This post has nothing to do with football. It has more to do with liquor, drinking and warning you about Seattle’s habitual consumption of cinnamon flavored booze. Denver has been exposed. Proceed with caution at your favorite bar or local liquor store. The stuff is delicious.
Seattle, the fortuitous land of flannel and corporate coffee stains. Where lumberjacks grease their poles and the seamstress tax is alive and well. What’s that? Tossed salad and scrambled eggs? A local just might smack you across the face with a filet of halibut and test your knowledge of Free Willy movie quotes for saying such a thing. Might you ask if the mention of this city has anything to do with last night’s NFL football match, you would be incorrect. Although the refs were most likely smoking meth and busy turning reality sports into fantasy football, this article explains damnation to a somewhat lesser extent, an equally-sized slice of the devil’s pie known as Fireball, and how it ruined everything holy I knew about Seattle.
Enter morning pastry and a desire to drink in a new city. If you are in any position to get on a water vessel, that is a ticket you’ll be happy to take a gamble on; just take some time to digest or that buttery croissant becomes a liability. I spent the day on the water drinking Oly tall boys and arguing over whether or not they should shoot the space needle back to where it came from (space). Because of the geography, you really do get a view of another half of the city that is otherwise unseen from the highways. But views are one thing, and sending a big wake towards the Sleepless In Seattle houseboat while yelling obscenities at Tom Hanks for not returning to Bosom Buddies for a final season is another.
It usually happens right around 48 ounces of beer and a lengthy boat ride when I get my movies confused; was it the restaurant at Pikes Place market where Meg Ryan had that orgasm at the table? Yes, I’ll have what she’s having. Ok, wrong movie, but I’m sure it was the conch fritters. Maybe the crab cocktail. So I ordered one of those and found the closest bloody mary when we arrived at the market. What better to quench the craving for sea creatures and booze at the same time than a spicy concoction of gazpachoed ciopinno, and a ton of cheap vodka in a salty pint glass. It was like the mermaid lady from Splash! mixed it herself.
This is the point where things get a little dark. Like that first hit of crack cocaine, but instead it’s sweet, sweet cinnamon flavored whisky. The mermaid pours a round. One for her, and one for everyone in the group. You see, this is what mermaids do when the bar is slow, they drink Fireball for fun, probably because the bottom of the ocean is that much closer to hell. I left with a delicious taste on my lips and a lust for that maiden of the sea, but it was time to return for a night out on higher land and unicorns in Capitol Hill.
You find yourself in a bar surrounded by many, many dudes. On the way to take care of a certain lizard in need of drainage, one of said dudes proceeds to give you a Big bear hug. You realize this is not your bro. Lovingly and drunk, but still aggressive and very scary, he holds on until the point of awkward. You thank the man for the hug and he insists you do a shot of Fireball with his friends. It’s like Bachelor Party without the terrible sweaters, but equally as terrible. What’s next, are we all going in the bathroom to gel each other’s hair up and swap our Affliction T-shirts? No, another shot of Fireball, of course. Down the hatch and then I escape into the shadows to find the people I came with. At this point, the liquor tastes more like Satan distilled it himself, but a couple cans of beer are there to wash my sins away.
In the search for something less muscley, we pop over to Unicorn Bar, notorious for late night snacks and mythical-mare-themed chotchky. Pork parts, fused into a tube, dipped in batter and then deep fried to a crisp are just as magical as any horse with a single horn glued to its head. The dawgs were ordered directly from the bar, saving the valuable time we could have wasted on soberly waiting for table service in a slammed bar. “What do you want to drink?” “Beer. Yellow.” “The corn dogs are going to be a minute, round of Fireball while we wait!” Corndogs take longer than expected, and another round ends up in my hand. The walls begin to close in. I wondered how much they paid to taxiderm that unicorn on the wall, and why he is laughing at me. My beer never came, and I’m left to chase my mouthful of thick boozy syrup with a piece of meat. On the cab ride home I can only taste the flavor of hotdog as I hiccup and cinnamon candy as I belch.
Leaving Seattle by boat, properly hungover from the mass quantities of sugar and alcohol I sucked from the Devil’s six teats the night before, I contemplated the love affair this strange place has with such an evil beverage. I thought, it seems to make a ton of sense when you consider that they are in the Pacific Ring of Fire, a very much active geological region of North America. Perhaps Joe vs. The Volcano really is a metaphor for the way people live and drink within the city limits of Seattle. Maybe it simply keeps them warm in the freezing rain.
Whatever the cause may be, it seems to be isolated to Seattle, but fair warning, this trend may have already infiltrated Denver. I asked for a Fireball shot at the Squire last weekend and a mermaid poured it for me.