*Many* years ago my friend Andy stopped by my apartment with a little bottle of something. Honestly I don’t remember why, though I suspect a party or other social gathering. And it wasn’t really a little bottle. At any rate, to reduce things to the relative level of complexity of a first year language lesson: “Andy brought a bottle to my apartment.” And contained therein was rather a lot of Cynar.
I still have the bottle, with much of the contents intact. Over the years a few brave souls have tested the liquid, but mostly the bottle lives on the top of fridge, like a deaf aging octopus that periodically splashes around and calls out to startled passersby. (Note, I mean the metaphor to be taken exactly as written: imagine that the dear old octopus lives on top of a refrigerator, which should do much to increase the “wow” factor). I honestly don’t remember what Cynar tastes like, but I imagine it to be something akin to: Jägermeister, Campari, and Pimms. (Possibly mixed together).
I can’t imagine getting rid of the Cynar, other than to return it to Andy should he decide to marry. But I also don’t really fancy drinking it. So imagine my excitement at reading the cocktail menu of Bespoke in New Haven and seeing a drink made with Cynar . . . Far easier to take the plunge of re-acquaintance with someone else’s peer-approved mixology, especially as their bottle of Cynar is probably not in a state of advanced dessication. Additionally, their drink contains not only Cynar but egg white, thereby raising the act of its consumption to “feat” status: even if the product is vile you get some bragging rights. (Note, I do not think the same of eating competitions: they just seems wasteful, although the Cameron Jamie/Keijo Haino video of the Nathan’s hot dog contest is fucking astounding, so I’m at least glad that contest exists).
I’m off to New Haven tomorrow and will report back.