My drinking companion for this round was Autumn. She seized my notebook and transcribed the words above to prevent me from forgetting that those sounds came out of my face during our last adventure.
She has a marvelous new blog where she talks about fashion. I can never remember how to spell the url (which is autumatopoeia.com). She's didactic as well as snarky; she teaches grown up men how to dress as such without embodying torpor, lists the trends that make her toes curl and those that make her spit vitriol, and explains why fashion is important to you; I highly recommend reading it, particularly if you think it is not.
Today we put a checkmark next to the Pisco Sour: Portón Pisco, fresh Lime Juice, Organic Agave Nectar, and Angostura Bitters, served up.
I had a Pisco Sour once in Arizona. At the time it contained whipped egg white.
First impressions: the agave nectar flavor becomes more acute without the innocuous cushion of the egg. Agave reminds me of tequila. Tequila makes me think of poor decisions and ruinous evenings punctuated by labored breathing and the taste of bile. I imagine at first that muscling my way through this cocktail will be an ordeal.
I was wrong, of course, and my notes indicate that after half a glass I had made peace with the Pisco Sour. "In fact, it's my friend."
Autumn began with her favorite Carthay standby: the Gin & Tonic with Dill. She looked a bit like Sean Young in Blade Runner on this day.
We also found out on this trip, with squealing delight, that one of our favorite bartenders has a tummy bump hidden under her cummerbund. Though entirely unsolicited, we consented to be the child's namesake if desired.
Anyway, the Pickleback: an increasingly popular drinking trend that Autumn loves because she is totally gay for flavors like vinegar and brine. (Why I can't get her to sample seafood or try my favorite sushi place, aside from her being a desert rat, is beyond me.)
Quite simply, a Pickleback is a shot of pickle brine swallowed immediately after a shot of whiskey, the combination often referred to as a Whiskey and Pickle.
I thought these would form an unlikely alliance of complimentary flavor; they do not. The pickle brine cuts right through the viscosity of the whiskey, erases the flavor and smothers the burn of the alcohol. This is all fine and good, but I like the viscosity, the flavor and the burn - at least when it's a quality whiskey.
Pickle brine's pungency stands out like a thin person at Disneyland when following a shot of whiskey. "I like salty stuff!" explains Autumn. So do I, but I can't help but wonder if this is a thing that some drinkers do to faze their less epicurean friends, in the same way that I've enjoyed disconcerting dining companions at sushi bars by eating the bones of a Spanish Mackerel.
Our first round of whiskey was Bulleit Rye. If we had been willing to spend more, say on George Dickel Special Reserve, we could have ordered a Dickel and Pickle. To be more frugal, our second and third rounds were Jameson Irish Whiskey.
My conclusion: if I'm having a whiskey I'll truly enjoy, like Bulleit Rye, I'd rather just have the whiskey, as I actually enjoy the viscosity and the flush that creeps up into my face as the alcohol is burning off. If we're drinking something like Jameson, however, the Pickleback is brilliant!
Then we had a couple Chip Shots. Autumn tallied how many drinks we had imbibed that day and wrote scolding messages in my notebook. Then we were joined by Melanie, put booze in her and went on the Silly Symphony Swings a couple times before shouting our way to victory on Radiator Springs Racers. Then we went to my place where Autumn turned old potatoes into chips and I tried to help but ended up bleeding all over the kitchen floor. Then we forced Autumn to watch a couple episodes of Doctor Who to explain why Eccleston is our Doctor rather than Barty Crouch Junior. We chose "The Empty Child," which Autumn hated and complained about not only on anti-Whovian principle but also because it was scary and a two-parter. "Are you my mummy?"
