There will be two (count 'em, ah-one, ah-two) anecdotes today about the weekend, as it was a super-sized Morgan Spurlock kind of weekend, spanning its mighty albatross wings from friday till monday. That's four days of unmitigated freedom, folks, and a boot stompin' hoo-ha like that deserves not one, but two anecdotes to pay homage to the magnificence of four straight days of sleeping in. I should note, then, that this post will also be super-sized, with fries, thank you very much.
Alrighty, let's get this party started, shall we?
On Saturday night Adam and I wandered up to Hermosa Beach in search of food--but not just any food, mind you, we had a very specific type of place in mind. It couldn't be a chain restaurant (blech, wretch, the horror!), but it also couldn't be too touristy or gimmicky, as most surfside restaurants are wont to be, it had to be uncrowded (or, if it had to be packed to the gills, the ratio of normal folk to bros had to be at least 3:1), and the final qualification: It had to have a booth, as it was CHILLY on saturday night, y'all. I'm talking sweater, scarf and jacket weather. And I just can't sit with my backside exposed to the elements like that, you know what I mean? It had to have a booth.
So we wandered past the Memorial Weekend revelers in their graphic tees and their bootcut jeans, and found that most places fit none of our criteria, except that a few of them had booths. But the booths were overflowing with bros, and while I do own cowboy boots, I was not in town for the brodeo.
Adam suggested we walk out to the end of restaurant row (where bro meats the brocean) and see if there was anything, I don't know, out on the sand? Under a rock? I suspiciously followed him, certain that there would be nothing except maybe a Bro's Crab Shack at the end of the rainbro.
But lo and behold, off in the distance, a dark and brooding restaurant, shuttered and nearly black against the twilight sky with the words "The Mermaid Restaurant and Cocktails" shimmering in pink neon along the side. We decided then and there that this was the perfect place for us. Inside it was dark and divey, and we were the youngest people in the room.
Our waitress saddled up to the table in snap-on pants and a fanny pack. After a polite bit of small talk, we ordered our food (lobster tail for me, lobster and filet for Adam).
"Schoop or schalad?" She purred.
We both ordered the soup, French Onion.
"I'll bring ya a salad. What kind of dressing do ya want?"
A few minutes later, our she plunked our salads down in front of us, a mound of iceberg lettuce floating lazily in a tepid pool of...ranch dressing. Yum. But, Oh! What's this? Ah yes, our waitress heard our requests: There was also a shimmering layer of Italian on top of the lettuce. Now that's service!
Intermittently throughout the meal, our waitress returned to our table and leaned heavily on the back of the booth, regaling us with stories, one of which is simply too priceless not to share:
"Scho thish one time, I went to dinner with my roommate, my best friend--who's an alcoholic--and thish guy. It was a business thing, and we sat at the bar, all of us, and my roommate and I shared a liter of wine, and the guy got schomething and I looked down at the bar and my best friend, well, she was sitting there with TWO bottles of WINE turned up on their necks in the ice bucket--she drank 'em both! Drank them both up! Scho later she insisted that she was ok to drive--[cackle, cackle, cackle]--
Yeah, she got out to Redondo and was involved in a hit and run. She went to jail that night. Can I get you two a bottle of white Zin? I've never met a girl who doesn't like white Zin!"
"Uh, no...I'll just stick to what I ordered, thanks."
The Black Abe Lincoln*
Sunday night, Adam, Josh and I decided to celebrate Josh's long-awaited graduation from the nursing program at Biola (5 years is one long time, man) with a few drinks at the Pike.
However Adam suggested that we share a cocktail beforehand to make the merriment, well, merrier. I'm not one to resist merriment, so I went along with it. The night was, in fact, overflowing with mirth and merriment, so below I've transcribed the recipe for the Adam Sjoberg Original Cocktail: The Black Abe Lincoln (with commentary, so you know how best to recreate the experience for yourself)
100 ML bottle of Absinthe
187 ML bottle of gas station market Chardonnay, preferably something classy like Sutter Home.
1 sugar cube
1/2 cup water
To recreate this cocktail, it's important to add the ingredients exactly as Adam did. Begin by dumping the entire bottle of Chardonnay (slightly colder than room temp, preferably) into a glass.
[Me: What--WHAT are you doing? Are you going to mix the absinthe with the CHARDONNAY? Adam, that's gross.
Adam: Well you had absinthe and champagne at your birthday, it's the same thing.
Me: That's so gross.]
Now begin to pour the absinthe into the glass as well, with the intention of, I don't know, maybe stirring the whole thing with a spoon and slurping it up right then and there.
[Me: WHAT? You have to louche it. What is this? You're just pouring it straight in? I feel panicky.
Adam: What are you talking about?
Me: Go find the sugar cubes Ashley left over here from the last absinthe party. Ok, do you have a slotted spoon?
Me: Get a spoon. Ok, put the sugar cube on the spoon--ADAM! QUIT POURING THE ABSINTHE STRAIGHT ONTO THE SUGAR! YOU HAVE TO USE WATER! IT HAS TO LOUCHE!]
Place a sugar cube on an unslotted spoon and pour half of the 100 ML bottle of absinthe over the cube quickly. Then fill another glass half full with lukewarm tap water and continue to pour over the sugar cube. When the cube inevitably doesn't dissolve, mash it with a spoon and stir it into your cocktail.
[Me: This is so gross. This is so gross. I don't know if I can drink this...
Adam, eyes wide: We should drink this with LICORICE STRAWS!
Bite the ends off of a standard piece of red licorice. Use as straw to delicately sip the Black Abe Lincoln cocktail.
So there you have it. An original Memorial Day cocktail recipe from everyone's favorite bartender, Adam Sj.