Bar counters, landfills of love
I'm a fine drinker. The typical uptight hateful boundless, that kind of character who wields a blown glass Riedel glass in some corner of Austria as if he were the virgo of a wild Unicorn —the last Unicorn of Middle-earth. That type of obsessive fan (in the end, it doesn't matter if the object of the obsession is the Rhône, Apple junk or Modern Talking) always surrounded by an aura of a dissatisfied and asshole smartass.
Primary aromas, empireumatics, scrubland or cat's piss; those things matter to me. Seriously, I do those things and abuse of implausible adjectives from the stick of voluptuous, sensual, fleshy or fruity ; all a little piggy, yes. When I drink (uh-huh) I open an atlas to the side and conscientiously study the terrain of the vineyard, the local agriculture, the calcareous subsoil (composed of chalk, marl and limestone from the Jurassic) I look for those boulders on Wikipedia, I take absurd notes on index cards tasting that no one will ever read and I shake the glass gracefully, nose in, nose out. Ale hop. Meanwhile, A (let's call her 'A') gazes from afar at the percale—books, glasses, boulders, and a guy with a Staedtler HB2 to his ear and a collin in his hand, wondering what went wrong. If Terrés seemed like such a normal guy. She was wrong.
bar superheroes
But that's not drinking. Drinking (also) is something else. Scatter, scatter me and dissolute life ; tremendous hangovers and abominable hangovers, those of staying hidden under a mohair blanket hugging the pillow of your childhood and a mountain of Ibuprofen. Get drunk, gosh: squander friendships, agenda, money and future ; drink even the water from the vases. Drink just because, because it's time, because it's Thursday (for example) because your ex today is not what he was. Kiko Amat describes it better than you and me . Delirium Tremens: “Head like a deer who just had a tranquilizer dart thrown at him (rubber neck, skull bobbing on chest clapper-like in full Angelus), drool trickling down the corners of his mouth, insteps making grooves in the clay and temporary squint. Fart. Cut. Kurdish. Truffle. Almost unable to walk or talk, although it seems that not to laugh, because I'm tearing myself up from something that must be, without a doubt, hilarious to me.
A bar cogorza. As unpredictable (that's how they are) as tender and devoid of ill will. And since we can't melt the firewood of the friendly taxpayers by gently swiping (“Suavementeeeeeee”) our Black card in any desktop on the Vía Veneto: what less than catch you a good one. Drinking for the sake of drinking —historical melopeas in traditional bars because of concoctions with which your iaio was already chuzando. Make no mistake: your sweet grandfather was happy with Anís del Mono, dear reader of John Green.
And she didn't do it with burgundy or with champagne or even with Tío Pepe, but with what we call today and here 'old drinks' : Monkey anise (Undisputed monarch of the toothpick and squid bar), Sun and shadow (like the one in Verbena, in Malasaña), vermouth (Don Ramón Gómez de la Serna used to say that “vermouth is the aperitif that you can call yourself”), Punch Knight (remember the girl from the commercials?), pomace (so many tajás in the name of the supposed digestive virtues of the orujo…) or the sacrosanct damn , homeland of currelas.
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Chin Chin.
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Ernest Hemingway, question of attitude