I don’t know wine from kerosene but, hey, bottoms up!
October 28, 2009
Asking a non-drinker to tend bar is akin to having a virgin explain the erotic pleasures to be derived from the Kama Sutra. Something is bound to be lost in the translation, if only through a lack of experience.
And yet there I was Saturday evening, helping out a fellow Canadian named Anne Vink, who owns the Old Mill Napier. Located in a historical section of the city, the place once actually operated as a wool mill but now Anne rents it out as a venue for birthday parties and weddings and any other celebration that lends itself to a large number of people gathering in a picturesque location.
This particular night featured a wedding and watching such an event must be thirsty work — or I guess, as my brother is so fond of saying, free alcohol really does taste better — because the regular bartender and I were kept very busy. Even if all I know about wine is that it comes in two colors. I’m almost positive about that.
I was relieved to discover the only other alcohol we’d be serving was beer. Because beer bottles have labels and I’ve been reading since I was four. It also helped that a lot of the guests brought back their empties. “Another green bottle? Coming right up.”
(Just for the record, the Belgium beer Stella Artois was by far the favored brew on the night, with Tui and Heineken tied for a distant second. Very distant.)
Compare this experience to my first bartending gig when, many years ago, I was asked by one of my brother’s friends to dole out drinks at his wedding reception. Part of the reason — or perhaps the main reason — why this friend recruited my services was because he knew I wouldn’t be adding to the bar tab with my own imbibing.
At that time, however, I also had to serve up the hard stuff, and that can be tricky for someone who doesn’t know bourbon from kerosene. My solution was to have people point to the bottle they wanted. It seemed to work. Either that or everyone was too hammered to complain.
The only real complication on this Saturday presented itself in the form of the bubbly. We’re not talking champagne here; the bottles appeared to contain little more than carbonated wine but, when it comes to toasts — and free drinks — I suppose it’s the fizz that counts.
Except you don’t screw the tops off bottles of bubbly. Oh no — first you must unwrap a covering of some kind of metallic paper that is practically welded to the top of the bottle. Only to then encounter a metal cage designed, I can only assume, to keep rodents at bay. Finally, there is the cork itself, as dangerous a projectile as man has ever invented.
Just like that kid with the Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story, I had this fear of taking someone’s eye out with a cork. And by someone, I mean me.
For the most part, I let my bartending partner open the bubbly. At one point, when she was away fetching clean glasses, I simply handed the bottle to a guest to open. He showed me his secret to avoiding both blindness and overflow: cup the bottom of the bottle in the palm of one hand and then slowly twist and pull the cork with the other. While keeping your face well out of the line of fire.
By the end of my shift, I had become quite the twist-and-pull expert. In fact, only one cork got away on me. I’m not really sure where it ended up but I didn’t hear any screaming and I’m going to assume that’s a good thing.
I also concocted my first glass of LLB (lemon, lime and bitters, for you beginners out there.) Which is to say I pretty much guesstimated how much lemon concentrate, Sprite and bitters should go in a glass. I played it safe and went heavy on the Sprite, if only because a) no one knew exactly how much bitters to use, and b) someone causally mentioned bitters has such a high alcohol content that too much of it can kill you.
By the end of my shift, no one was dead or maimed, and I’d devised my own method for pouring bubbly into a glass while producing a minimum of froth. So are you thinking what I’m thinking?
“Yeah, hello, Tom? Cocktail 2? I’m so there.”
If I don’t understand rugby is it because I’m sober?
October 22, 2009
Rugby, eh? Five years living in New Zealand and I still don’t see the point. You have to throw the ball back to move it ahead? That’s the story of my life these days so why would I want to spend time watching that?
But someone gave us a pair of tickets to a Hawke’s Bay Magpies game the other night and so Viking Woman and I headed off to Napier’s McLean Park.
There are thousands of covered seats in McLean Park. We did not sit in any of them. Our tickets to the Hawke’s Bay vs Canterbury match were designated “Ground Entry Only,” which meant we had to join several hundred fans standing or sitting on a grassy knoll at one end of the playing field.
Two reasons to just say no to these tickets in the future: the stadium’s lone scoreboard was located immediately behind us, meaning we had to twist right around anytime we wanted to see the score and/or time clock; and, no matter who had the ball, or which half it was, all the action happened at the other end of the field.
