Lost and Found
I don’t lose things. There, I said it. I’m sure I jinxed myself. I will likely not find my keys tomorrow morning. But the thing is, I’ll find them after I replace them. I misplace things. I can’t find things. But they always seem to show up sooner or later. It’s to the point where I get a bit complacent because I just expect things to appear. I lost a CD for years and I suddenly found it when I threw out a broken CD player. My favorite bottle opener went missing for almost a year when I found it in a pair of winter jeans. This could be the topic of another post (or a therapy session), but I’ve had more than one girl that has broken up with me reach out years later with intonations that we should get back together. I was never sure what to make of that. I guess years without contact suddenly makes me more attractive.
The epitome of my lost and found skills took place on October 23, 2005. How do I know the date? I was with my friends tailgating for the upcoming Giants Broncos football game. Our tailgates are pretty basic: burgers, beer, chips. The exception is that I usually make martinis for myself. Yes, I’m drinking martinis at 10 AM, which I happen to think is pretty cool. When it gets colder, I switch to Manhattans. During this particular tailgate, I remember taking my ticket and for safe keeping, so it wouldn’t get lost, placing it in my back pocket. As is customary with our tailgates, everything runs smoothly until the Chinese fire drill that comes about 20 minutes prior to kickoff. Then its a mad race to clean up and get into the game. While approaching the stadium entrance I reached back into my pocket for my ticket but it isn’t there. I checked my other pocket. It wasn’t there either.
For me, whenever I misplace something I always look in the places where I know it isn’t. It’s basically a psychological stall tactic so I can bide my time while my mind can process the information that something is missing and develop a plan. So I’m checking front pockets, jacket pockets, rechecking back pockets, all to no avail, since I distinctly remember putting the ticket in my back pocket. At this point, rather than abandon the game, I scalp a ticket (heh – I was actually excited to get one at less than face value) and enter the stadium. I watched the game from my usual seat in the stands. I may have lost my ticket, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch the game from another seat. The Giants won the game 24-23 on a touchdown with 5 seconds left in the game. I was happy to be there.
I get home and start taking off clothes to shower. It was a cool day so I was dressed a bit in layers for the weather. I take off my jeans and out falls my ticket. Apparently instead of putting the ticket in my back pocket, I slide my hand inside my jeans and put it down my ass. So I spent the game sitting on my ticket in my seat. I told this story to my tailgating buddies at the next game. You can imagine the reaction. I haven’t lived it down since. I’m convinced one of the reasons I’m still invited to tailgate is so my friends can tell me before every game to check my ass for my ticket. It’s become such a legend, that I expect that this story is told at my wake. I like to think my wake will be a big cocktail party with people telling stories about me. At this point I don’t have a will, so I will use this blog to state my wish. Feel free to skip the funeral, it’s just an Our Father, some music, and six pallbearers. That doesn’t really sound like fun, does it? Just make sure I’m buried with a flask of Scotch and I’ll be fine for eternity. I’d prefer Islay Scotch. If I’m spending eternity with it, I want something I’ll enjoy.
That is a long preamble on how that innate characteristic (I’m hesitant to call it a skill) came to my discovery of the recipe for one of my new favorite cocktails. I was in New York on a work team building activity called The Accomplice. It is a sort of participatory theater/scavenger hunt activity. After that tomfoolery, my work group went out for drinks. After a trip to PDT (a future blog post if there ever was one), we went to Death & Co. A group of six of us settled into a booth and order drinks and food. Our server was a lovely woman that made an impression on the table, to the point of Laura asking “why don’t I know her name?” I didn’t miss my cue and introduced myself and all my coworkers to the splendid Katie on her next service visit. The drinks, pork belly and conversation were flying. I’d venture that I’m the most cocktail savvy in my work group, although Laura is now giving me a run for my money. After a few I asked Katie for something off the menu. She questions me about my preferences, judges my palate and knowledge, devilishly smiles, and says she will be back. At this point I think Katie had seduced over half our table, and that includes the women.
She brings me a cocktail I’ve never before experienced. I bend over and smell the aroma, and then I bend over and do it again. At this point Laura says “WOW, you never do that!” Of course she was spot on, it did have an overly appealing nose. I tasted it and was in heaven. I ordered the same drink again, which is completely unheard of for me in a top flight cocktail bar. Perhaps instead of burying me with Scotch, just mix this cocktail and put it in my flask. I was becoming friendlier with Katie as the evening wore on. I think it was a combination of her bringing me this fine beverage, her unmitigating charm, and the fact that my name was the only one she remembered from the table introductions. Likelier is the number of cocktails I had downed. Either way, Luis never had a chance with her.
I enjoyed the drink so much that I asked Katie for the recipe. She obliged and brought me a printout of the ingredients. As I went to put the recipe in my pocket, Laura insisted that she hold it for safe keeping. It seemed reasonable at the time, so she took custody of the recipe. The evening wore on and further monkeyshines ensued (definitely not a future blog post if there ever was one). The next day I asked Laura for the recipe and it was lost. Nowhere to be found. I was already thinking about returning to Death & Co. to fetch another copy, but I wasn’t even sure how to describe what I wanted. However, another trip to see Katie wouldn’t exactly be tough to face.
A week passes and I get a text message from Laura.
you now how you said you never lose things and they just turn up later? well i went to reference the picture i took of the heart in my cappunccino on friday and…
There it was. The drink recipe that I had been seeking. Laura took a cell phone picture of it that evening to make sure it survived. So far the paper hasn’t appeared to my knowledge, but the cocktail is now mine to enjoy. As for what happened to the paper between the cell phone picture and the next morning, that is still a mystery. Either way, a visit to see Katie is still a fine idea. And I still expect the paper to show up sooner or later. For now, I’ll let you work with the recipe I have. It only seems fair.
The Shruffs End uses a peaty Islay Scotch. The whiskies from that region have a very distinct flavor; one that isn’t used very often in cocktails. It is the Peat Monster that made me go back for another whiff of the cocktail’s bouquet. The Benedictine softens and lengthens the finish in a way that makes me want another sip as soon as I put it down.
Shruffs End
Mmmm…..to die for.
my cocktail journey 