A memory

It’s been a shamefully long while since I’ve courted a Margarita, partly because of one particularly unfortunate recent romance with a tequila shot, and partly because my writing efforts may have got distracted thinking up an alternative ending to the groundbreaking who-killed-lucy-beale pandemic (whatactuallyhappenedis.wordpress.com). But now in an unexpected twist of lavish fate, I’ve somehow found myself sitting on a plane to Los Angeles – partly still trying to come to terms with the fact I’ve been put here, but mainly with the memory of why I started this blog in the first place. So pull up your flight socks people, it’s time to go back to an innocent 2008 when my mind was purer, my heart was larger, and my liver was nothing more than a curious infant none the wiser than the egg shell who seemed to be masquerading as America’s President:

It was my 18t birthday, and Dad with his knack for surprises had booked us a short trip away to New York for my present. He had been to the big apple a lot over the years, so our itinerary was carefully planned so we could squeeze in all of the beautiful city’s best bits in the 4 days we were there. This of course included the mandatory half a day in Abercrombie & Fitch so my teenage, Essex self could make myself look more teenage and Essex, blushing my way past the models with their Home & Away biceps & perfect hair follicles in the process. A fine time.

The problem was shopping with Dad had it’s concerns, firstly because he worked in fashion so he spent most of the time gallivanting off with his camera photographing the latest turtle neck sweater, and secondly because he’s just as much of an idiot I am and one time he ran straight into a shop window in the belief that, well, there wasn’t one. So making sure I didn’t lose him amongst the lights was the key to my American dream, and together he made sure I was lucky enough to curtsy at Her Liberty, cry for Mufasa on Broadway and take down a waffle that was probably larger than my very own thigh. But best of all was the evening Dad had organised with his friends, Caroline, Daniel & Gasper – and that, dare I begin – was to include the introduction to a certain Professor Marg.

We started off at Daniel & Gasper’s apartment, with your don’t-be-silly-view-from-the-roof-terrace and premium décor that, for some reason, didn’t look at all like Monica in Friends living room but I wasn’t willing to address this issue. The atmosphere was what the Queen may deduce as jovial; old friends reuniting, a daughter in awe of everything, a champagne bottle that apparently wasn’t willing to drink itself. Yet despite this luxury bev, there was talk of another sultry sort lingering behind the black curtain, and the word “Margarita” was starting to be flung around the centre stage to the alto howl of NEW YERRRRRRRRAWWWWK! CONCRETE JUNGLE WHERE DREA – nope. Stop. Back in your Bronx Jay-Z.

I digress. Now, of course to the trained adult human, the Margarita is a timely treat that does sordid things to a trained adult human, but here I was, 18, wondering why in the name of Ernest Hemingway would this novella conclude with a cheese and tomato pizza? I was confused, and also pretty bloody indignant, but I wasn’t willing to fess up my qualms in the company of such a divine fellowship (plus I was a little drunk and maybe a cheese and tomato pizza wouldn’t be so bad). So with my fears suppressed and hopes pinned on an unexpected ghastly feast, we taxi’d off to a restaurant that for all it’s holy praise was beginning to make the promised land sound like a family day out to Argos. Because what I haven’t mentioned is that this promised Margarita sat next to a claim with “WORLD’S GREATEST” tattooed on it’s forehead, and just so you know how serious I am, I’m not even prepared to muse over a joke about R. Kelly. (This time).

So. Presented unto me like a royal cushion, I’ll never quite forget those hesitant moments of deduction: that the drink winking me in the face was not, indeed, a pizza. First impressions therefore – I was pleased. The sugar coated rim on the glass looked absolutely immense, and I was suddenly reminiscent of eating rice crispies as a child: that final, monumental spoonful when you realise there is in fact no more rice crispies, just a scoop of nature’s naughtiest sugarcane. A similar feeling to finding yourself with a KitKat finger born without a wafer. Dream. Chomping at the proverbial bit, I couldn’t wait to get my chastised chops on the shugs, and was expecting nothing less than a snap crackle pop sensation with perhaps some vodka undertones to burn away at my sweet tooth. But:

“SWIG ME SIDEWAYS!” SAID I!

