Friday, September 08, 2006
As told to me by another, funnier person
This one surgeon has been stopping by this one bar for this one drink every day for years. His one drink is a hazelnut martini.
Gross, I know, but there's no accounting for taste.
He's been doing this for years. One day, due perhaps to advancing years and forgetfulness, the bartender has somehow neglected to maintain his stock of hazelnut schnapps or whatever foul spirit is used to make hazelnut martinis. Thrashing about behind the bar, he knocks over a small and weighty box of something so dust-covered and sticky that it can't be new, and it can't be good. He runs his thumb across the label of this box, wiping away the grime of years, to read its contents: "HICKORY APERTIF MIX."
I know what you're thinking. Remember, there really is no accounting for taste.
Hurriedly he tears open this mix, sloshing thick and misty foul-smelling liquid here and there, and pours it in a shaker, along with the strongest gin standing beneath the mirror. To take off some of the edge that he fears the mix may have accumulated over time, he tosses some ice chips in the glass, nervously telling the surgeon, who by now is looking at the bartender with raised brows, that just a few chips of ice are what all the kids are asking for these days. The doctor glances out the window in something resembling boredom. A whiff of the shaker tells him that it's going to take a great deal more than mildly lowered temperature to mask the taste of this abomination, so while the doctor is looking away, the bartender slips some lime juice and sugar into the glass as well. The juice and sugar are cheap, the sugar clumpy and the juice in an absurd little bottle shaped like a lime, but he keeps them lying about for the younger set. "We like our drinks girly!" they're fond of telling him.
The surgeon's drink is placed him with clouds of something sinister twirling languidly twirling within. It resembles nothing so much as the surface of the planet Jupiter set behind glass.
Perhaps not even noticing the appearance of his order, the surgeon lifts the murky concoction to his lips. Quite immediately he finds himself leaning heavily on the well-practised elegance and poise for which he has become so well known over the years. He wants to pucker his lips and remove the drink from his tongue to the mirror behind the bar. But he swallows, primly, and after taking a breath, asks the bartender just what on earth he has been served. "If you please."
The bartender, hanging his head, his ever-ready rag now nearly brushing the floor as it hangs from his hand, sighs. "It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."
Gross, I know, but there's no accounting for taste.
He's been doing this for years. One day, due perhaps to advancing years and forgetfulness, the bartender has somehow neglected to maintain his stock of hazelnut schnapps or whatever foul spirit is used to make hazelnut martinis. Thrashing about behind the bar, he knocks over a small and weighty box of something so dust-covered and sticky that it can't be new, and it can't be good. He runs his thumb across the label of this box, wiping away the grime of years, to read its contents: "HICKORY APERTIF MIX."
I know what you're thinking. Remember, there really is no accounting for taste.
Hurriedly he tears open this mix, sloshing thick and misty foul-smelling liquid here and there, and pours it in a shaker, along with the strongest gin standing beneath the mirror. To take off some of the edge that he fears the mix may have accumulated over time, he tosses some ice chips in the glass, nervously telling the surgeon, who by now is looking at the bartender with raised brows, that just a few chips of ice are what all the kids are asking for these days. The doctor glances out the window in something resembling boredom. A whiff of the shaker tells him that it's going to take a great deal more than mildly lowered temperature to mask the taste of this abomination, so while the doctor is looking away, the bartender slips some lime juice and sugar into the glass as well. The juice and sugar are cheap, the sugar clumpy and the juice in an absurd little bottle shaped like a lime, but he keeps them lying about for the younger set. "We like our drinks girly!" they're fond of telling him.
The surgeon's drink is placed him with clouds of something sinister twirling languidly twirling within. It resembles nothing so much as the surface of the planet Jupiter set behind glass.
Perhaps not even noticing the appearance of his order, the surgeon lifts the murky concoction to his lips. Quite immediately he finds himself leaning heavily on the well-practised elegance and poise for which he has become so well known over the years. He wants to pucker his lips and remove the drink from his tongue to the mirror behind the bar. But he swallows, primly, and after taking a breath, asks the bartender just what on earth he has been served. "If you please."
The bartender, hanging his head, his ever-ready rag now nearly brushing the floor as it hangs from his hand, sighs. "It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."
# posted by R Carter @ 3:17 PM 
