Sloshed, Smashed and Soused - Part 1: It's Fool's Gold
We were drunk. Very, very drunk. My brother had just gotten married and we were moving from bar to bar in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The humidity was palpable, we were sweating through our suits, but it did not matter; this was a celebration and we were living it up.
The first bar was housing a New Orleans Jazz band my brother loved. A close friend of his having procured them specifically for the occasion. As they played, a girl danced between my legs as I sat and enjoyed a scotch. Soon, the music was over, as was the dancing, and we were off to the next location.
This time we arrived at Laffite's Blacksmith Shop, a bar situated in one of the oldest buildings in New Orleans. My friends and I stood outside as the waitress, Martha, came back and forth supplying us with alcohol.
I asked Martha what would get us “fucked up the fastest?” Her recommendation was a putrid thing called Goldschläger; cinnamon schnapps with gold flakes floating in it, the shots of which quickly tipped us over the edge.
One of us, I forget whom, asked if it was real gold floating in it, to which someone yelled out "It's fool's gold!" and launched a cube of ice at my face. I reacted quickly, pulling my own cube from my empty glass, spinning around and launching it right into the forehead of my friend Mike.
We laughed as the ice cubes flew..
We were loud and obnoxious. A man across the street began to stare us down, shaking his head at our clearly annoying behavior. I was having none of it. We were celebrating, no one was going to reign us in.
So I grabbed another handful of cubes and began to throw them at him, he tried to get away. I yelled at him to "Stand up and fight like a man!" The man was in a wheelchair, you see, and missing his legs. Reducing to take up the challenge, instead he put his hands to the wheels and speedily rolled away.
Proud of myself and full of confidence at having thwarted a legless man, I would flirt and manage to get Martha's number.
I would learn much later that Goldschläger does in fact use real gold.
The first bar was housing a New Orleans Jazz band my brother loved. A close friend of his having procured them specifically for the occasion. As they played, a girl danced between my legs as I sat and enjoyed a scotch. Soon, the music was over, as was the dancing, and we were off to the next location.
This time we arrived at Laffite's Blacksmith Shop, a bar situated in one of the oldest buildings in New Orleans. My friends and I stood outside as the waitress, Martha, came back and forth supplying us with alcohol.
I asked Martha what would get us “fucked up the fastest?” Her recommendation was a putrid thing called Goldschläger; cinnamon schnapps with gold flakes floating in it, the shots of which quickly tipped us over the edge.
One of us, I forget whom, asked if it was real gold floating in it, to which someone yelled out "It's fool's gold!" and launched a cube of ice at my face. I reacted quickly, pulling my own cube from my empty glass, spinning around and launching it right into the forehead of my friend Mike.
We laughed as the ice cubes flew..
We were loud and obnoxious. A man across the street began to stare us down, shaking his head at our clearly annoying behavior. I was having none of it. We were celebrating, no one was going to reign us in.
So I grabbed another handful of cubes and began to throw them at him, he tried to get away. I yelled at him to "Stand up and fight like a man!" The man was in a wheelchair, you see, and missing his legs. Reducing to take up the challenge, instead he put his hands to the wheels and speedily rolled away.
Proud of myself and full of confidence at having thwarted a legless man, I would flirt and manage to get Martha's number.
I would learn much later that Goldschläger does in fact use real gold.
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