Spring rain and JB on beige chinos. Leggy millennials squawk in the disco lit windows. I am young in face and old in dissatisfaction. My amaretto sour served without egg whites, too much orange rind is always a problem. I suck the cherry and try and tie the stem with my tongue – I was never that kind of woman. Waiting for my lover in the corner under the heater and birdcaged bare bulbs, the bar is honey-thick with noise and that lawyer from Market St with a name like Ryan or Brian or Sean or Cheyne, is drunk (constantly), and he’s punching above his weight again with the blonde in the middle, always the blondes. He thinks blonde equals gullible but she crosses her legs at him. I’ve bitten my tongue more than once on the topic of his 90’s spiked hair – frosted tips. He quotes Bruce Lee incorrectly and adds his spin on the severity of climate change and I want to mock his hair and correct him but he’d recognise me and then where would we be? Spring rain and beige chinos. Or the last thing we spoke of before the rape joke and the spilled drink and all that mistaken identity business, so I hide in this swamp of crocodiles and parrots, until your arms come and lift me in a hug. He looks with something like recognition, turns, and tells the one about the Jew and the German.
Down at Bar 52
You don’t want to hear it.
Quaint women’s things
lotioned into the air
vanilla perfume emanating
declaring her woman-ness
god that’s dull
but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat
the moment’s there
Shhh her opinion
Shhh her telephone number
just get down to it, a hate-fuck
so much it nearly asphyxiates you
a rock star way to go
that stupid mustache
screaming microphone feedback
is distilled into one sentence
“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.
Freudian Friday meets end-o-week drinks.
Let’s make an innocent little gin get dirty. It’s Friday morning and we’ve got the whole day to suffer through before we can get our dranks on. So
lets get masochistic and relieve our ennui – by daydreaming cocktail hour because I’m just fucking neurotic like that. So pull up a wobbly wooden stool in some pompous bar surrounded by eclectic hipster knickknacks, overpriced finger food, & that one staff member who always looks like they just hate the living shit out of humanity missed the bus in the rain. Cross your ankles and thoughtfully stroke your facial hair and let’s have one innocent little drink, one might even say that we deserve one because life is cruel and makes us work for a living. So suck this for an ennui remedy – The Dirty Ginger Gimlet.
Dirty Ginger Gimlet – you will need:
A highball glass packed with ice.
10-20ml Bickford’s Lime Juice Cordial (depending on how sweet you want it)
10ml Lime Juice
30ml of Dry Ginger Ale
A dash of White Wine (whatever you have on hand – in my case Sauvignon Blanc)
no it’s not – stay classy motherfuckers: A slice of lime to serve.
Grab your highball, fill it with ice and let’s build some adultery.
First the Cordial.
Then the lime juice. Traditionally a Gin gimlet ingredient.
Then your gin. I use Tanqueray because
I’m a gin snob it’s magnificent.
Then the dry ginger ale. Traditionally the main ingredient in a Gin Buck.
Then the White Wine (that’s what makes it all so dirty
because wine tastes like shit)
Give it a stir and you’ve got yourself alcohol’s answer to a love child – a Dirty Ginger Gimlet.
Now that you’ve
taken a bunch of pictures of liquids imagined yourself awkwardly drinking at home alone on a Thursday night while you blog about affairs between alcoholic beverages sipping the bastard,
put shit away/ get back to work marvel at its makers.
and imagine yourself hypothetically maybe not having any wine stoppers, causing you to do something
impractical classy like make your own out of aluminum foil an appropriate medium.
Or alternatively you could snap out of your psychosis just in time to learn a bunch of
real traditional cocktail recipes (including the traditional Gin Buck and Gin Gimlet) from Monotone Josh and the amazing peeps at About.com