Sunday, November 20, 2005

Cultural Criticism

But not of the usual movie/book/album variety. No, this story begins at a bar one night. Some friends and I were celebrating all being together again, perhaps for the last time as we went our separate ways, and I enjoyed one too many Electric Lemonades at my own peril. As with most bars there was a liquor store down the walk and we all made our merry way inside the warm den of iniquity just as the buzz hit me full bore. Feeling ambitious and not a little bit randy, I insisted to everyone that I would buy a fine bottle of something before I left. I doubt they paid much attention -- everyone, that is, except the owner, a gentleman of the old school who I think is probably a Cypriot. He started giving me recommendations, recognizing a fish on a hook when he sees one, that tended to the high end, including a particularly distinguished Johnny Walker Blue Label for the princely sum of $219.00. I did not buy it; what I did do, to my ongoing embarrassment, was stamp my feet up and down because I was dying of indecision. Finally I settled on a nicely rounded bottle of dark brown liquid with a gold elk's face embossed on the front, complete with horns, and shelled out the $50 I'd been saving for my liver transplant.

I took it home and drank it. And I must say, if you want something that takes out the fire but leaves in the warmth, The Dalmore is the best deal in town.


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