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.
Margarita & I 