Mikasa Double Old Fashioned Glass Novels & Stories

"No. Those ain't them. The ones I carried were taller. With gold rims." "The supply list from the Elysium's bar for that night shows only short glasses were in use in the V.I.P. section. There were no tall glasses with gold rims anywhere in the building." He set his pen down, the soft click loud in the quiet room. "How do you explain that, Miss Costa?" "I can't. I know what I saw. I know what I carried."

Mikhail raised his eyebrows and Jeremy shrugged. "I had to take a detour...But," he raised his glass. "I am glad to be here... Hmm, this is good stuff," he nodded. "Well, of course, friend. Only the best for you," Mikhail smiled as he took a sip himself. "The liquor is best like my good friend, but the glass..." Jeremy cocked his head looking at the bottom of the glass. "...doesn't serve justice to the grandeur of the liquor" "You think so? I was going to finalize this brand of glassware for my bar," Mikhail stared at the glass. "It was the best among the others."

He reached for a bottle of Kurayoshi 18-Year he got as a gift from a Japanese diplomat. His bar was an arsenal of consequences with varieties like Absinthe from Prague, Navy-strength gin from Finland, A cask of pure agave from the hills of Oaxaca, which are enough to wreck a lightweight for a week. Most people would black out from half a glass, but he never did because his mind wouldn’t let him drown. The bar was his sanctuary for control where he reasserted discipline.

The label is turned away from me and there are several shot glasses on the table. “One-hundred-and-thirty-seven-proof rum,” Dean says, reaching for the bottle. “It’s, uh, interesting, that’s for sure.” “That sounds disgusting.” I laugh. Sam pulls out a chair for me and goes over to a cooler next to the grill, getting two bottles of water before coming back and sitting next to me. “Thanks,” I tell him and twist the cap off the water. “Want to try some?” Mason asks, picking up an empty shot glass.

The look on her face said enough. A few minutes later, the bartender appeared with a tray containing all the orders. Three crystal glasses, each one catching the low light. Louis XIII was in a glass that looked like it belonged in a museum. Amber liquid. Thick. Expensive. Mike reached out for his cup and downed everything in a second. One smooth motion. No wince. No cough. Like it was water. I held mine and stared at it for a second. The air seemed to shift, and somehow, he was the only person who wasn’t affected by any of this. By the price. By the past. By anything.

“Some of us aged out of fairy tales, you know.” His jaw moved and he reached under the bar slowly and when his hand returned, in it was a Maker’s Mark. He poured two glasses and a glass across the oak, stopping an inch from my knuckles. As I tried to pick it, our fingers brushed and the contact caused a ripple to rush through me like a loose spark plug. He on the other hand yanked his hand back as if I’d burned him. “You can drink it and ride out immediately after,” he said, voice flat. “We don’t need your kind here.”

Chapter 44: He Is Just Teasing You Baron Jasper came back about ten minutes later, holding a tray with two long cocktail glasses and a plate of crackers that he laid on the coffee table between us. The color of the cocktails is a beautiful light-blue which can only imply Curacao. “This is one of my favorite cocktails.” He said shyly. “I know it is not what you usually drink but can you give it a try? If you don't like it, I will get you your drink.”

“I’d like that.” The Gilded Owl was dim, cozy, and smelled of polished wood and citrus from the cocktail shakers. They slid into a high-backed booth in a shadowy corner. Daisy ordered two glasses of single malt Scotch, neat, without asking Sienna’s preference. Sienna, who usually drank white wine, found she didn’t mind.

"My beast already gave you a direct command. Return to your cushion and shut your jaws right now!!" "Zack..." "Noble lady, our Silverclaw Healing Lodge does indeed guard the '78 Sendevision and the '82 Consaice vintages within our deep mountain cellars, but our pack only possesses two sacred flagons of each left in existence." The moonhall server tilts his head toward Amy, his elite training keeping his expression perfectly smooth and empty of any true warmth. Then he turns his entire body to face my mat, and his posture shifts into a deep, respectful bow.

He drops a single, clear sphere of hand-carved ice into each glass, the frozen surface cracking with a sharp, melodic ping. With a steady hand, he pours the liquid over the ice. A dark amber liquid that smells of charred oak, vanilla, and a hint of something spicy swirl in the dim light, then he finishes it with a zest of scorched orange peel. With a flick of his wrist, he slides the first two glasses across the polished marble. They glide perfectly, stopping right in front of Matt and Troy as if they were guided by magnets. ‎‎"The lady’s special," the bartender places the third in front of Jessica, nodding before moving to the other end of the bar.