Speak never, friends and loyal readers (both of you), that I’ve not drank within an establishment dubbed by a designation of hat, lest they be put asunder. The fallacious malalignment could not be further from its proper port of purpose. My penchant for the spirituous potable is rivaled only by my delight of nomenclature doffed from haberdashery. Hear me, young man, for I have gone East, to Gaslight Village’s Derby Station. And found have I the rejoinder to the enigma of my traveller’s weariness.
The answer is, enigmatically: The Enigma.
No question, the Enigma is bright enough to revive and strong enough to unwind, a balance that could grow wonted enough to put the “addict” back in “enigmaddict.” Its gentle flavor and warm grasp offers a tranquil poolside tipple that puts the “dip” back in “dipsomania.”
I believe it was Umberto Eco who wrote, “But now I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth. Also it is made terrible by this damned hangover. Damn this hangover! Someone get me an omelette or something! Or some haystacks!”
But then again, I have been drinking.
HARK AS I RECKON AND SHALL YOU DISCOVER THE HEART AND MAKE OF THE ENIGMA.
1 oz. each:
-Vodka
-Malibu Coconut Rum
-Amaretto
-Southern Comfort
Muddle some fresh mint and add a splash of orange juice, cranberry and grenadine. Shake that mother and pour it into a tulip glass, garnishing with cherries and slices of lemon and lime. Drink with two lips.