“SALT AT THE RIM!” LAUGHED HE!

“BET YOU DIDN’T EXPECT THAT! ” SCORNED THE INCARNATION OF SATAN!

The shock! The outrage! THE – wait one moment Diablo, this is bloody delicious? It’s sharp, but sweet, and zesty… it’s positively naughtay! What a premium feast! Caroline, Daniel, Gasper – through my blurry eyes I see that you were right!! And so this lives on as my first Marg, and by no means my last, as the night unfolded into one of my fondest nights ever with the loveliest of people, with the knowledge that I had graduated (illegally – teehee) into a new and sophisticated cocktail of adulthood.

Sitting here now I’m reminded of that evening more than ever and everything about that trip that made it so special. But I’m also reminded of the endless plane journeys Dad went on and how much he loved travelling, from the reviews of all the films he watched (“I managed to stay awake to watch three films Mia – THREE FILMS!”) to the complimentarily blindfolds and flight socks he brought me home when I was little and had trouble sleeping. I remember that flight to New York ending with us trying (and failing) to list all 50 states together, him teaching me how to do killer Sudokus, and most ridiculously, when he decided it was the prime opportunity to tell me about the time his plane got struck by lighting.

Dad, I wish now I could be telling you about my flight, the people I’ll meet and the work I’ll be doing in L.A. I wish I could tell you the incredible story of the ex Egyptian Air Force pilot who drove me to the airport, or watching ‘The Imitation Game’ on Virgin’s Vera because I know how much you would have loved it. Or that I’m eating Green & Black’s chocolate because it was your favourite (but also because it’s free and I’m not lavish enough to afford it on Earth).

I wish I could tell you that I’m writing this for you, because flying reminds me most of you. Most of all, I wish I could tell you that it’s not just because I know wherever I go you’re right there with me, but that – even if it’s for just a few hours – at 30,000ft high in the skies, I hope I’m just that little bit closer to where you are in heaven. So until I land, I suppose it’s high time I fetch me Margarita, and as always I’ll toast this one to you Dad, and the memories that will never fly away.

A small thing.

So it’s my first post of 2015, and as some strange humans in the world commit to a bizarre life plan called dry January, I instead wish you sensible people a happy new year with a belated Margarita report. The night in question dates back to a blistery December Saturday, one that should have been spent in the confines of my bed shopping online for presents, but instead here I was, at work, pitching, albeit still finding the time Christmas shop (for myself). But alas, I didn’t mind too much, as what awaited me in the evening was a Miami themed house party, which meant I could start a rebellion and wear my stunning Hawaiian shirt off season:

(I’m in love with Harry Redknapp. Do read.) Excellent attire aside, I was firstly en route to meet Heather, as she had recently found a new little cocktail bar in Brixton for us to peruse called ‘Three Eight Four.’ Her recommendation was mainly informed by a cocktail named Bombay Kitchen (the magical thing came with chutney and mini popadoms) so with some time to drink we took it upon ourselves to find out which other cocktails on the menu would be just as mind blowing. As the old saying goes, one thing lead to another:

Don’t judge dear drinkers, it was Christmas! An excuse which, by the way, is totally ok to use on the run up to New Year, starting from, like, now. So without stretching your alcoholic powers of deduction by asking you to guess which unknowns may have filled these handsome glasses, the glistening diva at the back was the remains of a Cherry Bakewell Caprioska. So beautiful it was, that it convinced me this is actually what Mr Kipling had in mind when he rustled up the nation’s favourite Bakewell in his oven. Him and Mrs K must have got blattered every night the kinky crusaders! The other victims of our curiosity were a Rum & Orange Julep, a Four in a Pink (gin based), Espresso Martinis (with an extra espresso as we suddenly felt old and tired), Heather’s favourite and quite frankly horrid Negroni, and of course, for moi, the Margarita. Not listed on the menu, I figured every cocktail maker would know how to make one, and in a bar which cooked some of their cocktail ingredients in a wok infront of you (the danger was electrifying) I suspected my Margarita could be served with purple fire. What actually came was this bad boy:

With a lime that couldn’t be more perfectly circular, my expectations were off the charts folks. There was just one small problem… A mini minor teeny one… where the hell was the other half of my drink?! Hello! This wouldn’t have been enough to satisfy a toddler! I mean, I wouldn’t even give this to a toddler. ***I would not give alcohol to a toddler. *** Wait. Wait. Calm the crap down Mia, it’s not all about quantity as some stranger in history once said. This could be more intense than a Michael Fassbender stare…

Michael Fassbender…

Magneto…

staring…

Oh, writing. Margaritas. Oh yes.

I erotically distress. Attempting to see past this sizeable injustice, sadly, very sadly, oh so very very sadly, this Brixton based Margarita didn’t deliver friends. The proportions were all skewif, the salt made my eyes involuntarily squeeze into themselves and with just a few sips I couldn’t reconcile myself with the fact that it was all over before it even began. But it wasn’t quite the abomination as it sounds, as after experiencing all the other majestic cocktails with a bloody banging food menu to boot, I really couldn’t recommend Thee Eight a Four enough. So what if this Margarita was short and sour?! I still had a lovely time, and with inflatable palm trees awaiting me, it could only get lovelier. So as the evening unfolded with Heather cantering off to see Annie Mac and myself across London in Hawaiian dress, I leave you with a profound New Year tiding: if you’re disappointed by something small, its probably because it’s not big enough for your heart. Happy New Year beautiful followers! x

Milan and a Margarita darling

The end of November has marked my final trip of a year full of European voyages, and I was not prepared to experience the wonders of Milan without a Margarita to match. But before you make haste and frown upon my soul for not indulging in Italian vinos, an aperol spritz or a smooth and sultry limoncello – I can assure you tequila didn’t dominate my Milanese Christmas spirits. It just so happened I was about to find out that drinking of any kind in this beautiful city was to be the cultural eye opener, and not just because you could still get a Diet Coke from this ludicrous vendor:

RONALD? NO GRAZIE! I was very distressed in the face of such injustice, shining through the festive twinkles like the beacon of Hell. But alas, I had no time to get all Isabella Rossellini about this pabulum, as a certain Mrs Keywood-Mistry and I were here to visit our friend Tabs who had recently left the world of advertising to become an au pair. Dear drinker, you may think that this is a groundbreaking career change, but lest I remind you Arnold Schwarzenegger is now involved in politics:

So. Promising to be a simple three day extravaganza, when we finally got our act together to leave the flat on our first night out at the grand time of 2.30am, it seemed we were in for a catastrophe that could mirror the end of Napoleon’s reign. What we didn’t know we were in for was an introduction to a way of life so beautiful I considered what it meant to have nothing to declare and emigrate there and then: the Apertivo. Tell thy more? Oh go on then.

The Apertivo is a tradition of pre-meal drinks which apparently evolved after an absolute genius amongst men began to lure people in to his bar by offering out sultry snacks. FOR FREE. That’s right folks. Food for thought FOR FREE. And this happens every day. From 6pm-9pm. Every day. FOR FREEEEEE. Isn’t that wild? I felt wild folks. More wild than Steppenwolf.

So here we were, day 2, it’s 6pm, we’re in the Aperol cocktail bar by the Duomo, and suddenly a waiter appears holding a paper cone full of chips, a risotto ball, a Parma ham pastry, a caramelized onion on top of a cracker and, rather oddly, one square of a tuna sandwich. Admittedly, this last addition left me feeling very confused; I was pretty sure we hadn’t done anything to deserve any of this but the tuna sandwich in particular made me feel like I had the munchies after smoking something naughty. Did I eat in anyway? You better your bottom Euro I did!

