“No,” said I; “a mint-julep.”
“Very well, I’ll mix you a julep that’ll set your teeth for you.”
“Thank you. Just what I want.”
The gentleman now placed side by side two glasses—tumblers of large size. Into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar—then a slice of lemon—ditto of orange—next a few sprigs of green mint—after that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large glass measure of cognac. This done, he lifted the glasses one in each hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice, brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air, and oscillating between the glasses. The tumblers themselves at no time approached nearer than two feet from each other! This adroitness, peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was evidently a source of professional pride. After some half-score of these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was then set down upon the counter.
There yet remained to be given the “finishing touch.” A thin slice of pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit. This held between the finger and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with an adroit sweep round the circumference.
“That’s the latest Orleans touch,” remarked the bar-keeper with a smile, as he completed the manoeuvre.
There was a double purpose in this little operation. The pine-apple not only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint, but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.
“The latest Orleans touch,” he repeated; “scientific style.”
I nodded my assent.
The julep was now “mixed”—which fact was made known to me by the glass being pushed a little nearer, across the marble surface of the counter.