It was surprisingly difficult to schedule a day to spend drinking with my friend Diego. Surprising because drinking is kind of what we do when we hang out. Drinking, eating, bitching, and mining a pure inner-anger and bitter rage. It has always been a very rewarding use of time, so we do it at least once a week. Drinking with the guys on a Thursday is something I would recommend to anyone. However, the drinking day I had been looking for needed to be something all-together different than our usual meet-n-chug, it needed to be defining. It was worth the wait.
We had decided that last Saturday would be the day. There were some known complications: chores, other friends, spouses, food, and a movie for which we already had tickets. The thought was to meet up at my place around noon to take a little stroll through my bar, then we would grab some lunch, have a drink or two, run a few errands, then Diego would get his wife, Omar would be back around then, and we could all go see the movie. Booze would frame each part of our day.
Noon arrive right on time. Diego arrived late. Well, not late I guess, but I had put out several bottles of scotch and chilled some gin, tonic, and vermouth and was excited to get started. The clock on the microwave had been laughing at me since around 11:30 and found my fidgeting to be quite amusing. That microwave can be a real asshole sometimes. I'm sure it showed "noon" on some microwave somewhere when Diego arrived, and, after the dog finished with her traditional greeting, I poured us some scotch. The Duke was for the casual palette and the Highland Park was for the peat. Both are good, neither are brilliant, and I like drinking them back-to-back. We tasted them and decided which to fill our glasses with. I think the super-awesome ice-sphere was put to use, too, maybe. Then, something odd happened: we didn't start bitching about what was pissing us off.
Diego has the look of someone a little sad about not wanting to beat the hell out of you. Underneath his gruff exterior is the soul of a lumberjack that named his ax "Exhibit A" and thinks people look a little like trees, and under that is a selfless person who do anything for a friend. He is easily one of the best people I have ever known. One day I hope to perjure myself for him. I like to think that our drink-n-bitch time helps to vent his anger as much as it does mine. So, it was strange that we didn't start into it like we usually do. Instead we talked about booze and anime. Strong booze. Violent anime.
We didn't watch our show in silence. Neither did we really talk. It would be most accurate to say we "commented". We didn't drink to explore the flavors or to get trashed. We drank because it was a nice day, good company, and we were watching a fun show. Also, being dudes, we could just grunt and make crude gestures at each other to have a solid conversation. That's one of the awesome things about being a dude. Also, belching, farting, and scratching yourself in public are cool. I'm sure ladies are just as capable at doing these things, but it is hard to believe they have as much fun doing them. If I am wrong about that, could someone please send me the YouTube link proving it? After we watched the show, belched, farted, and scratched ourselves, we grunted our need for lunch.
A day of drinking requires a hearty lunch. A hearty pizza lunch. And beer. And poor sentence structure. It was a particularly pleasant afternoon, so we sat on the patio. A sunny, cool afternoon, sitting on a patio, eating pizza and drinking beer. We found things to grouse about, but it was hard not to just be glad to be alive. The pizza place had changed their dough recipe, the new one wasn't as good. The beers we tried were not-so-great. None of that mattered. We watched people walk by. We took our time as other customers filtered in and out. It wasn't a lunch-to-remember, but it was certainly a lunch to have. It will be one of those things in life that add to the positive side of the scale. Then it was time to find a bar.
The bar we planned to go to was closed, rented out for the full day for some SXSW event. We didn't really have a Plan B, so we picked the last place we had thought about on the drive over. They were open. Their bar was fully stocked. A stout and a shot for me. Diego just had a beer. The bartender was pleasant and chatty. The bar was sunny. There was terrible art on the walls. The shit was shot, the booze consumed, we were just killing time. One of the best things about not being at work is the opportunity to just kill time without guilt, and we had both had a busy work-week. We dragged out doing nothing for as long as we could until we burned off our buzz and it was time to get a few things done. Good bye bar. Hello chores.