Delicious canopies aside, its time to talk about the main course. Now, whilst Tabs and Heather oozed elegance with their short martinis, I instead ordered what turned out to be an absolute heffa– a frozen passionate fruit Margarita. I had clearly got confused about the weather, it was minus 500 degrees outside and I chose the froze, but what can I say, I was in Italy, I was after some passion. So here’s what it looked like:

Yes. You may observe it is very very yellow. It’s fair to say I was taken aback by the amount of yellow I was being faced with. But as we’ve learnt from the Buddha, life is all about balance, so even though what we had here was a garish body, the delicately poised spoon on top was nothing but a pleasure to scoop. Greg Wallace would have taken that spoon and let it caress the curves of his nose. The problem was as soon as I had a sly sip I realised very quickly I couldn’t finish the giant. I tried, Julius Caesar knows I tried, but it was too much for me to handle – it’s a pre-meal drink after all, I wanted to leave space for five pizzas.

The rest of the evening involves happenings best left to the cloud service of Italian Tinder (Tabs was a full on Italian resident now, she should be getting to know the locals) so I shall leave you with the plea to go to Milan, indulge in Aperitifs, visit the Duomo, have a peruse by the canal, order pumpkin ravioli (with a hot chocolate and a spoon) but know that perhaps this particular Margarita is best to order during the sunny season of Italy. Whether you want that tuna square served with it – that, my friends, is up to you.

A delicious sip of chaos

There’s a famous Latin doctrine ordo ab chao ; out of chaos, comes order. An old motto for Freemasonry, usually used in the context of discussing the general disastrous running of the world, also, I feel, appropriate to describe what is needed for this Margarita critiquing process. To explain, this is now my sixth post and I think it’s about time I implement a solid rating routine for each tequila talisman.

Before you think I’m going all crude on you, I’m not talking a general ‘out of 10’ folks. A cocktail as sultry as the Margarita deserves more than that defaming ambiguity. No. But don’t worry, what we’ll be doing is no where near as sleazy as wine goers objectifying their libation by swirling it around and swooning over it’s legs. We treat our Margarita’s with more integrity than that friends.

So, where to begin? For me, there’s several key areas that need to be addressed when on the receiving end of your God or Goddess:

1) The Glass. Capital G. From previous posts, you may note that on occasions I’ve been left feeling pretty bloody indignant when some 21st century rogue decides to serve me a Margarita in anything other than a triangular glass. It’s like Buzz Lightyear waking up one day and oddly finding himself in squeezed into Kermit the frog. I’m traditional, what can I say. But I’m also not totally square. So if your glass is less geometric, that’s ok, but it’s probably because it’s being served on ice. Psssh.

2) An evenly applied salt-rim. Do I need to say more?

3) Actually, yes I do. Let’s sip back, relax and discuss salt for a moment folks. Now, any fabulous chef will tell you the secret to a successful naughty feast is in the seasoning, get that wrong and your palette is going to sit naked and cry in the corner. And with sea, Kosher, pickling, Himalayan and black salt only scraping the surface of this sodium and chloride combo, the possibilities are endless! So. Think about whether the salt is complimenting your drink or destroying it, there’s such a thing as too salty folks. But don’t worry about your cholesterol, save that for the hangover.

3) How fresh is your lemon? There’s nothing more inhumane than a citrus fruit that’s lost it’s zest. You wouldn’t expect to see Jesus walking on water without his beard. Some things belong.

4) The toddy itself. Traditionally, a Margarita is the majestic blend of 1 1/2 oz tequila, 1/2 ozpremium triple sec, 1 oz lime/lemon juice and sometimes sweet & sour mix. Of course, we live in a modern free pouring world, and we all have our own preferences. Personally, I wouldn’t mind tweaking those measurements so the ratio of tequila to the rest, like, doubled. But anyway. A well-balanced beverage is key, so if you’re indulging in a more flavoursome variety, remember your choice ingredient shouldn’t overpower the tequila itself. That would be silly.

5) The brand of tequila. No need to get sassy folks, but you wouldn’t build your house on Tesco value foundations.

