Tipsy

Paradiso

by Jay

So there we were, in Ricardo’s Jeep, with a head carved out of coconut wedged onto the dashboard and grinning wildly at us as we bounced along the dirt roads somewhere deep in Nayarit  , Mexico. My ankle stung from my freshly-inked tattoo, and my body ached from the antics of the night before. My roommate and partner-in-crime Patricia seemed fine.

And then the road stopped.

“Ready?” Ricardo asked. “For what?” I didn’t know what we were about to do. “Wrong answer!” he shouted and we dove right into the chunky dirt. I was almost knocked out of my seat. “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked, thinking I probably should’ve asked that before we’d even left Vallarta. “Well, we were here last week… hopefully we can find it again…” Bruce noted. He already had an open beer in his hand. It wasn’t even ten o'clock.

“What kinda shoes you got on?” Ricardo asked. He looked at my thin sandals with disdain. “They’ll have to do. Everyone out.”

It did occur to me that this might in fact be the end. Having just met Ricardo and Bruce the week before in Vallarta, I had no way of knowing if all of the niceness was just a ploy to earn my trust for when they would sell me. A dirty, tattooed, and hungover me surely wouldn’t fetch as much as I would’ve the previous week, but being young and white was enough.

We trudged along behind Ricardo, who did indeed seem to know where he was going. Bruce brought up the rear with a case of beer under his arm. We came to a river and had to wade through it – hence Ricardo’s disdain of my sandals – but he helped me keep steady on the rocky bed. We ambled up the other side and came to what looked like a mudpit. Patricia and I stared at each other as the guys dug in with spades. Within minutes, there was, miraculously, a hot spring.

We all stripped down to our skivvies and eased in. It was hot, which may be obvious, but I’d never been in a hot spring before. The four of us settled in slowly, my ankle stinging in pain from the fresh needle marks. Ricardo looked at my wincing and told me it would heal all the faster because of the minerals. A week later, his prophecy proved correct.

The heat got to me and Bruce so we got out and jumped back into the ice cold river. I floated on my back, looking up at the flawless blue sky and wondering how I ended up here. Ricardo watched us throwing water at each other and belly flopped next to me. We got out to dry off and lay in the sun to tan for a while. Bruce gave me a beer and I finally gave in to my destiny. Patricia was still in the hot spring, so Ricardo would whistle periodically to make sure she hadn’t passed out.

We suddenly heard a loud engine revving in the distance. Out of nowhere, a Jeep painted like a watermelon came crashing along the riverbank. Four teenagers were screeching with pleasure as they bounced along the dusty bed. They drove in wild circles, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Jeep repositioned itself straight at us. I sat up, watching, getting a little nervous that they would run us over. Of course, the river was between us, but they seemed bent on driving through it. And suddenly, the Jeep lurched forth, flew in the air, and immediately got stuck in the river. The kids burst out laughing.

We watched as they tried to pry it out, but nothing worked. They pushed from the front and then from the back, but it didn’t budge. Bruce got up to help them. “Fuck that,” said Ricardo. “That’s the price of stupidity.” I thought it was sweet of Bruce to help them. He found a huge branch that he fashioned as a lever to lift the Jeep a bit. They shoved it just enough to get it moving again, and the kids hopped in and drove away in the direction from which they’d come. Bruce walked back up the bank and sprawled out on his towel next to me, both of us laughing at the prospect of getting run over by a giant watermelon.

I drifted in and out of sleep a little bit, feeling the sun bear down on my skin, feeling my youth, feeling alive. Ricardo looked at me and smiled and said “Yep, kid. Just another shitty day in paradise.”

Merlin's Magic

I know, I know - it was a sad day indeed when Merlin's closed its doors here in Buffalo. Where else could one go to have one's feet stick to the floor? Where else could one get Blue in a plastic cup? Where, other than the other dives that is?

Welp, don't hold yer breathe for a crap bar to move in; instead, a high end Belgian beer bar called The Blue Monk is in the works.

Say... wha...? What's next? A frites shoppe?

Happy to be Green with Ya!

 
 

by Prichinna

Every year I have every intention of attending the Montauk St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Yet somehow, the previous night’s activities eat up those intentions and impede me from taking the 1 hour and 45 minute train ride out east early on a Sunday morning. As I set my alarm Saturday night (technically Sunday morning), it told me I only had 4 hours and 12 minutes to sleep, I almost backed out again.

People have been traveling to the tip of the south fork for 48 years to participate in New York State’s 2^nd largest St. Patrick’s Day parade. The Montauk Friend’s of Erin Parade draws up to 45,000 people a year and has about 90 entrants, varying from fire departments, floats, and performing acts. I quickly learned that my friend Jess lives for this day. It has become bigger than Christmas for her and she takes this day to the next level. Costume and all, Jess becomes Miss St. Patty herself.  I also learned that rarely does one survives a parade day with the lass, let alone return for a round two. I had a mission because I was Jess’s ‘this-year-girl’.

We started the morning by smuggling a six-pack of tall boys onto the train. There are 364 days a year that you can drink on the LIRR, but this particular day happens to be excluded. There were cops all over the platform, and I am not sure how Jess’s green hair didn’t make us a target for a bag search. Nevertheless, we made it onto the train and started our St. Patty’s day journey. We pre-gamed a bit with our stash and enjoyed the ride out east. After being herded off the car and corralled like cattle out of the station, we made our way to the first stop, The Old Harbour House.  Here we were attired with green beads and some sparkly green top hats by a friendly bartender. The bar was open and airy with Blue Moon on tap, yum. With an outdoor patio and bar, it looks like a great place to return to in the summer.

