File under silly flavor trends, here's to proving to any visiting countryman that Americans lack palates, but don’t lack in talking about them: flavored vodkas, ain’t going anywhere. The latest proof in the banana pudding vodka is the back bars of flossy RVA watering holes, which a few years ago wouldn’t trade out their bottles of Ketel One, Stoli or Finlandia for all the olives in Provence, sporting rainbows of Three Olives Dude(Mt Dew flavored) and Burnett’s Whipped Cream varieties, a response to customer demand. Bacon vodka is on the way(another 3 Olives endeavor) and a liquor rep from Florida reports of peanut butter and salmon-infused vodkas taking off around the panhandle.
Holland's new premium effort, Effen,a low temp distilled wheat vodka filtered with spring water, has a dated-looking already ad campaign meant evoke the golden age of air travel,not advertising. Effen's ad team recruited
print models ala Pan Am, to tout the merits of “Effen on a plane” or “Effen by the fire”. Wow, that's funny.
The Westend bartender hands me the Effen bottle, “conservative guys get a charge from ordering Effen martinis. They just like to say it”.
Do they like to order them from men, I wonder?
Could I become a whale introducing a tuna vodka called “Poo sέ”?
Wonder how that would taste with whipped cream?
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Date Night
We pass a church, appearingly constructed from a mess of doublewides, glued together and placed in a car lot.
On the side of the road is A Pile of Clothes Yard Sale. No zest.
For Sale. Used Duds. Pre-worn.
Desperation.
A power tool, dated electronics, a lawnmower with a SOLD sign, something needs to beckon, not slumped tighty-whiteys sounding out yard sale like a slowly escaping fart whistling why.
We pass a bigger, compound church, a space station with gym, thrift store, hair salon, nursery, classrooms, rock band and ice cream truck marshalling ex cons.
Pull into Popeyes for spicy chicken and onion rings. Drive through. Pay. Kill the motor. Wait. He pulls past the service window and I debate the merits of leaving the car running or cutting it off before spying a teacup ferris wheel, painted like psychedelic fishing tackle, half mile away. A sparking ignition ends the discussion with a question mark.
The ferris wheel beckons from the side of a 70s mall, the sort where the undivided parking lot is exponentially larger than its current occupants, the strip of $3 lunch spots and Marshalls; grungy seafood stalls and nail wrapping stations; Mercados. No one and everyone comes here. We pull in.
He enjoys driving with two thumbs, unencumbered by traffic diverters--- gulping the freedom of an almost extinct urban floor plan, still available for wheelies, much like the lot where I’d bought the Wattstax album once, from a dyslexic hobo who thought he'd find Jimmy Hendrix on the B-side. That Woodstock lovin' reject sold beer too.
The carnival is in a sliver of the lot that yesterday, I swear, was full of Slurpee cups and tab pulls. We park in view of the Superslide near a stack of gunny sacks held down by a generator. A rollercoaster with cars forming one long Chinese dragon stalls. Blue lights from a Malibu encourage polite behavior.
We picnic in the truck. The food steams. Crackles fall in our laps. Behind the mall, duffers sit in the front seat of their trucks, to get away from their wives. Talking.
A steampunk jungle gym, costing a dollar ticket to tramp, appears well-attended, its stations of rope swings and fifty-gallon drum tunnels lead to a bridge swaying over a scarred yellow mat the color of a double line down asphalt. We blister our mouths with chicken and watch the only thin man push a boy, and then cringe down the chute himself, hitting the scuffed wrestling mat on dismount.
Over onion rings, I ask about the The Charm Bracelet ride.
I don’t’ know its name. That thing, that thing that looks a vertical ruler with metal T-bones hanging off it
I notice someone getting out of a car. It’s a dude from Ecuador I used to work with. He’s gained a lot of weight and has three kids. Guess he got his wife over.
You’re filthy with food, it’s all over your shirt.
Easy, Bandit.
Pass the soda.
I’d like to, but I’m filthy. Filthy…but not thirsty.
The chicken is hot, but I have this cold drink.
He takes a pull.
Officer, I’d like to step out of the car, but I’m afraid I’d be charged with littering. Someone might slip on the chicken skin.
On the side of the road is A Pile of Clothes Yard Sale. No zest.
For Sale. Used Duds. Pre-worn.
Desperation.
A power tool, dated electronics, a lawnmower with a SOLD sign, something needs to beckon, not slumped tighty-whiteys sounding out yard sale like a slowly escaping fart whistling why.
We pass a bigger, compound church, a space station with gym, thrift store, hair salon, nursery, classrooms, rock band and ice cream truck marshalling ex cons.
Pull into Popeyes for spicy chicken and onion rings. Drive through. Pay. Kill the motor. Wait. He pulls past the service window and I debate the merits of leaving the car running or cutting it off before spying a teacup ferris wheel, painted like psychedelic fishing tackle, half mile away. A sparking ignition ends the discussion with a question mark.
The ferris wheel beckons from the side of a 70s mall, the sort where the undivided parking lot is exponentially larger than its current occupants, the strip of $3 lunch spots and Marshalls; grungy seafood stalls and nail wrapping stations; Mercados. No one and everyone comes here. We pull in.
He enjoys driving with two thumbs, unencumbered by traffic diverters--- gulping the freedom of an almost extinct urban floor plan, still available for wheelies, much like the lot where I’d bought the Wattstax album once, from a dyslexic hobo who thought he'd find Jimmy Hendrix on the B-side. That Woodstock lovin' reject sold beer too.
The carnival is in a sliver of the lot that yesterday, I swear, was full of Slurpee cups and tab pulls. We park in view of the Superslide near a stack of gunny sacks held down by a generator. A rollercoaster with cars forming one long Chinese dragon stalls. Blue lights from a Malibu encourage polite behavior.
We picnic in the truck. The food steams. Crackles fall in our laps. Behind the mall, duffers sit in the front seat of their trucks, to get away from their wives. Talking.
A steampunk jungle gym, costing a dollar ticket to tramp, appears well-attended, its stations of rope swings and fifty-gallon drum tunnels lead to a bridge swaying over a scarred yellow mat the color of a double line down asphalt. We blister our mouths with chicken and watch the only thin man push a boy, and then cringe down the chute himself, hitting the scuffed wrestling mat on dismount.
Over onion rings, I ask about the The Charm Bracelet ride.
I don’t’ know its name. That thing, that thing that looks a vertical ruler with metal T-bones hanging off it
I notice someone getting out of a car. It’s a dude from Ecuador I used to work with. He’s gained a lot of weight and has three kids. Guess he got his wife over.
You’re filthy with food, it’s all over your shirt.
Easy, Bandit.
Pass the soda.
I’d like to, but I’m filthy. Filthy…but not thirsty.
The chicken is hot, but I have this cold drink.
He takes a pull.
Officer, I’d like to step out of the car, but I’m afraid I’d be charged with littering. Someone might slip on the chicken skin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)