A common parlor game, with the number often varying, is to ask: “If you could invite any three people, real or fictional, to dinner who would they be?”
The other evening, on a date night out with my much-better-half, I would have given most anything, even my delicious appetizer crab cakes, to have Sherlock Holmes, Lieutenant Columbo, and Nancy Drew pull up chairs for I unexpectedly found myself trying to solve The Case of The Mystery Glass of Whiskey.
“Thanks, but that’s not for me,” I told the waitress as she set down a tumbler filled with amber nectar. Gesturing at my pint glass, still nearly full with a tasty local craft brew, I added: “I think you have the wrong table.”
Smiling, she said someone had sent the drink to me.
“Who?” I asked.
Her smiled broadened, taking on a hint of mischievousness: “Sorry, I promised not to tell.”
“But I need to thank them,” I persisted.
“Too bad,” she said, her eyes dancing with delight to be part of the whodunit.
I scanned the restaurant but saw no one I recognized, albeit the mood lighting and too many backs of heads, which is all I saw of half the patrons, made identification rather difficult.
Naturally it would be rude to delay in sampling the gift, for surely the secret Samaritan was surreptitiously watching, so I raised the glass high with a “Sláinte” toast to my unkown benefactor and took a wonderful warm sip.
I am no whiskey connoisseur, although I have toured the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, Ireland – twice, including earlier this year – and if I had to guess I would have ventured it was indeed Jamo.
When, against all odds, the waitress confirmed my stab in the dark was correct, it was a valuable clue. You see, for a recent anniversary gift I gave some dear friends an Irish bottle of Jameson personalized with their names on the label. I looked around again, searching the room more thoroughly, certain I would spot them.
I did not. Surely they were hiding, laughing at my bafflement.
Alas, a quick series of exchanged texts with the husband convinced me that This Hound of the Baskerville was barking up the wrong tree and they were in fact not the playful culprits. By now my wife and I were amused to giggles trying to solve the mystery.
Out of the blue, an “Elementary, my dear Watson!” insight struck me. Yes, whiskey was the vital clue – but not Jameson specifically. Knowing next to nothing about whiskeys, I have more than once asked a close friend, whose blood has surely been aged in oak barrels, for his recommendations.
“Are you out for dinner tonight?” I texted him now, naming the restaurant.
Without delay my phone pinged. The reply was simply a dimly lit photo of my wife and me at our table. A moment later my friend sidled up to share a big laugh and two bigger hugs.
No whodunit was involved in a similar encounter a few days later, in a different restaurant, when my beloved dentist personally delivered a coastal microbrew to me, also with a smile and some shared words. Best of all, he didn’t add a shot of Novocaine to make it a boilermaker.
Between these boozy bookend encounters, at yet another local eatery, a friend in my wider circle dropped by my table to say hello, sans largesse libation. But here’s the important lesson: spirit, not spirits, is what truly matters, for her impromptu visit warmed my chest ever as much as a mystery whiskey.
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