After a few beers and bathroom breaks, we realized the parade was underway. We were near the end of the queue and we walked along the route to make our way into town. The next thing I knew, we were in the parade. Jess’s brother and his girlfriend hitched a ride on the wide chrome bumper of a fire truck. I walked arm-in-arm with Miss St. Patty herself as she did the Ms. America wave. The cameras snapped and the crowd ate her up. We had just had our 15 minutes of fame in Montauk. We quickly dipped out when we saw a row of porta-potties and moved onto stop #2, appropriately named The Trail’s End.

The Trail’s End was a bit smaller and darker than the first bar and had no Blue Moon. The bartender tried to pass off a rum and diet for a vodka and diet to a friend, but made good on his mistake.  The name of stop #3 was fuzzy by this point and someone put a can of Coor’s light in my hand. Done. Food was soon in order and Village Pizza was delicious. The service was quick and the pizza was hot. The last stop was Memory Motel. This was more like a club and even had a $5 cover. It was dark and loud and there were at least two fights in our short time there. When we emerged back out into the warm sunlight, most of the crowd had cleared, leaving the sidewalks full of plastic cups and other litter. Some drunks stumbled about the streets and it was clear it was time to head back to the station. No fancy walk for us this time, just a somber cab ride back to the mayhem of the 5:33 train. Oh yeah, you don’t want to miss the train out. There is not another one out until 1 a.m. and I can only imagine how many get stuck there, or rather, how many people Montauk gets stuck with.

Will I be Jess’s next year girl? Hell yeah! But next year, look for Miss and Ms. St. Patty. I am ordering a green wig right now.

  
 

This event was S.W.A.K. worthy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Johnny Lager's Cocktail Hour

Belated Washington's Birthday Edition. As always, a story and a cocktail recipe.

As the first stirrings of spring are in the air and the snow melts from the meadows, we are reminded that there is work to do. We must renew our vigor and resolve. But, it's still cold and dreary! What shall we do?

Well, pull up an old timey tavern chair and sit with ol' Johnny Lager by the fire, I've a tail to tell, and a hell of a   cocktail with which to wake you from winter's spell.

The Father of Our Nation

By 1775, the American colonies were sick and tired of England's bull crap and went looking for a bad-ass to square things with the Brits. Willing to do his share, Washington, a militia leader, was appointed commander-in-chief of the American revolutionary forces. By 1783, he and his scrappy 13 colonies (plus France, but whatevs) pushed the British Empire out of their land. To learn more, watch Braveheart, pretend Mel Gibson is George Washington, and turn it off before Mel is betrayed. Oh, and Patrick McGoohan didn't kill Washington's wife.

At the end of revolutionary war, the defeated King George III, asked what Washington would do. When he learned that Washington wanted to return to his farm; King George III said, "If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world." Washington indeed returned to private life on his (ahem) hemp plantation and thus was (retroactively) declared the "greatest man in the world," by his enemy. Process that. My mom doesn't think that highly of me.

Thankfully Washington returned to duty, presiding over the drafting of the Constitution, becoming the (more or less) First President of the United States and avoiding further wars with England and France. And he did it all while wearing a jaunty powdered wig. With wooden teeth. Washington had the wooden teeth, not the wig.

The Otherside

Which brings me, of course, to modern day Boston. It was here that I first tried the cocktail that could only be named for the man who delivered us from the sinister English, and single-handedly co-founded this nation. Fittingly, I discovered it in the fiercely independent Otherside Café, hidden on the west-most block of Newbury St. This undeniably American establishment has a three-fold charm; 1) it is staffed by hip, friendly bicycle messengers, who are known for their ironically relaxed service - I have never gotten a spoon with my coffee. 2) Their gourmet panini, wraps and other fair are far better than the status quo. 3) They serve kick-awesome beers all the ding-dang day long and well into the night. Fortunately, one of the managers is an old friend, so my enthusiasm for Charm #3 (read: voracious consumption of curiously high proof lager) is tolerated. Anyway, on a cold, wet day like this one, stop in and order...

The George Washington:

1 Pint Guinness

1 demitasse espresso

The Prep:

You will need a 20 oz. imperial pint glass, a Guinness tall-boy and some espresso. Although I am a famous can-hater, use the tall-boys, they are close to a pint.

Some people like to brew their own espresso, and I salute them. They are the vigorous, can-do types that make our land great. But the how to's are a bit dicey, so I will not cover that here. Stop at a café and buy a few shots of espresso, you'll probably want the espresso to cool down anyway.

The Build:

1) Open a chilled Guinness tall-boy. Warm ones explode.

1) Pour the Guinness into the pint glass.

2) Pour the espresso into that very same pint glass.

3) Enjoy.

The Experience:

Like it's namesake, The George Washington is unexpectedly bold, smooth, purposeful and honest. I'm getting a little teary over here. It's flavor starts with the familiar, pleasant taste of Guinness. As you continue, it darkens into the rich coffee without tipping past its base component. The finish mellows back to the creamy, extra-stout, but leaves a sweetened coffee aftertaste. But enough of that foofery! Here's a cocktail that rolls up your sleeves and loosens your tie. Here's a cocktail that gets shit done!

Thank you, George Washington, for so much.

Ties on, Bottoms up!