With little hope of actually following the game from our vantage point, we opted to simply enjoy a warm spring evening and observe the setting and our fellow attendees. In retrospect, that was probably more interesting than the action on the pitch.
While Viking Woman’s bag was checked for glass when we arrived, there is obviously no ban on alcohol.
I was amazed, after the millions spent on TV ads condemning the evils of the devil’s brew, how much booze was being consumed during the game. We’re not talking about the odd container peeking surreptitiously out of a hoodie pocket, but rather people openly carrying full boxes of beer cans. Now that is some serious drinking, folks.
And this at what was obviously considered a family outing, judging by the number of children in attendance. But the younger kids, at least where we were positioned in the cheap “seats,” seemed content to chase each other around, while teenagers did little more than prowl the common areas under the stands, looking to see and be seen.
Between the drinking and the carousing and the cruising, I’m not sure if anyone was actually paying attention to the game. Too bad, because I could have used someone to explain the finer points of rugby.
Left to my own devices, here are my thoughts:
Unlike football (or American gridiron, as it’s known here), where full and complete possession is the rule, you can score a try in rugby by simply sneezing your DNA onto a grounded ball in the end zone. That hardly seems fair or, when it comes right down to it, very difficult.
That whole scrum thing doesn’t work for me either. A group of bullet-headed behemoths bash into each other, crushing noses and ears in the process, while a skinny-ass guy from one team flips the ball into the midst of this churning mass, runs around the back, and retrieves the ball. Every single time.
Call me crazy (or naïve, or uninformed, or an ignorant, bloody foreigner) but I can’t help asking the obvious question here: Why? If you’re going to get the ball right back, why not just hang onto the bloody thing and save all that heaving and crashing and damaged cartilage.
(“I love the rucks,” interjects Viking Woman. “Because, while all the guys are bending over in their shorts, I can look at their bums.” OK, well now it all makes perfect sense.)
I’m also not sure of the integrity of a sport where the PA announcer is permitted to lead the cheers. Although, as Kiwis tend to be a reticent bunch, he was usually the only one making any noise. I also question the grammatical logic of the popular hometown chant “Go the Bay.” Short and punchy? OK, I’ll give you that one. Proper English? I’m going to say no.
While the organized cheering tended to be subdued, the local rugby fans proved rather fond of The Wave. Or what they still like to call The Mexican Wave. And, yes, somewhere Krazy George is silently weeping.
Having witnessed this spectacle at every single hockey game I’ve ever attended, I am now rather jaded by the sight. But trust Kiwis to add a new twist to an old cheer. Or at least those Kiwis packed onto the grassy knoll with us.
Whenever it came time for our section to throw our hands in the air, those hands were also filled with crushed beer cans and other rubbish, all simultaneously flung high as the wave crashed over us. It was like being caught in a downpour of aluminum and I could only pray the flying cans weren’t still full. A ticket stub is a good souvenir. Concussion, not so much.
In the end, we didn’t stay until the end. The attendance was something like 14,000 and we didn’t want to have to deal with 13,000 drunks simultaneously released to drive home. We ducked out with 12 minutes to play and thus managed to avoid any possible traffic mayhem.
The final score? Canterbury won, but not before a controversial call in injury time resulted in a Hawke’s Bay try being waved off. Guess the player didn’t sneeze hard enough.
***
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***
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These are a few of my favorite things. Which probably explains why I’ve never been described as ’svelte.’
October 15, 2009
I’m back in New Zealand after four weeks of visiting friends and family in North America. The journey allowed me to compare what I like best about Canada, the U.S. and my new homeland.
What I like best about Canada:
Hockey Night in Canada
Lemon-cranberry scones at Starbucks
Chocolate-covered jujubes
Real maple syrup
My mom’s cookies
Ricky’s pancakes
What I like the most about America:
The home of Starbucks
Las Vegas
Cherry Coke
Krispy Creme
Wondrously inventive junk food (see photo)
HBO (because censorship can suck my * beep *)
What I like best about New Zealand:
O’Ryan’s Sour Cream and Onion chips
Feijoas
Ice cream
Kiwis’ “Bugger the lot of you” attitude
***
I’m standing at the sink in a public washroom in Vancouver International Airport.