6) Inventiveness. Which brings me to this chappy, a jalapeño Margarita:

Discovered at ‘Casa Bar’ on Soho’s Wardour Street, on the surface of the menu, it sounded frankly dangerous, I was very worried about the burn. But here’s where the territory of inventiveness sings out to the world with baritone vocals, because the holistic effect of this drink was just heart warming. Quite literally, it warmed my heart. All I can say is that after dancing down my oesophagus with a delicate grace, gradually the combination of alcohol and chilli began to feel like a slow burning marriage that was destined to last forever in my mouth. Magical. Go there and buy one folks.

7) I digress. Finally, the overall Margarita experience. Where did you go, who were you with, did you request ‘No Diggity’, did you turn into a kleptomaniac, did you meet someone special, did you OI OI SAVELOY. The drink is only as fabulous as how you feel holding it folks.

So that’s it. My seven-fold order out of Margarita chaos. Actually something that makes perfectly no sense in relation to that Latin phrase, but hey, Latin never made sense anyway.

“Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.” – Frank Sinatra

For some time now, myself and fellow mischief maker Heather have contemplated the need for a reliable 3am establishment to visit any night of the week. That’s including Monday folks. Naughtily, such a place in our beautiful big smoke usually falls onto the private members’ club spectrum, and finding the right one to join can feel akin to choosing a religious path. A holy task. But with potential sins cast to one side, we only had one question to ask ourselves: which prayers did we want answered in our desired place of worship?

Our first issue was the vastness of private member’s spectrum, insofar that on one side you can find yourself sitting in an antique dealer’s interpretation of Oscar Wilde’s living room being chatted up by a rich elderly American, and on the other, bumping into Samuel Jackson. A very different type of rich elderly American. We also hadn’t reached the point in our lives where we had a million pounds to burn at the end of our platinum plated cigars every month, or probably rolled our way through the required social circles to be recommended to Soho’s finest. Yet.

But alas, aware of my love for my betrothed Margarita, it was only a matter of time before Heather discovered a clandestine Mexican residence in the heart of Soho’s sex shopping district: the Pink Chiwawa. It sounded exotic and promising, yet we didn’t want to get ahead of ourselves – as the old medieval proverbs goes, you can take a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

SAID NO ONE WHO HAD BEEN EVER.

As when we walked in to be musically greeted by two middle aged gentlemen with waxed moustaches playing a double bass and a menu full of Margarita miracles, it became clear that Seabiscuit had never taken a swig from this holy cup of tequila. Furthermore, I was about to find myself on a thrinder date with Tommy, who incidentally looked way more attractive with the Chiwawa’s signature pink glow shining down on him like a neon halo:

Lord hath mercy for thou hath found our deliverance! And deliverance has never tasted so bloody lovely. No wonder midnight mass was so popular with this zesty squire to wash away our cardinal sins! Needless to say, loyal disciples we have become, and if you’re ever looking for us at 3am, look again to our wise friend Mr Sinatra, as you’ll most likely find us here, lying flat on our face. 

Tommy

There’s an incriminating theory at my current agency that I’m partial to the odd potent refreshment. Clearly, this blog is not going to boost my defence, no matter how much I insist the water I keep on my desk is potable and not vodka. Nevertheless, the following Margarita mayhem was the product of an impromptu Friday frolic to the Hospital Club in Covent Gardens with said damning work chums; a questionable life decision considering a 10am drive to Nottingham was how I was going to spend my morning hangover. As the driver. But what can you do when you encounter a gentleman called Tommy:

Now, before you think I’ve gone completely delirious personifying cocktails as human males, I can assure you that my introduction to a Tommy’s Margarita was entirely platonic. Saying that, I couldn’t help but observe I was treating this encounter like a first date.

Before I go on, pray take note that I’m by no means a shallow person, but we’d all be lying to ourselves if we didn’t admit our first impressions of someone are partly made up by one’s looks. So you can imagine my alarm when noticing Tommy was missing one distinctive feature: the salt rim. The equivalent of my date turning up without eyebrows. Then there was the confusion regarding the glass; a robust body with an art deco pattern? Swipe left ladies. This would be the sort of man who wears Adidas trainers with Nike socks. Finally, the floating lemon. I’m all into eccentricity but not wedging your lemon into the glass was so upsetting that my date could have turned up holding his pet rat in his mouth. It might be time to get my friend to make that fake phone call saying she’s been in a car accident and is on her way to hospital. BUT WAIT. I’m at the Hospital Club. What the bloody hell do I do?