We drove to the beer supply store for cider yeast, and to the grocery store for 5 gallons of apple juice. It was every bit as exciting as it sounds. No, really. It was that exciting. Commerce combined with jazz-hands. At the grocery store I was going to buy a cheap beer to review that week, but Diego decided I was a giant ninny and over-ruled me. Friends don't let friends cheap out on beer reviews. That beer ended up being one of the most popular reviews on the site. Diego is wise and looks good in hats. I'm glad I dragged him along on my chores.
Chores done, it was time to split up and collect our people for the movie. Did I mention that we had been drinking for while at this point? We had burned off most of the buzz loitering at the last bar, but this little break was needed. I was glad I wouldn't be driving later. Not that I was drunk. I just felt super fat and gross, and didn't want to drive. Anyone over 30 knows what I mean. You all still think I was drunk, though.
Luckily Diego has the constitution of an elephant. He is only person I've ever known who broke the bank at the all-you-can-eat-wings night. So, we rallied and went to see our movie. While we waited in the lobby, Omar bought a round, the last one of the night.
The movie was great. The day was done. We all went back to our homes. It was a great day, everything I had hoped for (except, no dancing girls on hovercrafts, still waiting for that).
That is what drinking with a Diego-style friend is like. We felt free to be and do as we liked, without worry. Details don't get stressed. Jokes are told. Insults and jabs traded through smiles. Drinking with an old friend, one who has seen you at your worst and your best, who has picked you up and put you down, that is one of life's great joys. So, go find your Diego, right now, and buy him a drink. Then buy him another. He deserves it. And so do you.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Act II, Scene II: A Drink With Omar
Drinking is a big decision. There are many factors to consider: do I feel like having a drink, should I have a drink, do I have anything to drink, if not, can I get something to drink, and who should I drink with? This week, I felt like drinking, I absolutely should be drinking, and I need to go out and grab a drink with one of my finest friends. Omar was in agreement, and happy to be a part of this epic journey. Or, at least he was happy to grab a drink with me. Like I said, a fine friend.
We sat down at the Opal Divines up in North Austin because they have respect for Scotch. I had pictured saddling up to the bar and downing our drinks elbow to elbow, but they had been serving fish and chips all day and the whole place stank of fried fish. The weather was nice, and, this being Austin, we settled into the local patio culture. A pleasant waitress took our order: a Bruichladdich with a glass of ice, a Dr. Pepper, two glasses of water, a Dos Equis (total chick beer), an order of fried green beans, and a basket of fish-n-chips. As our order started to roll in so too did the cool evening air. That was how the stage was set for a drink with Omar.
I had decided in advance to rely on my poor memory and vague impressions to write this. There would be no notes or pictures, the receipt would be long since thrown away, and I would sit alone at my table and try to re-experience the whole thing as I put it all down in words. A mix of Nina Simone, Billy Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Betty Carter set the tone. The dog is taking a nap on the couch, waking occasionally to bark at the world outside. Finally, I poured myself an overly indulgent glass of Highland Park 12 year.
I asked Omar to taste the Bruichladdich (pronounced "Brook-Laddie", they tell me). It was one of their peaty offerings that they do so well. Not being a big fan of the peaty scotches, I was surprised to taste theirs a week before. Not a hint of stubbed-out-cigar, just an earthy addition to the scotchy-goodness. They make a good product with a universal appeal. Omar didn't like it. He didn't vomit on the dog at the next table or anything. Brown liquors just aren't his thing. Omar can be a real son of a bitch like that. I think I made fun of him for it, but I'm not sure. I tasted it next, having never tried this one before, and thought it was pretty fine. It has a solid booze-burn, a deep well of flavors, and the kind of peat I expect from them. I put a chip of ice in it and let it melt. The fried green beans were warm and tasty, so I asked Omar about his best drinking memory.
