Tag Archive: wine


You drink like an asshole

This past weekend, I went to a large birthday party-slash-reunion party.  A ton of folks showed up, most were local, and quite a few from several states away.  It was big affair, and everyone showed up ready to party.

The fact that it was a big and well-attended affair didn’t mean that it was an overly fancy party.  Not in the least.  A modest buffet, a couple of kegs and a cash bar for mixed drinks.

That last part – the cash bar – is where it started to go pear-shaped.  Not because anyone got supremely blottoed (I fucking wish).  But because there were drinks ordered that NO ONE in this universe or the next should ever fucking order.

People have no fucking idea how to order mixed drinks at a bar.

It’s fucking deplorable that there are drinks that you’re allowed to order, and drinks no one should ever order, and no one knows this shit.  Maybe an easy way to determine between the two is to use a few rules.  These are my rules, I made them up.

  • If you order a drink that requires more than 3 ingredients, you’re an asshole.  In other words, fuck your Singapore Sling.
  • If your drink order takes more than 90 seconds to make, you’re an asshole.  You’re twice the asshole if it takes you more than 90 seconds to order your stupid drink.
  • If your drink has more than four syllables, you’re an asshole.  I hope you choke on your Long Island Iced Tea.
  • If your drink has some cute name, you’re an asshole.  You know what’s the best way to make a Fuzzy Navel?  You get a bottle of peach schnapps.  And you shove it up your ass.  Past your freshman year in college, there’s no fucking way you have any business ordering a Fuzzy Navel or a Sex On The Beach.  It’s your freshman year, you’re supposed to do stupid shit you know nothing about.  After that, if you order a Fuzzy Navel, you need to be stabbed.
  • If your drink order has to come from a “mixologist”, you’re an asshole.
  • If you call yourself a “mixologist”, you’re a huge asshole.  And a huge dickhead.

So, what does this mean?  This means no more fucking Mojitos.  The fucking things are so 10 years ago, at best.  I read this tweet the other week and it made my fucking week.  Enjoy your herpes in a glass, losers.

Nevermind how much trouble it is to make a mojito, the goddamn mojito is such a pretentious asshole drink to order.  “I want you to make me a rum drink that cloaks the rum taste with a mass floating bits of leaves.  It makes me feel sophistimacated.”  Fuck off.

And don’t you fucking dare order a Cosmo.  That drink violates the 4-syllable rule, and Sex And The City is pretty much one of the worst shows of all time.

Also off-limits are Whiskey Sours, Mudslides, Kamikazes, or anything with fucking Kahlua in it.  If your drink has part of a plant or, a flower in it, or it has different swirly colors, you’ve made a grave error, and you need to send that sumbitch back and order yourself a proper fucking drink.

Another thing you’re not allowed to order anymore: a martini.  You can’t be trusted to order a martini properly.  Because all of you fuck it up with vodka.  Fuck that.  Martinis are made with gin.  Only gin.  James Bond is a colossal douche for getting the martini wrong for 60 years.  Also, of course you fucking shake a martini – who the fuck stirs one.  Bottom line is if you’re not gonna get a gin martini, you’re not getting a martini at all.

Here’s the thing: a drink is a rite of passage.  It’s not a fucking toy.  It’s a several ounces of fulfillment you sip out of a glass to replenish yourself, physically and emotionally.  It’s something you should take some goddamn pride in.  How the fuck are you supposed to take some pride in yourself when you waddle up to some barkeep and order yourself an “orgasm”?

Stop being a douchebag to yourself.

But I don’t wanna come across as being some persistent naysayer, only harping on shit you can’t drink.  There’re a ton of drinks that are perfectly acceptable.  Again, these are my rules, I make them up.

  • You want something brown, get a Manhattan or a Sidecar.  These are classics that’ll never earn you a frown from your barkeep.  Too complicated?  You can NEVER go wrong with a single malt, neat.  Ever.  And don’t ever put your single malt on the rocks.  That’s like putting A1 sauce on a porterhouse.  Shitheads do that.  Don’t be a shithead.
  • You want something red, order a Negroni.  Done.
  • You want something green, fuck your Appletinis.  You get your hands on some absinthe or you can just fuck off.  You’re lucky I’m not putting brake fluid in your glass.
  • You want something blue, fuck you, you don’t ever fucking drink anything blue, dipshit.
  • You want something with tequila in it, try a tequila and tonic.  That’s right, tonic with fucking tequila in it.  Not gin, and not vodka, you unimaginative wank.  And stop being so scared of tequila.  Some of you treat tequila as if one whiff of it will send you into some PCP ragefest.  Calm the fuck down, it’s just tequila.  Tequila and tonic – with a slice of lemon – is one of the greatest summer drinks, so fucking get to it.

There you go.  Sort your shit out, and stop ordering dickhead drinks.  No one ever got in trouble ordering a beer (unless it’s got fruit in it, or needs to be served in stemware).  Or wine (although it may not yet be safe to order a Merlot).

So don’t say I never did anything for you.

 

Let me start by getting one thing out of the way.  That old adage about how Paris would be wonderful if it weren’t for all the French?  Bullfuckingshit.  Paris blows because it’s filled with Americans.  Everywhere you go, it’s Yanks all over the place.  What the fuck, I thought we were in some massive sinkhole of economic diarrhea – yet, Paris, one of the most expensive cities in the motherfucking universe, is filled to be brim with holidaying Yanks.  Fucking blows my mind.  Granted, I was there to do the same, so I’m not gonna begrudge someone else’s holidaying shenanigans, but goddamn there are a lot of Yanks in Paris.

Anyway, two weeks in Paris with a slight detour to pre-Olympic-bullshit London yielded some entirely pointless observations:

French countryside.  For all talk about the visual orgasm that is the French countryside, it’s remarkably dull.  You might as well be driving through the middle of New Jersey.

