A Touch of Brass

The prism's ruby reflection had faded into dusk, leaving the cocktail cabinet resting in deep, warm shadows. I slipped up along the rosewood fretwork toward the tiered shelf where an antique brass cocktail strainer leaned against a cut-crystal shaker. A slender discarded olive pick, topped with a tarnished brass sphere, was trapped beneath the strainer's heavy coiled spring. With deliberate, unhurried poise, I braced both gloved hands against the coiled rim, levering the spring upward with steady leverage. The little brass spear broke free, rolling smoothly into the velvet-lined groove of the bar tray with a quiet metallic chime. A well-appointed bar should never keep its pieces tied down.