Church of Liquor

East Side Company Bar

49 Essex St. (Grand St.), 212-614-7408

I was a late bloomer, at 12 years old a last-place finisher to sprout steel-wool hair.

"You haven't started yet?" my friend Jeremy said incredulously, like I was a Neanderthal not yet exposed to the wonders of ambulation. I'd shake my head and, night after night, train my dad's magnifying glass on my armpits, praying for a follicle to sprout like a spring iris. Months later-eureka!-I was hairy! Now what? Buy deodorant? Struggle with mood-swinging pheromones? At a tender age, I learned that good things don't always come to those who wait.

I hoped the same fate would not befall East Side Company Bar. East Side is co-owned by Sasha Petraske, the mixologist behind Milk & Honey, Eldridge Street's cultish speakeasy. It became famous for draconian rules (reservation required, phone number unlisted), rarefied ambiance and seductive cocktails. Laden with mashed fresh fruit and to-the-millimeter-perfect pours, Petraske's potions took center stage, not second fiddle to a round of pool. East Side was one of 2004's most anticipated bars, a more egalitarian Milk & Honey. Yet a rumored liquor-license snafu and jittery investors delayed the September opening. Several weeks ago, a reliable source called: "It's really, really open. Scout's honor."

So I rustle up several friends and trudge to the Lower, Lower East Side. Like Samuel L. Jackson's Pulp Fiction briefcase, East Side's door relents, releasing a golden glow. I part the curtains and glide inside. Curved silver tin ceilings and candlelit walls, along with red-leather banquettes, give the cozy, narrow corridor the look of a noir-era train caboose. It's large enough for, generously, 30 people. Tonight, couples murmur sweetly, while a handful of heel-wearing women say, "Oh, my god, can you believe her shoes?" Reggae dribbles from inconspicuous speakers at a level encouraging, not extinguishing, conversation.

"What can I make for you tonight?" asks a man with a gentle Irish brogue wearing a short-sleeve shirt. He gestures to his freshness rainbow-stainless silver bowls containing mint, sliced strawberries, kiwi and lime. A computer-printout menu lists about six drinks, such as a gin bramble, kiwi swizzle and concoctions of much lemon and mint. We select both bramble and swizzle. Like watching a pizza maker launchdough skyward, we stand, transfixed. The mixologist halves a kiwi with diamond-cutter precision and scoops the meat into a glass tumbler. Fruit meets pestle, creating baby food. Four seconds of liquor, along with unmarked liquids, accompany the kiwi, then crushed ice. A toothpick-thin spoon agitates the concoction, which is tasted with a red straw. Satisfied, we are slid our swizzle.

The bramble (most popular, says the bartender) is also painstakingly prepared. In goes crushed limes, gin and a "special juice mixture we make ourselves," the bartender says enigmatically, perhaps to curtail, and rightfully so, cocktail-idea theft.

Anyway, the damage: $8 apiece. Cheaper than M&H but still a hefty ransom, especially below Delancey Street. It's little surprise that the international currency lining the men's-room walls has started disappearing.

The true test takes place in our darkened corner. I sip my bramble and feel like a gangster luxuriating in summer 1941. The kiwi swizzle is a cruise drink for a health-obsessed lush, with the alcohol well hidden.

"I think I'm in love with the bramble," says my drinking companion, reaching for it. "Can I try it again?"

Of course not. At eight dollars, I'm hoarding. It is tug of war to retrain myself to savor. So I take my straw and poke my drink's veritable crushed iceberg. I have company.

All around, customers jab, poke and prod. Delay tactics? Hardly. The copious ice hampers spearing luscious hunks of fruit. A coal minercouldn't excavate our kiwi flesh.

One drink drained, I return for another. The menu has vanished. For uninformed gin-and-tonic drinkers like myself, this is like splintering a blind man's cane. "Just tell me what fruit and liquor you like, and I'll make it," says the bartender. I point at strawberries and vodka. A few minutes later, I find their marriage wince-worthy. Underwhelming sweetness, liquor overdose. Like supping at Masa and the experience being anything less than transformative.

This is the curse of expectations weighting each sip like judgmental lead. Yes, like M&H, East Side has created a discriminate environment where sipping these slow-food cocktails is to worship at the church of liquor. But religion, like booze, is often hit or miss, fluffed-up bluster or revelation. If you're a true believer, nothing I tell you will matter at all.