Con Broccoli. This time cavateli con broccoli.
It's been so long since I've had a hangover that I couldn't remember what I can eat that day. My stomach smiled before I was even concious of the words, triggering some primal, drinking man olfactory memory.
I ate the whole thing at Adriana's, waiting for Jans to get his sandwiches. While the woman behind the counter, Margaret, laughed at me. She said, "You must have some hangover."
Two or three martini lunches boggle my mind. One, one is just fine. Sipped. Probably helps when those martinis are done with food, but last night was too much. I remember slamming the second one, like a shot, the martini glass stem cracking in my hand. The world drifting in and out of dull haze into glaring focus, according to some strange Indian meter, my nerves strings on some ethereal sitar.
Nick told me my drink was getting warm. My warm gin martini. So I plucked some hair from my head, tossed it in, and slammed it. I don't know if anyone else got it. Blazing Saddles. The town drunk.
Juniper berries, Bombay Sapphire, the pine smell, reminding me of times under the big trees in our Lake Geneva backyard.
All my favorite alcoholic beverages have some element of earth. Vodka, most bourbons, most whiskeys are drinkable, but they do nothing for me on the spiritual level. Except Jim Beam, which always seemed to help me play the blues better. I don't know why.
Drinking also requires training and discipline. You need to drink to drink. And I don't. And I don't know that I want to get in that kind of shape again. I don't have time to run as much as I need to, let alone become a better drinker.
12:05:36 PM
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