Shaken, not stirred: how the famous detective in various movies says he prefers his cocktail. Long drink of spirits distilled preferably from grain and not potatoes; very strong, very cold. Lemon peel, no olive; and named, presumably, after the female character in "Casino Royale." Some connoisseurs think stirring, not shaking, keeps the mixed drink clear and transparent, unclouded by the agitations of the hand or heart. But growing up, all I knew of vespers was a service of evening prayers, part of what's called the Liturgy of the Hours. Think of these lines from Genesis spoken in the rich baritone of some kind of omniscient narrator, who might or might not be wearing a tuxedo: And there was evening and there was morning, the first day— which means the first day actually began at dusk instead of at zero hundred hours, or twenty-four hundred hours in military time. Which means an hour still very dark, an overpowering dark that might be the Spanish mystic San Juan de la Cruz's dark night of the soul, festooned with all your favorite phantoms. In the throes of this dark, you might want one or two stiff drinks, since there aren't any vegetables on hand to roast and turn into Kate Christensen's "Dark Night of the Soul Soup" from her memoir Blue Plate Special. Even if you didn't know the words to any formal prayer, you might wring your hands then, tear your hair, wail with anguish from whatever pit of abandonment and despair into which you've been thrown—But aren't these prayers in their own right: entreaty and supplication, ways of saying Please, no more; not at the hour of my death nor even now, so please stop? When he's offered another drink after losing all that money at the poker table, the debonair detective says he doesn't give a damn; the day seems over. Or night is about to begin.