PHOTOS BY ASHELY D’HOOGE
For the past four years I’ve lived roughly 15 minutes stumbling distance from Porter, placing it right in that sweet spot between “Yikes, I’ve got a long T-ride ahead of me” caution and a “Fuck it, I live down the street” recklessness. Porter is where I go when I want there to be a finite number of dumb things that I’d be capable of doing in one evening. Like, say, five of them.
Fasten your seat belts, place your hands on the 10 and 12 position, and check your blind-spots in the rear-view—it’s gonna be a reasonably bumpy night.
DRINK 1: WRITER’S CHOICE: TROEG’S NUGGET NECTAR ($6.95)
My bartender at the Common asks that I call her Mary, even though that is clearly not her name, which is what we in the biz call “a great start.” Not-Mary pours me her maybe-favorite from the beer list, and it is yes-good. I recognize one of the other on-shift bartenders as a guy I hated in college. The guy with the utili-kilt and pocket-watch. Fuck that guy. Recognizing the value in tapping into our mutual loathing, I re-categorize the first drink as my choice and told him to do his worst.
DRINK 2: BARTENDER’S CHOICE: BOULDER MOJO ON NITRO ($5.95)
Way to take advantage of comedic conceit, jackass.
He even comps it, like a complete jerk. My spite sufficiently derailed, I chat up a phrendly pharmacist sitting next to me and learn everything that I currently know about pharmacy school. He tries, with difficulty, to remember an amusing anecdote about taking that PCAT. “Sorry, I’m pretty baked,” he says. “Don’t write that down,” he also says. “I won’t,” I say.
DRINK 3: LYSSA’S RELAY HAND-OFF: BLOODY MARY ($8)
Moving down the street, I have an engaging conversation with my photographer, Ashley, about how living in South America forces you to psychologically adjust to the ubiquity of crippling poverty. At the bar, I order the Yuppie Nachos. My photographer thinks I’m an asshole.
I call Lyssa. She wants me to do a Red Bull and vodka, because she is Long Island trash. Christopher’s doesn’t have Red Bull because it’s not a Long Island trash bar.
I call Lyssa back. “My motto is, it’s never a bad time for a Bloody Mary!” She’s wrong.
DRINK 4: TWITTER’S CHOICE: “MURDER JUICE” ($10.95)
Because reasons, it had been decided that my Twitter drink would be something called “Murder Juice,” which had been determined by UNRegular Radio’s crowd-sourcing to be a mixture of OJ, white wine, and “a negligible amount of bleach.” I ask the bartender to sub in the non-poisonous closest equivalent of the last part, and I get a pint-sized monstrosity that’s very little juice, very much wine, and a splash of St–Germain and mezcal.
SOCRATES’ NEWTOWNE GRILL
Socrates’ Newtowne Grille had me at “Socrates,” so that’s where this ends. One of their drink specials, the Dark Orchid, is a combination of cider, Guinness, and “Cinnamon Fireball Whiskey.” I English Major up some lame-ass interpretation (cider = students, Guinness = locals, and Cinnamon Fireball Whiskey = gross and terrifying) and call it a night. The drink reminds me of Goldschläger and root beer. I spend the entire walk home trying to remember why I know what that tastes like.
Which is what we in the biz call “a lame ending.”
J.Pat completes the 5Drink: Mass Consumption!
Click here to ride the bus again with Heather for her 5 Drink!