He had two stories, and they both involved drinking way too much and making bad choices. I suppose no really good story ends with "... and then I got home OK." Omar is from the part of South Texas that is really just a weird alternative Mexico. The border is always misidentified on maps as a solid line, but anyone who grew up near the Texas/Mexico border can tell you that it is really a series of gradients, holes, and parallel lines of varying opacities. Life in a border town, especially on the US side, has an ever-present dichotomy of wild lawlessness and crushing boredom. That was the fuel that fed Omar's stories. They were about growing up in a small town, drinking crap beer with good friends, driving when and where they shouldn't, and wanting to raise some hell but failing absolutely. Alcohol has a way of bonding people over bad decisions. I am not going to tell you Omar's stories. Would you want your best drinking memory plastered up on the internet for all to see?
Booze has never added depth or honesty to our conversations, that has always come from trust and respect. For us, booze has given us stories. It was a case of beer that helped us decide we needed 10 pounds of sloppy joe. I think it was a drinking game with friends that somehow gave us the idea to try 12 different types of hot-dogs from the store. We must have been drinking. Neither one of us particularly likes hot-dogs, and no one can eat sloppy joes for more than 2 days. Drink can lie to you about many things like your looks, abilities, dance skillz, and sobriety, but it can never convince you that you suddenly like hot-dogs once you bite into one. Despite that, sharing a drink and a questionable decision with a good friends can make for great memories. On the patio, we drank, we ate, and we talked. It was great.
I sipped my scotch. Omar drank his chick beer. I asked his advise about things in my life, and we talked at length about women. The air had turned chilly and I was shivering while I finished my scotch. Omar doesn't shiver, he is far too manly for that. Omar just drank his beer and ate his fish after getting rid of its outer fry shell. The sun had set. No one bothered to turn on the patio heater because none of the staff had a lighter. The bill came and Omar picked it up. He is also a real son of a bitch like that, too.
A drink with Omar is conversation with an old friend. It is talking about anything with a person who knows you so well that there is no difference between raw honesty and utter bullshit. Never pass up a chance to drink with your own Omar, life is too short, good times too few, and truly great friends too rare. Also, if you happen to be roommates with your Omar, make sure you knock before you go into the bathroom. You don't want to see that.
We sat down at the Opal Divines up in North Austin because they have respect for Scotch. I had pictured saddling up to the bar and downing our drinks elbow to elbow, but they had been serving fish and chips all day and the whole place stank of fried fish. The weather was nice, and, this being Austin, we settled into the local patio culture. A pleasant waitress took our order: a Bruichladdich with a glass of ice, a Dr. Pepper, two glasses of water, a Dos Equis (total chick beer), an order of fried green beans, and a basket of fish-n-chips. As our order started to roll in so too did the cool evening air. That was how the stage was set for a drink with Omar.
I had decided in advance to rely on my poor memory and vague impressions to write this. There would be no notes or pictures, the receipt would be long since thrown away, and I would sit alone at my table and try to re-experience the whole thing as I put it all down in words. A mix of Nina Simone, Billy Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Betty Carter set the tone. The dog is taking a nap on the couch, waking occasionally to bark at the world outside. Finally, I poured myself an overly indulgent glass of Highland Park 12 year.
I asked Omar to taste the Bruichladdich (pronounced "Brook-Laddie", they tell me). It was one of their peaty offerings that they do so well. Not being a big fan of the peaty scotches, I was surprised to taste theirs a week before. Not a hint of stubbed-out-cigar, just an earthy addition to the scotchy-goodness. They make a good product with a universal appeal. Omar didn't like it. He didn't vomit on the dog at the next table or anything. Brown liquors just aren't his thing. Omar can be a real son of a bitch like that. I think I made fun of him for it, but I'm not sure. I tasted it next, having never tried this one before, and thought it was pretty fine. It has a solid booze-burn, a deep well of flavors, and the kind of peat I expect from them. I put a chip of ice in it and let it melt. The fried green beans were warm and tasty, so I asked Omar about his best drinking memory.
He had two stories, and they both involved drinking way too much and making bad choices. I suppose no really good story ends with "... and then I got home OK." Omar is from the part of South Texas that is really just a weird alternative Mexico. The border is always misidentified on maps as a solid line, but anyone who grew up near the Texas/Mexico border can tell you that it is really a series of gradients, holes, and parallel lines of varying opacities. Life in a border town, especially on the US side, has an ever-present dichotomy of wild lawlessness and crushing boredom. That was the fuel that fed Omar's stories. They were about growing up in a small town, drinking crap beer with good friends, driving when and where they shouldn't, and wanting to raise some hell but failing absolutely. Alcohol has a way of bonding people over bad decisions. I am not going to tell you Omar's stories. Would you want your best drinking memory plastered up on the internet for all to see?
