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Guest post by the PhoBlograpHusband
Seriously, summer!?! Three days of suck-it-Trebeck humidity and thunderstorms, capped off by a 67-degree Friday and foggy in the middle of the day, that’s your idea of a grand entrance? Rose and and I have been looking forward to debuting these fantastic-for-summer, mouthwatering concoctions for months and this is what you give us?
(Yes, we’re bitching about the weather two days in a row, but it has really sucked…)
So long as you allow me a half-hour of relative sunlight on Saturday mornings so I can hit the farmer’s market in peace, I won’t let you spoil my fun. The Strawberry-Basil-Grappa Thing is perhaps the perfect seasonal cocktail for the first week of summer, when farmer’s-market strawberries and basil are at their ripest and most abundant.
Folks, I couldn’t care less that it’s St. Patrick’s Day — and as you’re all
high-functioning alcoholics experienced drinkers like me, I know you feel the same way. It’s amateur night out there, and we’re all contentedly holed up in our respective abodes, our home bars pressed into service.
‘Tis nothing wrong, of course, with tipping a glass towards the Irish in mature fashion. And as we’re cocktailers first and foremost, the glass to tip is a Pilsner, in which you’ve crafted the World’s Greatest Shandygaff.
If you want to drink at Death & Company, you talk to the guy standing outside with the pad and pen. In winter, he’ll be the one donning a puffy coat as big as a monster-truck tire. You give him your name, your cell’s digits and the number of people in your party — a number which should always be exactly two. (Seven’s the max, but take a moment to picture seven liquored friends trying to divvy up a tab of several $13 cocktails.)
He’ll then instruct you to go somewhere else (try Tile Bar or the McDonald’s on the corner) until you get a call from him that your table’s ready. This is when you kindly inform him that you’d actually prefer seats at the bar. This is how you will insure having the time of your life at Death & Co. — and getting your money’s worth.
Upholding my week-long commitment to exploring the far reaches of Alexandria, today I find myself a bit of a stranger in a strange land — that land being Tequilaville.
I have never cottoned to tequila, and I’ve never felt like I’ve missed out on much as a consequence, except perhaps further burdening my trove of already-embarrassing-enough drunken tales/tally of inexplicable scars (two; one just south of my lower lip, the other craggy across the top of one foot). If bourbon tastes like adult fun, then tequila tastes like legal troubles. It’s antagonistic-tasting. It’s too in-my-face, and even when I’m doing nothing more innocent than enjoying a margarita, I often believe that tequila’s devilish essence is asseverating itself from beneath its blanket of lime, sugar and salt, rather than just commingling nicey-nice in the glass like a base liquor is supposed to.