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
Margarita & I 