Gentlemen Defer Bonds

Avers Mr. Coldwell at the Royal Bar

I came out of the rain into the lobby of the Palace Hotel Tokyo. Stowed the umbrella, slicked my hair, and went through the single-door entrance of the Royal Bar. There, in his usual purple and brown velvet chair in the back corner, sat my go-to bond guy, Titus Coldwell.

As far as I can tell, he exists in only two places: here, or the Zentis Osaka. He’s a Palace Club member, loyal to the last Lalique 100 Points glass, and such men are known for their habits. At the Royal, he goes with a Spiegelau, the “class of glass.”

I can’t even convince him to join me in the sixth floor Lounge Bar Privé, where we could at least take in the skyline and Imperial Palace gardens. No, he likes his spaces confined, and he’s seen enough skylines. Backbars and bottles are his speed. The bottle tonight is a Tesseron cognac, which he once told me is “what an XO should be.” I don’t know enough about cigars to identify the unlit one pinched between his fingers, but it’s substantial. He uses it to wave me toward the chair opposite him.

“General American bond funds,” he says. I give an expectant look, awaiting further explanation. He adds, “Are you still using them?”

Of course I am, always will, and he says that’s precisely the problem with me, and the reason he summoned me tonight. He’s determined to rescue my readers and me from my bullheadedness.

Now, the dance begins.