My old college buddy James showed up with a grocery bag full of those little travel bottles of vodka. I was on a forced writing holiday – five days away from my thankless, low-paying day job to focus on the Greatsociety book I was foolishly going to flog for the tenth anniversary. I’d spent four of the five days up at all hours cooking everything from rhubarb pie to homemade English muffins to difficult Portuguese stews.
By the time Monday morning rolled around, I was a little out of my mind. At 7am, when James hammered on the door, I’d been up all night. I’d whipped up some Scottish oatcakes and had moved on to experimental sauces and exotic desserts that involved torches and fire extinguishers. My freezer was full, and I was quietly debating searching for a President’s Day sale on a deep freeze.
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44, part eight (conclusion)
Nixon was easy. We could go anywhere, really, but James had been talking about the 600 at Watergate South, which wasn’t really the sort of place where we belonged…but they had a full bar. We somehow managed to get in and get a drink, but it was clear that our time was limited, so it was just quick shots of bourbon for the three of us, giggling at the black tie and gown folks, talking in funny voices to the waiter and manager as we were herded back outside, and then onto the street with a shot of Nixon warming our bellies.
Continue reading ’44, part eight (conclusion)’