I took a sip back and let the magic of love run it’s course is what. As once I started to get to know Tommy, I realised he was pretty sweet. So what if he lacked a salt-rim? He was different, and I liked it! I even took him for a boogie on a dance-floor accompanied by a hula hoop – and funnily enough, the more we danced, the nicer I thought he was. In fact, I had such a lovely time, I think I might choose to see him again. It’s always what’s on the inside that counts folks.

A tale of a Roman hen

Over three years ago I entered the beautiful world of advertising, innocent, over-excited and despite the three years prior to that at Uni, with a fairly healthy complexion. Then I met Heather. Corruption ensued. As did the growth of a lovely friendship. Which is why her hen do in Rome wasn’t going to be anything but corrupt, no matter how lovely. In between consuming a frankly absurd amount of pasta, finding a fitting Italian stallion to sing ‘Mamma Mia’ to me, the theft of a 118 wig, encounters with Mexicans, riding bicycles off diving boards and being removed from a hotel for deciding a suitcase trolley was instead a suitable mode of transport, step aside locally sourced red wine because an unexpected gladiator has paraded into the arena with greater sexual velour and stolen Silvio Berlusconi’s clothes:

Now I know what you’re thinking – those Italians can’t half tailor sensational suits but I didn’t know what trickery they could achieve with a peel of lime?! Look at the cheeky swirl! My mind was blown. Then there was the glass. Clearly compressed in the womb of Italy’s answer to John Lewis, my Margarita experience was finally finding finesque in the suburbs of Rome. Naturally, we got the waitress to photograph our unconventional cocktail desolation:

Even more naturally, it was time to go forth and party like Pirlo. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations.

JE SUIS IVRE

The last time I went away with my Essex faithful was Zante 2008, a debauched affair which may or may not have featured one member’s encounter with a transvestite in the sea. Our trip to Disney Land in 2014 was bound to be less riskay, considering we were surrounded by children. But Paris is Paris, and Essex is Essex, combine those two worlds and Mickey Mouse is in for a treat. What we didn’t factor in was that chief organiser and Disney marketing guru Sam would break her leg a few days before we left:

Quel désastre! But not to fear mes amis. With the spirit of the nations’ ‘98 World Cup winners (but not that of the French revolution), team work prevailed to ensure hot wheels would roll her way to a bloody good weekend away. So when we ventured out for a 3 course French feast on our first night, we chose Le Marais, a beautiful part of the city wheely close to lots of lovely bars and clubs. Turns out our friends over the channel are also partial to a Margarita, so there was only one thing for it:

… but wait one moment, Monseiur! It seems you have served me this glorious libation in a kahari bowl instead of the traditionally triangular variety! And what an earth is this straw? Shall I expect the consistency of an Oreo milkshake? Was Boris Johnson’s haircut your inspiration when unevenly applying my salt? Non? Fromage? JE SUIS FURIOUS. One shoe Sam, get a hop on, we’re out of here.

Bras for Prosecco

I had the idea for this blog when on a silly night out with two of my favourite ladies and ex-colleagues, Heather & Alex. I was two weeks in to my new job, and thinking our over-due reunion was off to a civilised start over dinner at Yalla Yalla; four cocktails, one bottle of wine, one party with a midget dressed up as an elf and one failed attempt at trying leave later, we ended up in Angel’s finest rock-bar, Slim Jims. Highlights include the sophisticated opportunity to exchange your bra for a bottle of Prosecco, Alex being pursued by a 7 foot German and the poltergeist of Abraham Lincoln joining us for a round of glitter bombs:

But most of all, the Margarita, which I had two of and were bloody delicious. Of course, I didn’t make it home that night (I stayed at Alex’s house, no need to gossip here folks) but like most of the ideas I’ve ever had, the best ones are always the ones I forget from the night before. With a photo to serve as a reminder, I hope this blog will be one of them.