It was a time-honored rite of passage. The Shapiro men all had their first drink together at the Xavier Club. A snifter of fine, aged brandy to commemorate 21st birthdays and the official beginning of adulthood.
This night Trey, Harold Matthew Shapiro III, was being feted. His grandfather and father raised their glasses for the traditional toast.
Senior swirled the warm amber liquid in his glass, admiring the smooth legs slowly running down the sides. Junior, buried his nose in the balloon stemware, breathing in the rich, spicy aroma. Trey downed his snifter of fiery $200K-a-bottle Hennessy like a shot of cheap tequila.
The bottle service girl watched the trio with unconcealed amusement. Despite the air of aristocracy the Shapiro men exuded, she knew they were really no more sophisticated than the rednecks down at Gilley’s.
It was if she could see the cartoon balloons inflating over their heads each time she set up fresh drinks.
“Such a tokhes.”
“Look at that tush.”