Booze has never added depth or honesty to our conversations, that has always come from trust and respect. For us, booze has given us stories. It was a case of beer that helped us decide we needed 10 pounds of sloppy joe. I think it was a drinking game with friends that somehow gave us the idea to try 12 different types of hot-dogs from the store. We must have been drinking. Neither one of us particularly likes hot-dogs, and no one can eat sloppy joes for more than 2 days. Drink can lie to you about many things like your looks, abilities, dance skillz, and sobriety, but it can never convince you that you suddenly like hot-dogs once you bite into one. Despite that, sharing a drink and a questionable decision with a good friends can make for great memories. On the patio, we drank, we ate, and we talked. It was great.
I sipped my scotch. Omar drank his chick beer. I asked his advise about things in my life, and we talked at length about women. The air had turned chilly and I was shivering while I finished my scotch. Omar doesn't shiver, he is far too manly for that. Omar just drank his beer and ate his fish after getting rid of its outer fry shell. The sun had set. No one bothered to turn on the patio heater because none of the staff had a lighter. The bill came and Omar picked it up. He is also a real son of a bitch like that, too.
A drink with Omar is conversation with an old friend. It is talking about anything with a person who knows you so well that there is no difference between raw honesty and utter bullshit. Never pass up a chance to drink with your own Omar, life is too short, good times too few, and truly great friends too rare. Also, if you happen to be roommates with your Omar, make sure you knock before you go into the bathroom. You don't want to see that.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Act II, Scene I: Friends Along the Path
I've been trying whiskeys. At home, alone, under a blanket by flashlight. I sip and ponder. The booze is good, or, at a minimum drinking booze is usually more fun than not drinking booze. I try to think about the flavors and circumstances of the whiskies, but lately something else has been in my think-brain. I started all this to find a scotch to drink with my friend, but I'm drinking by myself. Hardly seems right. Right?
So, now that I have a selection of drinkies, I think the next thing to do is test them out on friends. You know, see which ones drink best in good company! It is a brilliant plan. I wonder if I have any friends who drink. Hrm... I can think of a few: Omar - old friend, infinitely capable, exceedingly good to pal around with, and a bit of an angry drunk when it comes to brown liquors; Diego - older friend, epic drinker, finds adventures as easily as some people find herpes, still angry I won't/can't go drinking in Japan with him; Thomas - middle-old friend, Goat Boy, hatchet-assed breaker of chairs, owns a child named Thor, drinks like a child named Thor. These shall be my drunk little guinea piggies.
I have spent plenty of time drinking with Omar. He's the kind of drinking friend who knows your jokes and you know his. There is a rhythmic rapport to drinking with Omar. It always starts like the first lines of an excellent knock-knock joke. The in- jokes, gags, one-liners, movie references, and non sequiturs gain momentum, eventually chugging along with the glasses until the last drop of the evening. A strange and entertaining thing, the drink shared with a friend.
I'll discuss in depth next time, over The Duke.
a picture:
So, now that I have a selection of drinkies, I think the next thing to do is test them out on friends. You know, see which ones drink best in good company! It is a brilliant plan. I wonder if I have any friends who drink. Hrm... I can think of a few: Omar - old friend, infinitely capable, exceedingly good to pal around with, and a bit of an angry drunk when it comes to brown liquors; Diego - older friend, epic drinker, finds adventures as easily as some people find herpes, still angry I won't/can't go drinking in Japan with him; Thomas - middle-old friend, Goat Boy, hatchet-assed breaker of chairs, owns a child named Thor, drinks like a child named Thor. These shall be my drunk little guinea piggies.
