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.
