It’s that time in the afternoon. You’re looking at the clock, distracting yourself with this website.
The second hand on your reassuringly expensive Patek Phillipe is slowing to a crawl.
Each minute passes at the speed of three men dragging a massive concrete block with a rope. Progress is slow.
What’s to look forward to? Where’s the chink of sunlight? Where’s that pick-me-up coming from?
“Ain’t that just what they call a Pisco Sour in France,” intones a suited, bearded Samuel L Jackson who, in my head, is beside me at the bar.
His fearsome eyes, burn into me, stoked with the fuel of righteous indignation. He's suspicious and cynical.
But he needn’t worry. This isn’t a fast one being pulled.
Even jammed into what a marketeer might attempt to call a vibrant, buzzy bar space, this cocktail has a class beyond the unnecessary bling of its gold leaf garnish.
It makes the faintly sweating crowd of suits and dresses bearable and will, of course, be available for the foreseeable future.
A few more caresses on the tongue from its frothy egg-white lips and I’m almost ready to buy into the place.
Then some little dishes of tart, refreshing ceviche arrive and I’m convinced.
It might be busy, but you won’t regret booking a table.
Besides, if it all gets too much you can always go and play Uptown Narcissist in the well-mirrored toilets.