I have spent plenty of time drinking with Omar. He's the kind of drinking friend who knows your jokes and you know his. There is a rhythmic rapport to drinking with Omar. It always starts like the first lines of an excellent knock-knock joke. The in- jokes, gags, one-liners, movie references, and non sequiturs gain momentum, eventually chugging along with the glasses until the last drop of the evening. A strange and entertaining thing, the drink shared with a friend.
I'll discuss in depth next time, over The Duke.
a picture:
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
The Higher You Go, the Farther You Fall
Finding your path can be a difficult thing. It could be hard to know where to start looking. Maybe you found the start of your path, but it is small, winding, and overgrown. Perhaps, you are walking a path so worn by others that nothing distinguishing is left. For me, my path was muddied by starting at the end.
My introduction to scotch was a masterpiece in a glass. If I had to do it all over again, I'd start small and preferably crappy. But, I can't. This... is my curse. If you have to pick a curse, give it a shot. The problem I now face in finding a solid scotch is that my base line is all out-of-whack. Solution: reset my "normal".
Attempt #1 - Johnny Walker Red Label
This hopefully is a base-line, drinkable scotch. I can put it in my face and not hate myself. It is a touch smokey (not my preference, but I'm trying to appreciate variation), as smooth as a cobblestone drive, and generally seems like what light-beige would taste like. There is a hint of self loathing with every sip.
Attempt #2 - 1835 Bourbon Whiskey
Not a scotch, fair enough. On second thought, up yours! I live in Texas, a long way from Scotland, and sometimes you make do. If my horizons are broad, then so may be my line of shot glasses (no, I don't do shots). This one was suggested by a high quality customer of mine and donated by a person who owed me a favor. I like sipping it. There were some pleasing flavor molecules. It is just fine. But, you see, that's the problem: anything better than meh suddenly becomes a sad farce. It is not the Macallan.
Attempt #3 - Monkey Shoulder Blended Blended Malt Scotch
OK, this one is helpful to me. It wears it's lack of pedigree right on the label. "Blended Malt!" How I love those words on this bottle. I really enjoy drinking this stuff. Smooth, flavorful, and pleasant to drink, but it never claims to be great. The greatest success of the Monkey Shoulder (aside from having monkeys on it) is that it doesn't try to run with the big dogs. Instead, I takes on the mid-range market, keeps affordable, and just beats the shit out of almost everything else in the price range. I have found my new normal! I'm happy, I'm enjoying my scotch, and I don't need to beg the mafia for a loan to have it. Having no aspirations to the loftiness I have known before, this bottle is a sign post on my journey.
So, Monkey Shoulder, and I'm on my way down my path. Neat-o.
My introduction to scotch was a masterpiece in a glass. If I had to do it all over again, I'd start small and preferably crappy. But, I can't. This... is my curse. If you have to pick a curse, give it a shot. The problem I now face in finding a solid scotch is that my base line is all out-of-whack. Solution: reset my "normal".
Attempt #1 - Johnny Walker Red Label
This hopefully is a base-line, drinkable scotch. I can put it in my face and not hate myself. It is a touch smokey (not my preference, but I'm trying to appreciate variation), as smooth as a cobblestone drive, and generally seems like what light-beige would taste like. There is a hint of self loathing with every sip.
Attempt #2 - 1835 Bourbon Whiskey
Not a scotch, fair enough. On second thought, up yours! I live in Texas, a long way from Scotland, and sometimes you make do. If my horizons are broad, then so may be my line of shot glasses (no, I don't do shots). This one was suggested by a high quality customer of mine and donated by a person who owed me a favor. I like sipping it. There were some pleasing flavor molecules. It is just fine. But, you see, that's the problem: anything better than meh suddenly becomes a sad farce. It is not the Macallan.
Attempt #3 - Monkey Shoulder Blended Blended Malt Scotch
OK, this one is helpful to me. It wears it's lack of pedigree right on the label. "Blended Malt!" How I love those words on this bottle. I really enjoy drinking this stuff. Smooth, flavorful, and pleasant to drink, but it never claims to be great. The greatest success of the Monkey Shoulder (aside from having monkeys on it) is that it doesn't try to run with the big dogs. Instead, I takes on the mid-range market, keeps affordable, and just beats the shit out of almost everything else in the price range. I have found my new normal! I'm happy, I'm enjoying my scotch, and I don't need to beg the mafia for a loan to have it. Having no aspirations to the loftiness I have known before, this bottle is a sign post on my journey.