I hear a woman speak behind me: “This isn’t the ladies’ room, is it?”
I glance over my shoulder at the elderly woman standing just inside the doorway, make a point of staring at the row of urinals lining the wall, and then turn back to her and shake my head.
“Didn’t think so,” she says.
***
I’m going through the security check at the same airport. The young lady ahead of me in line doffs her coat and sweater, as per regulations, and sends them through the X-ray machine in one of those plastic containers. Clad now in little more than a singlet, she makes her way through the metal detector to wait while her her carry-on luggage and clothes are scanned.
As I come up beside her, I glance at the fellow sitting behind the X-ray machine, the fellow who is in charge of spotting such nasty little surprises as weapons and explosives. I’m watching because I’m curious to note if anything in my carry-on causes him concern.
Except he’s not actually examining the contents of my camera bag or computer satchel. In fact, he’s not paying attention to the screen at all. Instead, he’s checking out the singlet-clad sweet young thing beside me.
Nice to know that boobs will always rank higher than the personal safety of airline passengers.
***
I’m waiting at the baggage carousel at Auckland airport. The beagle in charge of sniffing out illegal goods is making the rounds and soon has his snout buried in the carry-on bag of a fellow standing next to me. While the dog handler takes a quick look in the bag, the fellow — by his accent, a fellow Canadian — explains the only food he is bringing into the country consists of homemade cookies and Christmas cake.
A few minutes later and the beagle is now suddenly very interested in my bag. I, too, explain that I’m bringing back homemade cookies. The handler is momentarily confused, thinking for a second that she has already been through my belongings. In the meantime, the other fellow and I exchange knowing smiles, the one that says, “Ah, so you’ve been to see your mom as well.”
***
After asking me to guard the cookies with my life, lest the beagle gobble them right down, the handler pulls out my package of Strawberry Twizzlers, holding it between two fingers as if leery of soiling her hands.
As difficult as it is to believe, I have never found any authentic Twizzlers in New Zealand. How do Kiwis live with themselves, knowing they are missing out on a treat that consists primarily of assorted chemicals, additives and edible petroleum by-products? Hopeless bumpkins, the lot of them.
***
Seen on a T-shirt: Watch midget porn. You’ll look HUGE.
***
Please buy my book at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937. That way I can afford to buy more Twizzlers. Or Zebras. Whatever’s on sale, really.
***
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I’m in Whistler Village. Home to some of the best skiing in British Columbia. One of the host sites of the 2010 Winter Olympics. It’s located about three hours from my hometown and yet I’ve never been here.
Half the people I’ve met in New Zealand have visited Whislter, so I thought it was time I checked out the place all those Kiwis rave about.
I love the architecture and the stonework of the high-end hotels. I love the walking mall. I love the building that features an Earls restaurant above a Starbucks. Beautiful women working that close to the world’s best coffee? When I die, this is where you’ll find my ghost. Calamari on my plate, dark roast in my mug. Smile on my face.
The landscape is still only green and brown on this fall day, but the place is surprisingly busy. I hear accents: Italian, French, German. Even Australian, because Canada will pretty much let anybody in.
I try to imagine the village blanketed in snow. Filled with skiers and snowboarders instead of BMXers.
Speaking of BMXers, there is an obvious age division when it comes to wearing the mandatory helmet. Anyone under 12 wears their headgear in place at all times, because it’s cool to hide your face. Those over 12 who are not yet on the course, wear their helmets propped high. Because it’s cool to look as if you have a plastic and plexiglass growth sprouting from the top of your head.
There are several signs warning about bears. Things like, don’t feed the bears. And, especially, don’t feed small children to the bears (something about indigestion). But I see not a single wild thing. Not even a squirrel.
What I do is nearly step in a large brown splat in the middle of the sidewalk on the outskirts of the village.
I make two observations from this sample of ursine excrement: Bears eat a lot of berries. And, bears don’t bother chewing those berries.
***
My brother is shopping at his local Best Buy store. He approaches one of the sales staff, a young Asian man.
My brother: ‘Excuse me, could you help me buy a calculator.”
