Tag Archives: Drinking

Worst cocktails

Among my favorite posts concerned my favorite cocktail recipes. About ten years ago the Wall Street Journal published an article about sidecars, a wonderful cocktail that in 2008 was almost impossible to make without using a pre-fab mix. Well, the world has shifted on its axis. Even the most generic Courtyard Marriott employs a bartender who knows the rudiments of mixology I had no trouble casting a cold eye on the following:

1. Mimosas.

Sparkling wine and orange juice – what’s wrong, you’ll ask? Easy. How much orange juice can a person drink without reeling from acid reflux or requiring an insulin shot? How much champagne, prosecco, Cava, or whatever can a person drink without remembering the violent hangover awaiting? I understand the temptation, or, rather, the fear and guilt. To placate the suspicion that one shouldn’t Drink So Early in the Morning, the spirits are poured into a breakfast juice. If you’re going to drink, you’ve made a decision. Stick with it. You’re better off drinking a beer, or, better, a glass of wine.

2. The Lemon Drop.

Ordered by men and women afraid of alcohol and life. Because vodka, triple sec, lemon, and a wheelbarrow’s worth of sugar will ease their fears.

3. The Moscow Mule.

Sometime around 2014 I saw the invasion: three dozen copper mugs invading even the chicest of bars. A glass shortage, I thought. Vodka and ginger beer sounds delicious, perhaps refreshing on an early afternoon by the pool, but not a cocktail one orders with a robust sense of self-worth after 6 p.m. In addition, let me be clear: the two tastes clash.

4. Long Island Ice Tea.

Stop it – you’re not in college anymore.

5. Vodka Red Bull.

In South Florida, where the heat addles sentient people, a coke habit signifies accomplishment. Remember Luis Guzman’s bit in The Limey? If you can afford a drug like this, you buy a drug like this. Mortals stick to vodka Red Bull, a poisonous brew that apart from tasting like boiled asparagus toasted with mayonnaise and old Kraft single slices has a lovely habit of accelerating your metabolism as your heartbeat struggles to come down.

6. White Russian.

Cream is for coffee. I don’t drink dessert when I want a cocktail.

7. Amaretto sour.

In college, we ordered these because the Italian name created an aura of posh adventurism. Its consumers sounded as if they knew what they were talking about. Then we discovered its consumers liked a little nut in their citrus concoctions.

8. Daiquiris and piña coladas.

Excused in South Florida because it’s warm fifty-one weeks a year, but only if you order them poolside. Drive farther inland though and you’re asking for a beating.

Ten more things to hate with delight

Why not continue a list I can double and treble?

1. Self-empowerment
2. Salad dressings
3. Kanye defenders after 2010
4. Ernest Hemingway after 1926
5. Christoph Waltz
6. Rum and Coke
7. “I listen to everything except country”
8. Taking the elevator up/down one story if you don’t have a disability
9. Political reporters
10. Discussing an artist’s intentions

Ten things to hate with delight

Here are ten things for which I can find no rational defense.

1. Used coffee grounds
2. Baseball caps
3. Pancakes
4. Insisting on parking close to a building instead of under shade.
5. Mimosas
6. “Prior to” instead of “before.”
7. Cory Booker
8. Customers who glance worriedly at me for reading at a bar instead of thumbing my phone
9. “I want to get into reading.”
10. Drake

Irma, you are like a hurricane

Hello. Here’s what’s going on.

1. No gas station or market in Florida has water. This is due to an addiction to bottled water as powerful as to any opioid. A man in Coral Terrace may have to resort to the catastrophic and potentially life-threatening probability of filling plastic jugs with water from the tap or — hard times — the garden hose.

2. Gas stations, markets, and liquor stores, however, have plenty of wine. I don’t understand.

3. Local meteorologists have been less hysterical than drivers. I saw a Doral woman somersault into a Hess station after spying a half empty bottle of Pellegrino and a bag of pepperoni-flavored Combos a child had left on the counter.

4. It took an uncategorizable Category 5 storm to get me to check The Presidency of George H.W. Bush out of the library (Also reading: James Salter’s All That Is).

5. Otherwise I’m okay. Three days off before the storm. Accordion shutters. First floor apartment. No flood zone. Every storm creates rules by which we define future ones. Please send no prayers — only money and Jae Gyllenhaals.

The pleasures of drinking

A thread update on I Love Everything and the recent posting of the planet’s worst cocktails inspired this post. Alcohol forms an integral part of my life. I’m lucky I lack the alcoholism gene and am such a tight-ass. Oblivion doesn’t satisfy me – mild enhancement does. Plus, I love the taste of drinks. I’Il mix cocktails a couple times a week. Wine with dinner is as essential as a fork and napkin; it’s impossible not to have it, usually a couple glasses. When I eat out for lunch on Saturdays, I’ll order white wine or a cocktail. For dinner out, forget it: cocktails and wine.

Aging has fucked with my metabolism enough that I know when I’ve had enough; as a result hangovers are rare but formidable. I’m too much a creature of routine, too besotted with self-control, to pass my limits. I told a friend last week that these days when I drink with lunch and smoke a cigarette, I get sad – I have nothing to look forward to later in the day! This would infuriate Kinsgley Amis, an expert on slim perfect comic fiction and tippling. “If you want to behave better and feel better, the only absolutely certain method is drinking less, he once wrote. “But to find out how to do that, you will have to find a more expert expert than I shall ever be.”

This self-control manifests itself on occasions that demand a binge. I spent six days last week at Sanibel. Barring two glasses of white wine and, on the first day, a beer (more on this later), I drank no alcohol before 5 p.m. Again, if I’m drunk at 2 p.m. what is there to look forward to? Cookouts, Mother’s and Father’s Day parties, Saturday afternoon pool days at my place coax out the teetotaler in me.

Other notes:

(a) I’ve almost lost my taste for beer. Even on Sanibel trip, I drank a beer after a grueling hour kayaking because It’s What You Do. I was so bloated after half a pint that I poured it down the drain.

(b) Bringing a book to a bar in the middle of the day to have lunch and chatting with the bartender is one of the single lifes least accounted for pleasures. However, customers and some bartenders are inclined to give me suspicious glances when I read. As if staring and thumbing your phone wasn’t weird!