So, Monkey Shoulder, and I'm on my way down my path. Neat-o.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Scotch Costs Money
No Free Drinks
The problem with good things is that, despite what we have been told, they do not come to those who wait, but those who can pay. Good booze, especially, is reserved for those who can part with some expendable income. I have very limited cash to spend on my little quest.
So what is the budget conscious booze hound to do? When I take a field trip to my local, I try to do the mental gymnastics of cost vs quality and want of scotch vs fear of the unpayable bill. Haven't bought anything yet. I'm not sure what that says about me. Here I am writing a blog about how much I want a drink. But, no. I don't want a drink, I want a very special drink. I don't even know if I am casting myself as Sisyphus, reaching for something forever out of reach, or perhaps I have lashed myself to the mast of financial insecurity while yearning for my killer scotch on the jagged rocks.
OK, time to slink cowardly forward into being a man of action! I will, tonight, buy a bottle. It won't be the One that I am looking for, but it will be a step. I will buy something I have never had before, something mysterious and unknown. And I will see what there is to see. It is decided.
And it is done. Johnnie Walker Red Label: just as if someone set out to achieve the mediocher, and did so blandly. It is peaty with overtones of light beige. We'll call it a toe in the water for now.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Adventure Calls
I went looking for a drink.
It was time for a journey, and luckily I have just friend to drag with me. He is either camera shy, has a warrant out, or there is something really cool he isn't telling me about. So we brought along two masks made with the latest technology, creating a perfect disguise. The car was packed and we set out FOR ADVENTURE!
There is a distillery about an hour and a half west of me, where, if you show up and give them ten dollars, they will (like Lydia) show you the world (but without all the nudity). When we arrived there was a welcoming porch, pleasant rocking chairs, a fridge full of beer and wine, an honor box, and a note politely asking for a donation if you wanted to have a drink while you wait. Now, I never carry cash, because I am not a freak or an old person unable to accept modern life, so I had nothing for the honor box. I am certain that Thompson stole a beer or two though. The bastard. Then we climbed on the wagon with the other tour-goers and headed towards destiny.
They took us through the hooch making process. There were words and gestures and walking. It was very infotaining, but I couldn't help but think this was all to put off giving me my damn booze. I heard the call of the "White Dog", the pre-barrel distilled spirit, my ice cream before dinner, the first of two stops for which i drove so far. Then they handed me a thimble of clear happy liquid. And with it, a warning, "160 Proof." I have certainly had better things, but this was... exciting. That thimble was way deeper than it looked. There must have been some other things and goings on after that, a bottle-neck may have been waxed, some chocolate may have gone missing, and, just before someone handed me a sniffer of bourbon, a limpy dog could have given me a weird look. I liked the dog, but I liked the bourbon more. My second stop, the last stage of the whiskey life-cycle was my favorite.
After the tour we considered going to one of the wineries, luckily, we drove another half hour west to Oktoberfest instead. Here is what you need to know, Oktoberfest is a challenge, a test of how far you can go before you have gone too far. If your thing is food, how much is just this side of inappropriate? Like beer, how many before the cops are called? Enjoy social interaction, when does a casual joke become a restraining order? There were a number of fried foods, dark beers, and furtive glances down cleavage. Oktoberfest is where Normal goes to really live.
The drive back gave us time for reflection. We had that day seen some of the natural beauty of Texas, driven down a lonely dirt road with Texas' first legal distillery at it's end, drank White Dog, sniffed bourbon, snuck off to Germany, ate a crawfish sausage, and basically had an adventure. A good day by any measure. I was happy to have accomplished what I set out to do, and, while I didn't find my scotch that day, I did have a drink.
