ITA|ENG
The scent of the night was always identical; anyone who works as a bartender like I do knows exactly what I mean. It was the usual journey, yet another since the start of my career. I had seen many cities and visited many nations during my eighty-seven years of life and, sitting behind that porthole, the world always appeared vast, while I felt smaller and smaller.
Many of my colleagues, who were older than me at the time, used to tell me about this moment: the instant when the past and everything you have done appear at your door, uninvited and when you least expect it. They force you to review every step, every person, every adventure, every mission… from the very beginning.
It was June 5, 1944. A younger “me,” little more than a boy, had only recently started this job. At that time, I was busy mixing the few spirits still traded in Italy during the Great War, under the stern and watchful eyes of Mr. Dario Comini, head bartender at the Nottingham Forest in Milan. It was an establishment highly regarded by the great liquor-producing dynasties of the era, noble families who were passionate about fine drinking and, of course, his cocktails.
Dario was a gentleman in his sixties, gray-haired, lean, very refined, and endowed with immense professionalism. His career was long, with hundreds of cocktails served all over the world, honoring the palates of royals, politicians, and common folk alike. His world, however, was strange. For about three years, I had been his assistant, and I often saw peculiar people approach the bar who, after ordering a Gibson, would command his total attention. They spoke in what seemed like code and gave instructions to Mr. Comini who, coincidentally, would go missing from the bar in the following days under the pretext of serving in some large city, promising to return within a few days.
That day, I was waiting for his return and, while serving a celebrated saffron-infused liqueur to a regular customer, a distinguished man with a familiar air sat at the bar and ordered a Gibson with two onions. I immediately noticed him take a letter from his jacket and hand it to me.
The writing was from Mr. Comini, explaining that the man sitting before me was a messenger, whom he vulgarly called “the Postman.” He was to introduce me to J-TISBA (Jerry Thomas International Security Bartenders Agency), a secret international government agency that recruited bartenders from around the globe for the sole purpose of safeguarding delicate international information, even at the cost of their lives.
The Postman looked at me and, lighting a cigarette, told me that Mr. Comini—aka Hiro—was their best agent. He had been killed in Paris by the Nazis in a firefight the previous night, while on his way to a state dinner where he was supposed to approach the French President to deliver an important message from the Americans.
I said nothing; I remained there staring at him in shock while drying Mr. Comini’s favorite glass gallon. The Postman continued his tale: he spoke of how the agency had been founded by the great pioneer of mixology, Jerry Thomas, in 1892 in the United States, in collaboration with ten allied governments. The purpose was obvious: the bartender has always been a figure who, with class and knowledge, charms and animates the night. By attending the most exclusive parties and serving both the powerful and the common man, the bartender—thanks to a drop of alcohol and the skill of listening—can approach anyone and discover the deepest secrets, becoming an architect of history itself.
The cigarette burned out, and so did the Gibson. The Postman stared at me and ate his second pickled onion which, seasoned by the cocktail, gave the one tasting it a sense of satisfaction and desire. He told me I had had a great master, but now I had to equal him as an agent.
I left for France the next day. My mission was to finish Hiro’s work and deliver the message to the French President during an event he had organized. The mission: to alert the Allies of the Normandy landings by American troops.
I almost forgot… that night, before leaving and after handing me the film roll for the mission, the Postman turned and said: “Mr. Diego, from tonight, you will be known to us as Cocktail Art… do not disappoint us.”
Diego Ferrari
“This story is entirely fictional… except for the parts that aren’t.”
Diego Ferrari 