9% ABV bottled
Here’s to the idiots that order stupid drinks.
To the drunk buffoon in Murray Hill who approached the bartender and nonchalantly asked for a round of Starry Night shots. “And what the fuck are those?” eye-rolled the bartender, humiliating the fellow enough that he amended his order to straight tequila. After the guy went back to his group of undesirables, the bartender and I snickered at the order, before realizing, hey, that shot probably looks pretty cool when executed correctly. For the record, the recipe is Goldschlager floated on a Jaegermeister shot.
To the just-out-of-college girl I played the game of seduction with on the Lower East Side. I thought I was successfully hitting on her, especially when she suggested we leave her group of friends and head to the bar to toast our near-future fornication with some Redheaded Slut shots, her treat. I didn’t really enjoy them but we had several. The girl was a Brunettehead and by the end of the night I learned that either my game was not that tight…or she just wasn’t a slut.
To the thirtysomething chap at a recent wedding who claimed “his” drink was a White Russian. Seriously guy? That’s no one’s drink. Except The Dude’s. And we all know you’re just trying to copy him to be cool. But that’s not cool, because everyone’s seen “The Big Lebowski” and everyone–the Vice Blogger included–tried to make and/or order him or herself a White Russian in the days after first seeing the legendary picture. And that was like a decade ago. Now true, it’s a solid enough cocktail, no question, but it’s no one’s “drink.” No one could possibly spend all evening drinking cocktails full of heavy cream, Kahlua, and vodka. Get real.
To the girl I saw just last week at The Ginger Man order a vodka martini with “alotta olives, please.” When she got handed her cocktail, the bottom of the glass was so full of olives, at least a dozen of them, that I was forced to sardonically remark: “Jeez, ya’ trying to steal a free meal to go along with your drink?” She coquettishly laughed, thinking I was flirting, staying near my side for a few seconds longer, expecting me to continue conversing with her, to further slay her with my alluring repartee. I, however, turned back to my drink without a follow-up, leaving her to walk away confused. “That girl liked you, why didn’t you keep hitting on her?,” asked my equally confused, and desperate, drinking buddy. He didn’t understand either, that line, delivered as I delivered it, would have indeed been flirtateous in nature were it hurled toward an attractive woman. But it was nothing but pure scorn when said to the kind of disgusting fat bitch that eats an entire glass of bar olives marinating in a splash of Stoli.
To the girl I was on a recent drinking date with, our first time out together. We entered the pub and sat at a table in the far back. The place lacked waitress service so, in a rare bout of chivalry, I offered to go up to the bar and get our first round. I told my 24-year-old companion that I was in the mood for bourbon, and what would she like? “A slippery nipple,” she shot back. I pinky-cleaned some excess shower water from my ear canals before asking, just to be sure, “HUH?!” “A slippery nipple, with ice,” she replied. I smiled wide at her without saying anything further, turned to head to the bar, then bypassed the bartender, walked out of the establishment, and sprinted up the street to the Russian Vodka Room. I’m getting too old to spend my time with idiots, I thought to myself as I turned off my cell and ordered two shots of infused vodka.
Come on people, you’re adults. Ordering these drinks at watering holes is akin to going into a fine steakhouse and asking for a cardboard stick of hot pink cotton candy as your entree. Grow the fuck up.
But the funny thing is, the irony is, that I constantly see these buffoons drinking beverages more childish than Ecto Cooler, yet I’m the one that gets stared at, that gets questioned, when I order the most normal of libations.
“Hey man, what’s that WEIRD drink ya just ordered?” is a refrain I constantly hear from needling strangers.
Well, in this case, the hoi polloi would be correct, Midas Touch is one fucking weird drink. I nearly called it one fucking weird beer, but I’m not quite sure that’s a fully accurate label.
It pours orange/red like a strong apple cider you’d get at a farmers’ market. It smells like a sour/wild ale, very interesting. And, wow, what an odd taste. There’s a clear reason why. A handcrafted ancient ale brewed with a recipe of barley, honey, white muscat grapes, and saffron among other things, this brew is Dogfish Head’s attempt to recreate an elixir found to have been drank by THE King Midas countless centuries earlier.
Overall, it tastes at times like a mead (a beverage I’ve had only once or twice in my life), a white wine chardonnay, a barley wine, and a wild ale mix. Very bready, and carbonated like a weak champagne. It took me nearly two hours to polish off a twelve-ounce bottle. The beer is so potent–in complexity, not necessarily alcohol, though that too–that I could only handle eye drop size sips each time my mouth went to glass.
I’m damn glad I had the Midas Touch, but I’m not sure I’d ever want to have another! It’s just not a complete success. Having said that, I insist that any beer lover give this one a whirl. It is something that demands to be experienced.