I’m new to this whole bar thing, but due to some strange circumstances I’ve been having weekly trips to the local bar. I’m very interested in looking sophisticated and exotic, fairly interested in a good strong drink (I’m a girl, but at home I sip my vodka neat, so little grosses me out except the Campari orange juice I ordered once- blech!) and most definately interested in trying something new, but I don’t want to piss off the bartender too much by ordering something bizarre.
I’m not a big fan of whisky type things, but I’m cool with gin. I always appreciate seasonality, so a fall type drink would be good. But really it is all good.
So far my bar adventures have involved:
Tom Collins- yum, tastes like plants!
Gin and Tonic- Yum, tastes like fizzy plants!
Cosmopolitan- Blech, tastes like vomit.
Apple Martini- Yay, tastes like jolly ranchers!
Whisky Sour- Ewwww. Yuck.
Long Island Iced Tea- Yum. Ummm. Opps. Can’t walk straight.
Margaritas- Yum. Yum. Yum.
Tequila Sunrise- Better after a couple margaritas, but good.
White Russian- Yum, I feel like the Big Lebowski.
Last time, I ordered a Singapore Sling. The whole adventure went something like this:
“I want a Singapore Sling” I casually say to the bartender, trying to look as exotic and sophisticated as possible. He looks at me funny. Damn.
“Well, now, havn’t had that one for a while. I reckon I havn’t made one of those since nineteen ninty-two” He mutters as he starts pulling mysterious bottles out from the darker recesses of the bar. He holds them up to the light, turns them, sighs, and puts them back. He starts pulling out strange metal impliments, and opening drawers that give forth clouds of dust. The other patrons at the bar start looking impatiant as he matters and walks back and forth across the room. “Used to be a time when everybody would order Singapore Slings. I’d make fifteen, maybe twenty of them a night! Oh yes, the Singapore Sling. I ought to remember how to make them…”
Amazing. To think, there once was an unsung golden age of the Singapore Sling. And I’m treading on it’s nearly forgotten grave.
After a lot of controvery, a near fist fight with the other bartender, and a final consultation with “The Book”, the bartender pours some stuff, shakes some stuff, and hands me a tall red drink topped with a cherry. It tastes like Cherry Seven Up. He looks at me expectantly.
“It’s perfect!” I say, as if I’ve been slinging back Singapore Slings since I was twelve.
I’ve never had one in my life. I only ordered it to look cool.
So what is it tonight folks?