British graffiti sucks.  Banksy notwithstanding (which is technically is street art, not the sort of graffiti I’m talking about).  On the left is what was scrawled on the back of a loo in an average pub right off Greek Street in London’s Soho.  Compare that to the right, taken from the bathroom at Max Fish in New York’s Lower East Side.

When you make the mistake of going to see the Mona fucking Lisa, you usually have the misfortune of getting crammed with about 150 other boneheaded tourists all clamoring to see the same stupid painting.  Problem is, every single of one of them will be a complete imbecile.  Not only are they pushing and shoving, you get dipshits like this trying to take a picture of the painting from about 30 feet away.  Using an iPad.  Took every ounce of self-restraint not to swat that iPad out of his hands and send it hurtling towards the Mona Lisa itself to test out the painting’s perspex shielding.

 

This fucking guy at Versailles.

Café du Flore, Café Deux Magots, Brasserie Lipp – apparently this view affords you a tiny lukewarm cup of espresso that’ll set you back 10 euros.  We hit all three landmark restaurants in one sweep one lazy Tuesday afternoon.  Sure, they were lovely and boasted all sorts of literary history, but holy shit do they know how to work the whole tourist trap thing.  In fact, all the tourist traps are finetuned to perfection.  We hit a whole bunch of them – Au Pied du Cochon, Bofinger, Chartier, the three above.  You walk in and not a single Parisian is to be seen in any of these places.  Yet, somehow they make you feel OK sitting down and having an unspectacular yet unoffensive meal.  You know full well that you’re in a tourist trap, for some fucked up reason, you’re OK with it.  Which is heaps different from any given tourist trap in New York.  I think.  I haven’t been to New York tourist traps in a long while, so I’m just projecting here.

Andouillette.  Speaking of restaurants, my typically brave demeanor when it comes to food finally betrayed me.  On my final night in Paris, having already tried so many typical French foods, opted for one of the few remaining things I had yet to try: andouillette.   Sounds like an andouille, right?  And I fucking love andouille.  I had to try it.  Even if the description is nothing like andouille – andouillette is a sausage that’s constructed of chopped up tripe stuffed into an intestine.  Not just a natural gut casing, but the whole fucking intestine.  Filled with chopped up tripe.  How bad could it be?  Holy shit, never ask that question when it comes to andouillette.  Because the andouillette will punch you in the mouth with a definitive and declarative answer.  It tastes like you’ve just eaten the toilet from Trainspotting.  And you can’t swallow it because it’s all hard and crunchy and it tastes like shit and you start to gag and the combination of gag and a mouthful of shit causes you to asphyxiate, and your only solution is to wash it down as quickly as possible by guzzling wine right out of the bottle which causes you to instantly become the ape-like retarded tourist in the restaurant.  Everything is horrible and you want to die.  After coming to, I politely sent the plate of Satan’s pinched loaf back and ordered a steak tartar instead.  You have no idea how delicious a raw hamburger is after you’ve tried andouillette.

The subway music is much more interesting.  That’s not to say that any halfwit walking around with an accordion equals something good.  In New York, half these schmucks on the subway create some indiscernible racket and demand loose change from you.  Parisian minstrels, on the other hand, often sound like they might actually be good at weddings and bar mitzvahs.

Deodorant.  Europe is gonna be so awesome when they discover deodorant.

Day 8:  Weigh-in.  Down 9.4lbs, says the scale.  I need to remind myself that it’s a month-long marathon, not a week-long sprint.  Or some shit like that.  God, I am hungry ALL THE TIME – I realize that this may be closest I ever get to knowing what it’s like to be a skinny, hot chick.  Mid-afternoon, someone breaks out cupcakes.  Sabotage!  I indulge in half a cupcake (hey, I’m down 9lbs!) – 10 minutes after that, I feel like a fat turd.

Day 9:  Perpetual hunger is leading to crankiness.  On everyone’s part, not just mine.  I got into a huge fight at the office today, and called a friend a “skinny bitch” (not sure what she’s all worked up about, I thought it was a pretty flattering compliment).

Day 10:  My second place in the weekly weigh-in is causing me to feel complacent.  For a second night in a row I had delicious spaghetti bolognaise for dinner.  I rationalize the poor decision by telling myself that I’ll work off the calories in the morning at the gym.  Speaking of which, it turns out that when you weigh less, your daily permissible calories drop as well.  WTF.  I now have to eat 200 calories less than when I started this stupid contest.

Day 11:  Curry is catered for lunch today.  Diet = BLOWN.  The saving grace is that every other competitor seems to have indulged the way I have: everyone’s ravaging the food like they’ve been stuck on a desert island for 6 years.  After work, I go to a party and have far too much red wine.  I can’t even angle a positive for the wine.  Week 2 is looking bleak.

Day 12:  A scavenger hunt with the kids in the West Village is cut short by freezing conditions (minus the blinding snow – where the hell are you, snow?).  We’re limping around in sub-zero winds, which is just retarded.  So we ducked into some NYU-area bar for some brunch.   I crush an order of huevos rancheros and it in return crushes my already-faltering diet.  These huevos rancheros are ridiculous – the tortillas are FRIED, three layers of them.  It’s a bed of refried beans, fried tortilla, layer of chorizo, fried tortilla again, layer of cheese, one more fried tortilla, topped with two sunny side eggs.  It is the Schrödinger’s cat of breakfasts: it is both so terrible and so wonderful at the same time.

To make myself feel better, I buy a new pair of sneakers I really don’t need.  I tell myself it’s for my gym workouts.  I come home to watch football.  I can’t afford any more indulgences so I hold out on the booze.  Football without beer is terrible.