Saturday, May 13, 2006
Swiss cheese
The view from the top of Singapore's Swiss hotel:
If you ever want to make me a martini, go ahead. For all of you novice drink makers (and people who have been living in a cave for, like, ever) a martini is; cold gin, vermouth and some sort of nosh. I prefer a green olive. Simple. Pop it into some sort of martini glass, and away we go. Down the hatch and my funny factor skyrockets. (…at least from my side) People have been known to make martinis out of vodka and I think that’s just fine. You won’t get me involved in some mindless conversation about which is better. And if you happen to run into someone who thinks that one is better than the other and is willing to debate about it and about your personal tastes, cut him off, because the evening will only get worse. It won’t be long before he starts reliving his sexual conquests at increasing volume and eventually end up on all fours, unable to decide if he should cry some more or just empty his guts into a planter in front of a bank.
I have read martini menus, and I’ve seen what those things are trying to pass off as martinis. There are two things I think you should know about these types of drinks. They are NOT martinis. They are complicated sweet drinks in martini glasses. And the sole reason that they exist is so that girls can get drunk. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting those drinks down. Nor am I saying that if you happen to stray into THAT menu you are a girl (but you are) And besides, I like drunk girls. I think it’s adorable the way makeup wears off as the evening wears on. If someone is going to hurl into a planter it should be a girl. (Please, don’t ever ask me why that turns me on.) I’m reminded of holding a certain dates red hair as she blew gallons of fuzzy navel into my mother’s variegated hostas. …Funny stuff there. By the way a combination of, fuzzy navel, stomach acid and wedding cake is pretty hard on taffeta, but you should see what it did for the hostas. They totally took off.
There are also those who like shit like bleu cheese in their olives and brine dumped in the drink. To me this looks and tastes like backwash. I say, save that for the Bloody Mary that you will, no doubt, need the following morning. And throw in a pickle!
The reason I bring all this up is because of the Swiss hotel in Singapore. People who know me know that I, like my pal Mark, have a goal to have a drink at the highest bar in every city that I visit. In the case of Singapore it just happens to be the Swiss hotel.
The Swiss hotel has the rare honor of making me the worst martini that I have ever had in my entire life. It was warm, watered down gin in a small water glass. Here’s how bad it was; I sent it back. Anyone who knows me knows that I never send anything back. The reason for this will most likely be the subject of another blog or a third martini tale that I slur to my favorite bartender, as she pretends to be interested.
What’s the moral of this long and pointless blog entry?
Well…
I’m not sure. I guess, if you ever get a chance to go up to Traverse City, go to the top of the Park Place hotel and get a real martini from my favorite bartender Leah. And if you ever go to the Swiss hotel in Singapore don’t.
See you soon Leah!
If you ever want to make me a martini, go ahead. For all of you novice drink makers (and people who have been living in a cave for, like, ever) a martini is; cold gin, vermouth and some sort of nosh. I prefer a green olive. Simple. Pop it into some sort of martini glass, and away we go. Down the hatch and my funny factor skyrockets. (…at least from my side) People have been known to make martinis out of vodka and I think that’s just fine. You won’t get me involved in some mindless conversation about which is better. And if you happen to run into someone who thinks that one is better than the other and is willing to debate about it and about your personal tastes, cut him off, because the evening will only get worse. It won’t be long before he starts reliving his sexual conquests at increasing volume and eventually end up on all fours, unable to decide if he should cry some more or just empty his guts into a planter in front of a bank.
I have read martini menus, and I’ve seen what those things are trying to pass off as martinis. There are two things I think you should know about these types of drinks. They are NOT martinis. They are complicated sweet drinks in martini glasses. And the sole reason that they exist is so that girls can get drunk. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting those drinks down. Nor am I saying that if you happen to stray into THAT menu you are a girl (but you are) And besides, I like drunk girls. I think it’s adorable the way makeup wears off as the evening wears on. If someone is going to hurl into a planter it should be a girl. (Please, don’t ever ask me why that turns me on.) I’m reminded of holding a certain dates red hair as she blew gallons of fuzzy navel into my mother’s variegated hostas. …Funny stuff there. By the way a combination of, fuzzy navel, stomach acid and wedding cake is pretty hard on taffeta, but you should see what it did for the hostas. They totally took off.
There are also those who like shit like bleu cheese in their olives and brine dumped in the drink. To me this looks and tastes like backwash. I say, save that for the Bloody Mary that you will, no doubt, need the following morning. And throw in a pickle!
The reason I bring all this up is because of the Swiss hotel in Singapore. People who know me know that I, like my pal Mark, have a goal to have a drink at the highest bar in every city that I visit. In the case of Singapore it just happens to be the Swiss hotel.
The Swiss hotel has the rare honor of making me the worst martini that I have ever had in my entire life. It was warm, watered down gin in a small water glass. Here’s how bad it was; I sent it back. Anyone who knows me knows that I never send anything back. The reason for this will most likely be the subject of another blog or a third martini tale that I slur to my favorite bartender, as she pretends to be interested.
What’s the moral of this long and pointless blog entry?
Well…
I’m not sure. I guess, if you ever get a chance to go up to Traverse City, go to the top of the Park Place hotel and get a real martini from my favorite bartender Leah. And if you ever go to the Swiss hotel in Singapore don’t.
See you soon Leah!
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