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He shrugs. “You’re dying to see what’s in there.”
“So are you.”
Curiosity wins, and I follow him into the establishment.
The scent of wood smoke, grilled fish, and aged spirits bombard my senses. The clatter of dishes competes with the hum of dozens of conversations.
Nautical memorabilia adorn the walls—old ship wheels, fishing nets, and framed photos of past fishing hauls. Half of the tables are occupied. Some patrons laugh and talk. Others sit quietly and eat. With the cruise ship in the port, this place should be packed with an energy that thrums the air.
Maybe it will fill up later.
I weave through the small crowd to catch up with Monty, careful not to bump into the servers balancing trays of drinks and plates of steaming food. He leads us to the bar, a long counter lined with high stools.
Heads turn. Women stop and stare. These aren’t the stares that people gave us on the streets. The gawking here is more intimate, direct, suggestive, climbing up and down my body, and lingering longer than polite. Unnerving.
Leo and I take the empty stools beside Monty at the bar. The bartender gives a friendly nod and continues mixing a cocktail. I watch, fascinated by the quick, expert movements, the clink of ice, and the splash of liquid in the glass.
“Three rounds of your handcrafted vodka.” Monty flicks a finger at the bartender.
Handcrafted vodka?
That explains the scent of fermenting corn. It also hints at why he brought us here.
This is more than a restaurant and bar.
It’s a distillery.
I shift uncomfortably, my gaze sweeping the room. Low lighting barely illuminates the space. Not in a cozy, intimate way. The mysterious nautical atmosphere comes off as forced and gimmicky.
The tables resemble barrels, making them awkward to sit around. Giant anchors, life preservers, and nets with plastic fish entangled plaster the walls.
The whole place feels like it’s trying too hard to embrace local pride and tradition. It’s a tourist trap that’s more interested in people’s money than their experience.
“If this was yours,” Monty says, “what would you change?”
“Everything.”
“Be specific.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“You start by knowing what you want.” His blue eyes burn into mine. “Then you fight like hell to get it.”
I give the bar another perusal, focusing on its patrons.
The women here don’t look like Frankie. Skimpy dresses drape their ample curves. Floral perfumes overpower the earthy scent of spirits. None of them have skin like porcelain, girlish bodies, or hair the color of sunlit rust and twilight embers that tumbles everywhere in wild rebellion.
Feminine faces stare back at me beneath unnecessary layers of paint on their eyes, cheeks, and lips. They drink and smile and toss their glossy, tamed hair while pretending not to watch us with interest that borders on desperation.
Leo soaks in the attention with intimidating confidence, his snarly scowl only making them lean forward and stare harder.
Monty sits at the bar as if we’re the only people in the building. I guess he’s used to the silent propositions and bold glances.
“I want a distillery that embodies the flavor of its vodka and tells a story of survival in the Arctic. Not a tourist attraction that shoves its theme down people’s throats with its overpriced alcohol.”
“Good answer.” Monty motions at the bartender. “Let Pilip know I’m here.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Novak.” The young, spindly man delivers our vodka and disappears through a side door.
