstate New York for a week as I made sales calls in towns, which included Peru, Herkimer, Malone and Utica. It was exhilarating to travel above 55 mph and it was good to open up the engine. I planned to cross the state line into Massachusetts at Pittsfield and end my journey in North Hampton (NoHo). A cocktail hung like a carrot on a stick at Frosty’s Bar, named for poet Robert Frost who taught in the neighboring town of Amherst. I pulled up to the building, which was under new ownership every years or two. I don’t think it ever changed owners and they just threw the sign up to attract new visitors.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Jerry was behind the bar as usual. “Cecil T. Wulfe, road warrior has made it back to New England.”
“What’s up friend? After a week in upstate New York, I need a drink bad. What are the professors at the corner table drinking? Looks like juice and something clear; I’ll have mine with an extra shot of whatever liquor is making them so happy.”
“They’re having simple greyhounds or vodka and grapefruit. You can add salt to the rim and make it a salty dog.”
“That depends on how long the salt’s been laying around.” I smiled and Jerry began mixing my salty dog.
Jerry had been at Frosty’s for 5-6 years, which meant that he wasn’t working his way through college unless he was taking his time. He picked up a highball glass and packed it with ice that he scooped up with a stainless shovel. The rim of the glass had been tapped on a wet sponge before it was dipped in a plate of course salt and spun around. Jerry picked up a bottle of well vodka, showed it to me, I shook my head and he picked one up from the top shelf. He eyeballed a generous pour that never touched the salt rim as it swirled down the ice. Over about three inches of vodka, Jerry poured fresh grapefruit juice from a pitcher. With a glass stirrer, Jerry mixed my drink and set it before me.
“Since when do you use fresh squeezed juice?”
“Keeping up with the Joneses. They squeeze fruit up the street and we’re trying it to see if it effects the bottom line. I personally think it’s a pain in the ass,” Jerry said as he pointed out the bucket filled with orange and grapefruit rinds. “How’d you know the guys over there are professors?”
“They’re drinking cocktails and I don’t think you have a happy hour special. When I went to school, I was lucky if I could afford a cheap draft. The bags they are carrying are leather when most of the students I knew carried nylon knapsacks from the discount store.”
“You never know Cecil; times have change since you collected your diploma. There are some pricey universities in the Pioneer Valley and maybe they’re just spoiled rich kids.”
“I’ll have another, no salt this time.” I said through puckered lips.
“I’m out of juice. Are you really going to make me squeeze a grapefruit?” Jerry asked.
“You bet. I want the full treatment.”
Jerry halved a grapefruit as if he was a samurai and placed one of the chucks on a metal dome that was part of the squeezing contraption. He placed a glass filled with ice and vodka under the spigot and pulled down a lever to extract the juice. It was quite the show and Jerry performed the task with graceful strength. A glass stirrer was jammed through the ice and Jerry finished my greyhound with flair. He presented it with élan.
“I hope you stick with the fresh juice. The show alone is worth it and you’ll develop your biceps if you keep this up.”
As I was complimenting my bartender friend Jerry, I noticed the table of professors or whatever they were, eavesdropping and smiling. One of them began approaching the bar. The woman in charge offered her hand to Jerry.
“Hi, I’m Jen Anderson and I represent the new ownership group of Frosty’s. We’ve been debating the fresh juice used here. The cost is a few cents more per drink but after watching you, we’ve decided to keep it going. The gentleman she gestured in my direction, “was the fifth customer today to order a second drink. It doesn’t hurt that watching you make a drink is like a night at the ballet. You impressed us; thanks for being our guinea pig.” Jen smiled and walked back to her table.
“I guess we were both wrong. They weren’t professors or students but your bosses. I’m heading out and I’ll see you next time work brings me back to western Massachusetts.” I said as I left Jerry a generous tip.
