Cosmo or Mango?

The really great thing about all the bars here is that they are smoke-free. State law, if I am not mistaken. There's something nostalgic to me about a heap of bar-stinky clothes that have been lying on the floor overnight. When you wake up to that distinctive aroma you know you had a good time the night before. I always wondered how anyone, smokers included, could bear working in that atmospheric environment. Which brings us to bartenders. Whenever I walk into a bar alone, something I still am not entirely comfortable with, I normally stake out a spot at the bar rather than at a table. This way I am able to mostly avoid unwanted eye contact, which for me often starts up a bizarre conversation with a complete stranger. I chat up the bartender instead. Which is fun and harmless. When you sit at the bar you have the opportunity to observe the mixology craft up close and personal. I am amazed at how many drinks there are and at the variety of stuff in the array of bottles behind the bar. Last night I was in downtown St. Cloud at the famed Red Carpet. They claim to have nine bars under one roof. When entering the establishment, I asked the nice young man at the door which bar was attended mostly by old people. He replied the martini bar, out the door I had just come in through, take a right and up the stairs. The old people, I observed, all appeared to be in their mid-thirties. I claimed my spot at the bar. Behind the bar a half dozen young women bustled about engaged in the business of making martinis. I was fascinated by the process. Icing the glasses. Shaking up as many as 10 various ingredients. Straining out the contents into the chilled glass. Sometimes pouring in one or two festively colored liquors along the side of the glass so they come to a swirling rest at the bottom, making the martini appear as a microcosm of a brewing storm front. And finally, garnishing with one edible bauble or another. As the waitress lined the martinis up around the perimeter of her tray, a veritable rainbow of potable potions, I felt sorry for the very plain Bud Light in the center of the tray. Like a guy in sweats surrounded by pretty girls in cotillion dresses. On one tray were two nearly identicle pink martinis. The waitress asked which was the cosmo and which was the mango. The bartender matched her eye level with the glasses and scowled slightly. She shrugged, grabbed a straw and dipped it in one of the glasses and transferred a drop of the liquid into her mouth. That's the mango, she declared, and plopped a skewered sliver of pineapple into the glass and the waitress whisked the tray away. I considered ordering my first martini but stuck to the wine instead. This time, just watching the process was entertaining enough.