"There is an hour wherein a man might be happy all his life, could he find it."
~ George Herbert ~
Happy hour. It separates the men from the boys, and the boys with fake IDs from the boys who are too afraid to get a fake ID when they're only 17 because they're worried about disappointing their parents but act like it's a respect for the law sorta thing. Happy hour dares you to get all liquored up on a school night when you have a lot to do the next day. Happy hour brings you to the brink, forcing you to put off dinner and do shots with coworkers on an empty stomach. Yup, it's where legends are made and champions crowned.
Now that I've returned to civilization, I'm finally able to get back to the happy hour culture I love so dearly and once again lead a life of self-damage as a form of social interaction. So last night when I was invited to head out with my work friends to grab a cheap 'rita at Geneva's ever so authentic Mexican joint Mananas, I wasn't about to pass it up. Verily, I was back in the saddle again.
Picking your poison at happy hour is key - it requires the perfect balance of cost-effective drink selection balanced against the ever important "if I drink too much of this will I fall down" issue. I noted that the price tag on the Long Island Iced Tea was a mere 11 franc, which still seemed high for happy hour. Quizzically I asked the bartender, "so are drinks like half price or something until 9?" She crooked her head to the left and answered, "No...this is the happy hour menu. Those are the discounted prices." I can't remember if I blurted out "SON OF A BITCH!" or if I just thought it to myself, but given the scurry-step saunter at which the suds-seller escaped suggested that it was out loud, and angrily so. Another ten minutes of waiting passed before we realized she wasn't coming back and we were gonna have to go get our drinks at the bar.
I charged forth and decided quickly that I still wanted that LI Iced Tea, even if it wasn't half price. What was delivered to me was a glass larger than an diesel engine filled with a tincture twice as powerful. Rum, vodka, tequila and gin coalesced, and the familiar rainfall of cola seeped slowly south as I eyed my prize. This molotov cocktail was sure to wreak havoc on my system, but it was, as previously mentioned, the most cost effective order on the menu. Oft have I heard tell of a prior volunteer who once downed four of these monstrosities before dinner time, so the bar was set pretty high for me to compete. But you know what? Quitters never win, and winners die of alcohol poisoning in a hotel bathroom, so I brought my A-game and got to work.
I polished off the first Long Island and ordered up a second one, and damn it I felt like I was doing pretty good so far. About an hour had passed and I was 1.5 death cocktails in, but it seemed to garner me little respect from the crowd. Apparently by this time, the other volunteer was already three deep and planning on his next dinner order, whereas I was barely keeping pace with my fast-mounting self-doubt! Am I tipped beyond the edge of my insatiable liver barbarism? Are my best drinking days behind me? Where once confidence lived now concern took up residence, so I excused myself to collect my thoughts and get some air. My attempt to drunk-dial in some reserve interns who would've supported me emotionally fell short and I was left to face my ineptitude a solo.
So back to the bar I went to take my lumps. I'm a big man and I can admit when I'm defeated. Once the mantle of greatness had been removed from my shoulders though I found it much easier to sip through and enjoy the evening. After all was said and done, I did end up getting through four Long Island Iced Teas, and a few extra drinks for good measure, but not until well after dinner time. Champion of happy hour? Perhaps not. But I can guarantee you it was quite a happy hour nonetheless.
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