Tag Archives: Drunk
Over on Food Republic today, I pen tale of my time spent drunkenly in China. At a diplomatic dinner, the host heard that I was a spirits and beer journalist. Thus, he demanded I knock back shot after shot of potent, rotgut bai jiu all under the guise of gan bei—a phrase that roughly translates to “bottoms up,” and requires that the drinkers drain their cups. It’s a ritual repeated, over and over, till intoxication is achieved. And then more booze is consumed. Curious? Drink it up!
The other night, after drinking far too much beer during my latest homebrew tour, I decided that I needed a little headbutt. I poured myself a bolt of beer. Then I poured myself a shot of Genever Bols. Not using my unsteady hands, I leaned over the table and slurrrrrrrped up the spirit. Satisfied, I slumped in my seat and proceeded to sip both inebriants till the night slipped away. That’s called a kopstootje, the Netherland’s signature one-two combo of genever chased by a beer. I touched on the tradition in my latest Food Republic post. Curious? Drink it up!
The tale of how I got drunk with the vice president of Panama begins, most perversely, with porn.
Several months ago, an editor at a skin magazine asked me to pen an article on rum. This ain’t strange. Porn mags are packed with stories on sports, video games and booze—even the horniest horndog will tire of gazing at endless pages of theatrically contorted women. This is where I, pardon the pun, come in. The article concerned itself with the rise of rhum agricole, a specialty of the French West Indies fashioned with fresh-pressed sugarcane juice, and aged rums. Taking cues from bourbon and Scotch, rum distillers such as Ron Zacapa and Mount Gay have begun releasing spirits that’ve slumbered in oak barrels for 10, 15 or even 30 years. Instead of being consigned to a piña colada, the heady, complex spirits are served on the rocks or straight up. Continue reading
The first time I drank mezcal almost doubled as the last. It was the summer of 1999, and I was on a foolhardy road trip to Mexico with my best bud, Andrew; pal Jesse; and ex-girlfriend Lindsay. Her attendance, a last-gasp attempt to win back her fickle love, was enough to doom the jaunt. Then came the hurricane.
As we reached the border in eastern Texas’ Laredo, not far inland from the Gulf of Mexico, gale-force winds bent our car’s antenna in half. Rain shot down in diagonal bullets. “The border is closing in two hours,” the immigration official declared. “The river is flooding. Hurry!” We sped across the border into Nuevo Laredo, finding the roads ankle-deep with agua and rising. If we ventured deeper into Mexico, we ran the risk of being stranded till the raging Río Grande receded.
“We need to turn around. Now,” Andrew said, his voice urgent. In my reptilian brain, I knew he was right. But we’d driven more than 1,500 miles to reach the border. I needed a totem of the trip. “OK, OK—but first we need to buy booze,” I said. We splashed into a liquor store, indiscriminately grabbing bottles of tequila and worm-filled mezcal. Afterward, we high-tailed it to the States and, by the grace of youthful fearlessness and dumb luck, made it to a Texas hotel to ride out the storm. We were safe. My half-cocked plan to woo Lindsay on a Mexican beach was destroyed.
“Come on, let’s drink,” I commanded, eager to blunt the pain of foiled puppy love. Continue reading
Ahh, nothing like sweet alcohol to make you consider beastiality with an inanimate object.