EASTERN STANDARD

By PINK LADY | PHOTOS: MATTHEW DEMERS

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The ladies of LUPEC are professionals: Nary a member bats an eyelash when I announce we'll be drinking five drinks before 5pm, and calling it journalism, but no one can get away from their pesky "real jobs" until later. Undeterred, I enlist the LUPEC staff photographer to accompany me. We enter the cavernous dining room at precisely noon, only to find unsuspecting businessmen quietly lunching.

Drink 1: Napoleon ($9). Bartender Nicole starts us off "nice and easy" with this, a Pimm's Cup variation made with Pimm's, lemonade and a touch of Sprite, garnished with cucumber. Matt and I extol the drink's sweet-tart, low-alcohol virtues as he snaps away. The flashing camera inspires a suit-clad patron beside us to strike up conversation. Fancy Brandy arrives in time to help me explain, "We are Ladies (and photographer) United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails, here on a writing assignment. What's your excuse for being three drinks in at noon?" Before the Napoleons are gone, we've acquired a mascot.

Drink 2: Booker's Manhattan ($11). The only other drinker in the bar is the Suit, making drink #2 his whim. His inner frat boy shines through when he orders, "Booker's Manhattan! That shit is like 125 proof—it'll fuck you up!" Fancy Brandy must return to work after this "client lunch" and opts for an ES Gin Flip ($10) main course—"For protein."

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Drink 3: Harvey Wallbanger ($9). Fancy Brandy bids us adieu and Pink Gin arrives in minutes. I implore her to help with the Manhattan. Two seats away, the Suit roars into his cellphone, "I'm drinking and hanging out with models, and it's awesome!" ("Writer! I am a writer!" I yell.) Nicole thusly pours our third drink, but the Galliano-fied screwdriver doesn't fulfill its badass promise—"Sherbet Cloud Pillow" would be a more appropriate nom de plume. The Suit's "friends" arrive to collect him and are decidedly unimpressed. We snap a group photo and accept his proffered digits. As they drag him out of the bar, the Suit promises to text from "wherever they end up."

Drink 4: Bijou ($10). The dust settles as Moscow Mule arrives, just in time for our esoteric cocktail: equal parts Plymouth gin, Green Chartreuse, orange bitters and sweet vermouth with a cherry garnish. It tastes nothing as I imagined, kind of like this day. Matt peers over my shoulder as I jot notes. "What does that even say?" he cries. I can't remember, which means I'm officially drunk. His phone buzzes. It's the Suit texting, "on drink 7, where r u?"

Drink 5: The Flight ($75). Our final choice is an assortment 2-ounce pours of 12 Prohibition-era cocktails. Apparently, I've also got an inner frat boy. I quell my urges and take a delicate sip of each shot before passing them to our latest addition, a frightfully sober Bourbon Belle. Three desserts arrive also, compliments of the ES staff, looking like deer in headlights as the pregame crowd pours in. Okay, time to go. Though I'm 12-flights to the wind, I still make it out the door without using my friends as crutches, unlike the Suit. Professionalism personified.