Bryant Park Grill: 9.0

Because I lost my monthly train pass/Metrocard ticket mid-way through June resulting in an extra $160 in commuting costs on top of the $240 I already had spent, I forced myself to walk everywhere; not quite punishment, since I generally walk everywhere anyway, for the exercise. Except when it's 97 degrees and my destination is three-and-a-half miles away, the exercise definitely takes on punitive overtones.

My blue silk blouse was beginning to show small, darkened areas of perspiration across my chest after one block, but I needn't have worried; by the time I got to the Bryant Park Grill for a dinner date with my former boss Christine, the entire blouse was so sweat-soaked that it was all one color. I didn't have an elastic band to get my hair off my neck and tried to improvise something with the emergency dental floss in my messenger bag, but I couldn't make it work. My red face was I'm sure giving off steam. It was at the moment that I was frantically yet futilely trying to truss up my soaking wet mop in an effort to not spontaneously combust that a waiter walked over and asked me if I'd like to order something to drink.

Well yes. A pitcher of water and a cosmopolitan, made with gin. He didn't ask what kind of gin, and at that point I didn't care.

The water came first, and I drank four glasses in immediate succession. Then came the cosmo, and it was absolutely delicious. I could tell by the color (not too dark, the exact right shade of pink that it should be) that it was going to be a good one. The last few sips were not as good as the first, since the blazing heat took the chill off the drink in no time, but I can’t hold the bartender responsible for that.

The reason I didn't give it a perfect ten is that there was no garnish at all, plus it lost a few fractions of a point for the mouse or rat (I prefer to think it was a mouse) that was crawling up the wall behind us once it got dark out. Which is also not the bartender’s fault, but somebody’s gotta pay.