100% Real Juice: Shirley Temple

Finally, our 100% Real Juice actually involves Juice. Note that I’m not talking about Shirley Temple Black, the actress and United Nations Ambassador, but her namesake, Shirley Temple the drink.

Though it should carefully be noted that anyone within their right minds would aspire to achieve even half of what Shirley Temple Black has throughout her life, me included. Moving along, then.

Shirley Temple is a cocktail and a virgin to boot, meaning there’s no alcohol. The standard mix is parts ginger ale, orange juice and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry and orange slice. Many a bartender has played with the recipe since its birth though, and each new recipe is slightly different from the last.

I’ll never forget the first time I had a Shirley Temple. I was seven and having brunch at the country club, la-dee-dah. Brunch and country clubs for the seven-year old who was I wasn’t exactly the norm, no no, but more on the lines of our family getting a special invitation from Dad’s boss.

Mr. Harrington was a dashing British fellow in his 50’s, who always wore custom suits and was never short of breath mints. He had crisp blue eyes, perfectly behaved white-blonde hair parted to the left, and a way of charming women right off their slingbacks. Mr. Harrington always traveled with two things: the silver tipped cane he didn’t need, and Mrs. Harrington the second ,the model-turned-secretary-turned-mistress-turned-wife who was no less than 20 years his junior. It was heavily debated as to whether he really needed her, either.

This was all quite scandalous and thrilling for my sister and I, and we chattered excitedly about it for days on end. Just imagine, we would be having brunch in a country club with a British person who happened to be Dad’s boss, and a second wife with peroxide blonde hair. We could hardly wait.

It was much less thrilling but a lot more scandalous for our mother, who had to prepare a couple of mop top kids for this poo poo event. Two weeks, two new dresses, two haircuts, four shoes and endless etiquette lessons later, we were properly pruned, educated, and terrified of embarrassing ourselves and our parents. “And for crying loud (to this day moms says it, for crying loud), don’t say anything about swallowing your tooth!”

“Or where you saw it later,” Dad chipped in. I gulped, Oli snickered but faltered under the steely glare of our mother, and in we went.

It was magnificent. A huge, pastel ballroom with panoramic windows ornamented in creamy, gathered curtains that accented the glorious view of the green, green golf course. A string quartet played Beethoven to the sea of patrons in their diamonds, furs, Rolexes and tailored garb, as everyone politely nibbled their meals from heirloom flatware.

Oli and I had never seen such opulence in our lives. We were the children of immigrant parents striving to make it in a new world, after all, and our mouths dropped open in wonder and shock. A quick nudge from moms and our traps clapped shut again, just in time for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Harrington.

They waltzed toward us, having come in from a separate entrance, he in his tweed suit and she in her silver fox. A liveried gentleman hurried over to take their coats as all the grown ups gave their proper greetings and salutations. Then, the Harringtons turned to us kids.

“You must be Olivia,” said Mr. Harrington, as Mrs. Harrington made a big to-do with kissing my sister on both cheeks. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Oli replied as she’d been taught, coached incessantly by our mother at home: “It’s very nice to meet you too, Mr. Harrington. And Mrs. Harrington. You look lovely.”

Mr. Harrington then turned to me with a big smile on his face, and said, “The youngest of the family! Tell me, are you your father’s daughter, or your mother’s?

Uh oh. A trap. We hadn’t gone through this at home. I’d been all prepared with my, “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, I’m so very pleased to meet you. Thank you for inviting us today.” Everyone was staring at me, waiting for a response, and Mrs. Harrington was coming at me with her jingly jewellery and enormous breasts. “They’re both my parents, Mr. Harrington. At least that’s what they always tell me.”

The Harringtons burst out laughing, Oli looked down to giggle in peace without our mother noticing; Moms and Dad turned fifty shades of purple. And with that, we were led to our seats.

The table settings were as superb as the room; celadon green linens, then a smaller white tablecloth on top, Wedgwood china and about 835 forks that, thanks to Moms’ tutelage, I now knew how and when to use. No sooner were we seated, than a black tie waiter came over to take our order for drinks.

