Sometimes you go into a review nursing a hangover. The type of hangover that, after thirty, you go out of your way to avoid. At this point in life you will actively say no to fun in anticipation of the blinding, dizzying, nauseating mental and physical impairment the next day will bring. The kind of hangover that turns every sound and light into something like ground up glass being slowly rubbed into your brain.
Except sometimes you will go for a couple of after-work drinks with a colleague and the bartender will buy your first happy hour priced double g&t because you alerted him to the fact that there is a woman propped against the door of the bar, pissing in the courtyard. And then because of the pissing incident, the garage-style door will remain open, letting in the unusually warm March evening air and filling you with nostalgia for nights like this you've spent in this very same bar over the years with some very good friends -- some of whom you don't see anymore (for various reasons) -- discussing all the important and strange details of your lives.
So later when your best friend (who you still see regularly) shows up at your house unexpectedly after the gym, and you've each purchased a bottle of cheap wine, you are primed for a night of backsliding into carefree behavior. You will each drink your respective bottles of wine while discussing careers (are we happy?), relationships (too soon to send the "how are you doing?" message?), music, and of course, Knowing One's Self.
And later still when your roommate comes home and suggests it's time to open up the giant bottle of duty-free Malibu rum your other roommate (MIA) brought home from the states, you will nod enthusiastically while singing along to Fleetwood Mac and simultaneously encouraging your best friend to practice her stage moves for the upcoming shows her cover band (which your roommate plays guitar in) will be playing soon. Then you will realize it is 4 am.
"Sometimes self control takes a long weekend," my friend F texted me recently.
So this is the type, or the exact, hangover I was dealing with when I arrived at Felicita's, loopy with joy at the end of the work week.
My colleague (and co-reviewer for this post) was suffering a hangover as well of the "my hockey team won our league championship" variety. Though, if I'm honest, since he is still under thirty I am skeptical that his pain equalled mine. We'll never know.
I ordered a tequila Caesar and he ordered a gin Caesar. We sat in silence for the first couple of sips. Then he started talking and when I registered that it was about the drink I found a pen and the back of an old envelope to jot down his thoughts.
"Very middle of the road," he mused. "Not the best, but not the worst. It satisfies my hangover."
A few more sips and then some commentary on his garnish. "A single bean is a sad output. It needs more crunch."
He had more thoughts on his cocktail than the one line I'd written about my drink. "It tastes mostly like tequila and Tabasco."
Either way it helped the hangover.
Six proclamations of "I'm never drinking again!" out of ten.
Except sometimes you will go for a couple of after-work drinks with a colleague and the bartender will buy your first happy hour priced double g&t because you alerted him to the fact that there is a woman propped against the door of the bar, pissing in the courtyard. And then because of the pissing incident, the garage-style door will remain open, letting in the unusually warm March evening air and filling you with nostalgia for nights like this you've spent in this very same bar over the years with some very good friends -- some of whom you don't see anymore (for various reasons) -- discussing all the important and strange details of your lives.
So later when your best friend (who you still see regularly) shows up at your house unexpectedly after the gym, and you've each purchased a bottle of cheap wine, you are primed for a night of backsliding into carefree behavior. You will each drink your respective bottles of wine while discussing careers (are we happy?), relationships (too soon to send the "how are you doing?" message?), music, and of course, Knowing One's Self.
And later still when your roommate comes home and suggests it's time to open up the giant bottle of duty-free Malibu rum your other roommate (MIA) brought home from the states, you will nod enthusiastically while singing along to Fleetwood Mac and simultaneously encouraging your best friend to practice her stage moves for the upcoming shows her cover band (which your roommate plays guitar in) will be playing soon. Then you will realize it is 4 am.
"Sometimes self control takes a long weekend," my friend F texted me recently.
So this is the type, or the exact, hangover I was dealing with when I arrived at Felicita's, loopy with joy at the end of the work week.
My colleague (and co-reviewer for this post) was suffering a hangover as well of the "my hockey team won our league championship" variety. Though, if I'm honest, since he is still under thirty I am skeptical that his pain equalled mine. We'll never know.
I ordered a tequila Caesar and he ordered a gin Caesar. We sat in silence for the first couple of sips. Then he started talking and when I registered that it was about the drink I found a pen and the back of an old envelope to jot down his thoughts.
"Very middle of the road," he mused. "Not the best, but not the worst. It satisfies my hangover."
A few more sips and then some commentary on his garnish. "A single bean is a sad output. It needs more crunch."
He had more thoughts on his cocktail than the one line I'd written about my drink. "It tastes mostly like tequila and Tabasco."
Either way it helped the hangover.
Six proclamations of "I'm never drinking again!" out of ten.