The Mexican Teardrop

A few weeks ago, two of my sisters came up for a weekend Beantown visit.  Friday night saw dim sum at Myers & Chang, Saturday dawned with the trade of a BC football game for a lazy Cambridge afternoon, a pit stop at the Garment District for post-Halloween KISS costume accoutrements (we’re weird but we’re not that weird. It was for a charity fundraising event), and then meticulously crafted drinks at…Drink.

There’s something about the atmosphere of this place, with its cool subterranean concrete, raw bulb light fixtures, exposed brick, entomologist’s collections of pinned bugs under glass, bearded and flanneled patrons all in a row, that sort of makes me want to rise to a new level of badass-ness, so my only course of action was to order a scotch. Everyone else went off menu, naming their preferred alcohol and flavor profile for the evening to the contemplative server, who then delivered perfectly mixed drinks in perfectly mixed antique glasses that also accompanied a bowl of praline cashews with bacon and soft pretzels with mustard. The favorite boozy beverage by far was a tequila concoction, made with a magical spice mixture (though not cardamom. They’ve got just about everything except cardamom).  Dubbed the “Mexican Teardrop,” it was delicious, and everyone around us was totally jealous.

The Mexican Teardrop. So Delicious It Glows.

At this point it was still early evening, so we headed back to the apartment for a feta-honey appetizer (next post!) and a frittata.  Fueled by this and a few beers, the evening quickly accelerated into the age-old “let’s see what weird songs come up in iTunes shuffle” which then led to “remember the music video to that song?” which then led to the disjointed mess you see below and a dance party at The Good Life.

 

In my world, nothing good happens after 2 a.m., which is the uncharacteristically (because some of us are 28 going on 107) late hour we left the bar.  But my sisters were in town, so I made an exception.  Also, when the DJ is spinning Bone Thugs, Ginuwine and Boyz II Men, it’s just hard to tear yourself away.  So the walk home meant that we traversed the nightlife territory on Tremont Street just when the bars and clubs were spewing out girls in teeny skirts and teetering heels (or the opposite, no shoes at all!) and the shellacked and cologne-soused boys who were gunning for and hollering after them.  It was rowdy and animalistic and awesome.  Wish I took pictures.

Thanks, sisters (and Jesse!), for an awesome weekend. Come back and visit soon!

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