exploremusic

SATURDAY NIGHT AND EARLY SUNDAY MORNING

“We can’t go home yet!” implored Julia. “It’s Saturday night and London and you’re with me! We have to do something!”

That “something” was a trip into Soho and a bar called Academy. I like a good cocktail, but I’d never seen anything like this place: pumping techno, young gay men making eyes at the equally gay bartenders (who reciprocated) and gaggles of English girls in H&M party frocks, drinking concoctions of alcohol, ice and fruit that were more art than libation. The toilets were in the basement. The door marked “Bitches” was for women; guys used the one marked “Bastards.”

We watched a doe-eyed, mascara’d dude pull cocktail making moves that really should be an Olympic sport. Upon the successful creation of something especially complex (six liquid ingredients, mounds of ice, muddled mint and sugar and a fruit salad topping of exquisitely carved strawberries and apples, garnished with giant blackberries), he grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose off the shelf and poured a shot directly into his mouth. “No dirty glasses!” he yelled.

“You have to try this drink” bubbled Julia. “Two Fireballs for my friends!”

The Fireball
• Three ounce shot glass.
• One ounce sambuca.
• One ounce absinthe.
• One ounce Goldschlager.
• Sprinkle with a dash of cinnamon.
• Set alight.

As it burns, you’re supposed to stick a straw all the way to the bottom of the glass and suck it all down before the flame goes out. Then an IED goes off behind your forehead.

And you’re not done. To do a Fireball properly, it must be followed by a three ounce shot of Champagne followed by another house specialty called the Porn Star Martini (lots of vodka, mango juice and…something else. By this time, you don’t care.) Chuck the Champagne then leisurely sip the martini—if you can see well enough to find the glass.

My vision was blurry. Ivar didn’t look so good.

“Now we eat!” yelled Julia, who, by this time, was sitting in the lap of a Paul Smith-attired gay man who had been watching us with amusement. “Oooo,” he said. “Take them to Balans.”

“Great idea!”

Julia dragged us back out onto the street and pointed west. “Great place! Burgers! Meat pies! And it’s open until 6am!”

Even though there was a line, Julia bullied us past the doorman and found a corner table halfway towards the back!

“Wine!” She yelled—and a bottle of French red materialized on the table (vintage and varietal unknown; by this time, none of us could read the label).

“Burgers!” And within minutes, three gigantic burgers (10 ounce? 12?) appeared. Having stood out in the sun all day and desperate to mitigate the effects of the Fireball, the Champagne shot, the Porn Star Martini and the wine, I ate mine as fast as I could, hoping that the proteins would absorb some of the toxins that threatened to drain into my bloodstream undiluted for hours to come. That seemed to work—but then I seem to remember another bottle of wine.

Eventually, we had to—HAD TO—call it a night. We stumbled through the West End towards Leicester Square where Julia had the wherewithal to find us a mini-cab. Then she was gone, off to collect her bicycle at the restaurant where she worked. The thought of her being on a bike at this hour with those same toxins in her bloodstream scared me.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t have any Fireballs. I’m smarter than that.” And she was gone.

Ivar and I slumped into the back of the cab. He really wasn’t looking well. I gave the address of the hotel to the driver.

“Long night. Please take us home.”

“Guv, I know what you mean. I’m out here all night looking at the birds. The skirts keep getting higher and the blouses keep getting tighter. All the blood runs to the old chappy—and that makes for a long night for me, too.”

I’m not sure what time it was when I clicked off the light. All I know is that suddenly it was 8:45am and it was time to start again.

Part 8