It was time for a journey, and luckily I have just friend to drag with me. He is either camera shy, has a warrant out, or there is something really cool he isn't telling me about. So we brought along two masks made with the latest technology, creating a perfect disguise. The car was packed and we set out FOR ADVENTURE!
There is a distillery about an hour and a half west of me, where, if you show up and give them ten dollars, they will (like Lydia) show you the world (but without all the nudity). When we arrived there was a welcoming porch, pleasant rocking chairs, a fridge full of beer and wine, an honor box, and a note politely asking for a donation if you wanted to have a drink while you wait. Now, I never carry cash, because I am not a freak or an old person unable to accept modern life, so I had nothing for the honor box. I am certain that Thompson stole a beer or two though. The bastard. Then we climbed on the wagon with the other tour-goers and headed towards destiny.
They took us through the hooch making process. There were words and gestures and walking. It was very infotaining, but I couldn't help but think this was all to put off giving me my damn booze. I heard the call of the "White Dog", the pre-barrel distilled spirit, my ice cream before dinner, the first of two stops for which i drove so far. Then they handed me a thimble of clear happy liquid. And with it, a warning, "160 Proof." I have certainly had better things, but this was... exciting. That thimble was way deeper than it looked. There must have been some other things and goings on after that, a bottle-neck may have been waxed, some chocolate may have gone missing, and, just before someone handed me a sniffer of bourbon, a limpy dog could have given me a weird look. I liked the dog, but I liked the bourbon more. My second stop, the last stage of the whiskey life-cycle was my favorite.
After the tour we considered going to one of the wineries, luckily, we drove another half hour west to Oktoberfest instead. Here is what you need to know, Oktoberfest is a challenge, a test of how far you can go before you have gone too far. If your thing is food, how much is just this side of inappropriate? Like beer, how many before the cops are called? Enjoy social interaction, when does a casual joke become a restraining order? There were a number of fried foods, dark beers, and furtive glances down cleavage. Oktoberfest is where Normal goes to really live.
The drive back gave us time for reflection. We had that day seen some of the natural beauty of Texas, driven down a lonely dirt road with Texas' first legal distillery at it's end, drank White Dog, sniffed bourbon, snuck off to Germany, ate a crawfish sausage, and basically had an adventure. A good day by any measure. I was happy to have accomplished what I set out to do, and, while I didn't find my scotch that day, I did have a drink.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Act I: Beer in a bottle, Whiskey in my dreams
I am out of scotch.
Actually, I am out of scotch, whiskey, vodka, sake, and rum; the tequila, brandy, and wine are fading fast too. But, I still have beer. One of my customers went for the brass ring of bribes and brought me a 12 pack sampler. On-time and highest quality prints: coming up! I am not an alcoholic, mind you. This isn't self-destructive, ruin-your-life drinking. Booze is just tasty (except grappa, that's nasty). Heck, I hate feeling drunk, anything past a buzz makes me queezy and bleh. But, booze tastes better than water, ice tea, or milk, so I know what I want to reach for with dinner. But pickings are slim at home these days.
Andrew had suggested Johnny Walker Blue label for our next drink. If I had learned to crap out money, then I'd be on board, but sometimes life doesn't let you drop $200 plus bucks on a bottle of glory. I went to the local liquor store today, $220. Fucking hell, I would make an excellent rich man. Shame I'm not.
I took a look at the local labels while I was at the store. Some Ranger Creek, Garrison Brothers, Herman Marshall, Treaty Oaks, and a few others. Some more affordable than others, but nothing over $60 a bottle. On my income, that still hurts, but what is the point in working so damn hard all the time if I can't occasionally treat myself, right? Well, I hope that is right because tomorrow I'm going drive to Hye, Texas, home of Garrison Brothers Distillery. See what they have to offer, sip a little joy.
I'm packing along Hunter Thompson and Earnest Hemingway. We'll make a trip of it. There is a winery in that burg too, might as well pay a visit while I'm in the neighborhood. I don't know what my Sunday has in store for me, but I know too well what waits on Monday. Plus, like I said, I'm out of scotch.
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