Salesman: “You know, just because I’m Chinese doesn’t mean I know anything about numbers.”
***
Dad asks one of the managers of the Langley Save-On-Foods store if there is any 2% milk in the storeroom, because the cooler shelf is empty. The fellow takes a quick look in the back, shakes his head no, looks at his bare wrist and says the next shipment is due in 90 minutes.
I smile as I indicate his lack of a timepiece. “Your watch is a bit slow,” I say.
“I know what time it is, buddy,” he snaps at me.
All righty, then. So what you don’t know about is a sense of humour or customer service.
***
I’m at a Canucks game at GM Place. After one hard bodycheck, the young woman behind me complains, “That was mean.”
Mean? Puh-lease. You know you’re at a hockey game, right? If you wanted nice, you should have stayed home and watched Dancing With the Stars. Wimp.
***
I’m at the Langley Shoppers Drug Mart, looking for something in Canada to take back to Viking Woman in New Zealand.
Me: “This is probably a wild goose chase, but do you carry a lipstick called Brazen Raisin?”
Sales lady: “Who makes it?”
Me: “What?”
Sales lady: “Which company makes it?”
Me: “I’m a man. We don’t know things like that.”
Sales lady: “OK. What colour is it?”
Me: “What?”
Sales lady: “Is it red or brown?”
Me: “I’m sorry, but what part of ‘I’m a man’ did you not understand?”
In the end, I bought molasses kisses. They’re Viking Woman’s favourite Halloween treat. They’re brown and made by Kerr.
These are the things men know. Well, that and sports.
I knew just by the smell.
Years ago, I took the Pepsi Challenge and, after merely hovering my schnozz over the cup, I could discern which liquid offering was Pepsi and which was the Real Thing.
For one, Pepsi is more carbonated. So the fizz tickling my nostrils was a dead giveaway. For another, Coca-Cola tends to have a “heavier” smell, a “darker” smell, which is also reflected in its taste.
Coke makes me say, “Whoa!” Pepsi makes me say, “Sparkling excrement.”
I put those same senses to work yesterday while waiting in line at the Starbucks location within walking distance of my parents’ house. One of the employees was manning a table featuring two unmarked carafes and urging customers to take the “Starbucks Via Taste Challenge.”
My first thought: I can do this.
My second thought: I can ace this.
With my fellow Starbuckers looking on, I first smelled and then sipped. Actually, the taste part was redundant and the barista knew that the instant I smiled.
But, kudos to him, he kept a straight face while asking me if I was sure. Not sure so much as absolutely sure. I assured him if I was mistaken, he could operate the laser while it removed the Starbucks mermaid tattoo from my ass.
Turns out I was correct. Either that or the threat of seeing my naked butt scared the poor fellow so badly he would have agreed to anything, even if I told him the sun was actually a large Frisbee.
Admittedly, the Via wasn’t terrible but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it’s still the end result of adding a pouch of powdered coffee to a cup of boiling water.
Which prompts this question to Starbucks is: Are you out of your f****ing mind?
You can call Via “ready brew” all you want (after, according to the barista, spending some 20 years developing the product), but all the PR-slash-astute marketing in the world can’t disguise the fact that what you’ve developed is still instant coffee.
And by instant coffee I mean a concoction that starts off as quality-challenged beans before being soaked in an open sewer, stored in someone’s armpit for several weeks and then run through whatever further processes are needed to guarantee it will survive a nuclear holocaust.
For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to waste all that time and resources reinventing the wheel, give us a rocket ship, not a frickin’ horse.
When I’m offered coffee by our New Zealand friends, I know for a fact they’re about to blow the dust off an old jar of Nescafe that’s been tucked in the back of the pantry for the better part of this century.
When I mention how my favorite coffee is the brewed variety, I draw blank stares, as if I’d just created my own language. This in a country where people regularly use the terms “away with the fairies” or “box of birds” to answer the question, “How are you?”
New Zealand, you see, went directly from instant coffee to espresso machines, skipping right past the filter stage in the process.
And now Starbucks wants to take us back to the bad old days of serving what is little more than cups of hot, black water?
The mermaid on my ass is grimacing at the mere thought of such blasphemy. And, believe me, that is not a pretty sight.
***
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***
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