Mr. Harrington had a gin & tonic; Mrs. Harrington an olive martini, very dry. Dad ordered a scotch & soda and moms, white wine. Then, it was mine and Oli’s turn.

This part was supposed to be easy. Moms had drilled us on this at home, too: two drink maximum, in the form of 7-Up for Oli, and ginger ale for me. We were not to go for broke on Mr. Harrington’s tab, but ordering water was a no-no; we didn’t want to look needy. We were not permitted to drink Coke, thus 7-Up was perfect for 12-year old Oli, and ginger ale the perfect choice for me.

Oli ordered her soda and then the water looked at me. I asked for my ginger ale but was interrupted by Mr. Harrington. “Nonsense. She’s a lady, and needs a lady’s drink. Fetch her a Shirley Temple.”

Shirley Temple? Wasn’t that the kid in black and white singing and dancing around in The Little Princess, a movie Oli had taken me to see for free at the library last month? I was very confused by all this and started to ask Mr. Harrington about it, but a swift kick from my sister shut me up. I was left to stew with my thoughts while the adults made small talk and then, the waiter delivered everyone’s drinks and with them, my Shirley Temple.

I’d never seen anything like this before, much less tried such a colourful drink, complete with little paper parasol and plastic sword spearing an orange slice & maraschino cherry. I’d never even had a maraschino cherry. I stared at that drink, not touching it until Mr. Harrington lifted his glass with a, “Cheers, all!”

Moms had told us all about this and what to do so Oli and I lifted our glasses to clink along, as Mrs. Harrington squealed. “Look, they’re cheers-ing with us! Isn’t that just darling, darling?” My sister and I exchanged knowing looks and finally, we were able to try our drinks.

It was heaven in a glass, this Shirley Temple. It was fruity and tangy and delicious all at once, tasting like cherries and oranges with just the right touch of gingery, bubbly snap. Not too little, and not too much. Mr. Harrington was right. This was a lady’s drink, and as I sat there sipping my Shirley Temple, I felt very much the lady indeed.

Fast Forward: 25 years later, I’m at my cousin Seth’s wedding, hanging out at the bar drinking Bloody Caesars with Sandy. The bartender has been most generous with the vodka and hot spices so we’re happy and flushed, laughing at each others’ red lips.

My little cousin and flower girl for the night, Jinny, meanders up to the bar. Jinny is a very beautiful little girl and is even more so tonight in her white dress with chocolate brown sash, hair decorated with rhinestones and baby’s breath. She’s six-years old but will be seven in a few short weeks, and tonight, she’s at the bar to get herself a ginger ale.

This struck something in me, and I quickly halted her order. “Hey kiddo, would you mind if your Auntie got you something else to try? I promise it’s really good.” We may be cousins, but our huge age difference grants me the title of Auntie. Jinny nods, and I ask the bartender to whip up a Shirley Temple.

Carlos, the Costa Rican bartender of miracles, makes a very pretty drink in a highball glass, and adds a dash of pineapple juice for extra colour. I slide the drink over to Jinny, and she tiptoes up to the bar to get it, clasping the glass with both hands and taking her first sip through the red straw.

Jinny’s blue eyes widen as she looks up at me and her lips, still on the straw, curl into enough of a smile to betray her dimples. I know that look well, after all, I had one just like it at her age. “Oh, Auntie, this is so good. It’s…” and there she paused, lost for words.

“Positively ladylike?”

She smiles again and says, “Yeah!” then clasps her glass again, taking another sip.

How wonderful it is, to be young. How even more wonderful, when you are young, to find that first real taste of grownup in cherries, orange juice and a little paper umbrella. May it be as marvelous for every little girl, as it was for Jinny and I.

We left the bar then, Sandy with his arm around me, and Jinny with one hand in mine. The three of us and Shirley Temple head back to our table, our cheeks pink from vodka and first-ever kiddy cocktail giddiness, respectively. “Hey Jinny, want to hear a story?” I say.

“Okay.”

“It’s about a woman with big hair, big nails, and way too much gold jewellery that always makes noise when she walks.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Harrington the second.”

Jinny’s face scrunches up a little. “She sounds weird.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”