Fuck. I spilled my drink.
If
this were an average, earthly liquid in the vein of a beer or some pedestrian
mixed drink at a shitty bar in Athens, this occurrence would be a minor
annoyance; a slight hiccup in the night’s chain of events. This, however, was
no mortal beverage.
The
Bombay Gin Fizz that is currently soaking up my friend Krystle’s skirt was a
work of art during its very brief lifetime. Created with extreme care by the
able hands of the bartender at The Majestic, my drink and I only just got to
know each other before its unfortunate demise.
Let’s
start from the start. After yet another night of unsuccessful begging for a
premiere at The Palais, I was rescued from my misery by way of a ticket to Lawless from my aforementioned friend,
Krystle. Filled with “Ticket Euphoria” – a feeling that all of my fellow premiere
beggars can relate to – I thanked Krystle endlessly and promised her the world;
or, at the very least, a drink at The Majestic after the film.
Lawless
rocked. Perfect combo of violence, sentiment, humor and Tom Hardy: but I
already told you that. I was in quite high spirits as I was perusing the
excessively expensive cocktail menu at The Majestic. Should I get an
old-fashioned? Nope, this ain’t Manhattan and, though I like to pretend, I am
not Don Draper. Should I go “full douche” and get a Red Bull and vodka?
Shenanigans; The “Maj” is way too classy for that. Gin always seemed to be a
drink of refinement, a drink of prestige. A drink that said, “I am not a
student. I work for a fake company called Grady College Productions, and I
deserve to be here.” The choice was simple: Bombay Gin Fizz. I placed together
the precise French wording in my head, as I always must do before speaking in
French, and placed my order for a Bombay Gin Fizz priced at 23 euros.
I
made good on my word and bought Krystle the drink of her choosing. She ended up
going with an Irish coffee for the low, low price of 20 euros. It paled in
comparison to my drink, but not a bad choice. For those of you who aren’t
mathematicians, that is a three euro difference from my drink of choice: three
less units of refinement.
As
myself and the rest of my Lawless compatriots eagerly waited for our drinks, I
began to imagine the grandeur of a 23 euro cocktail. Surely it must be on fire,
or served in a gold chalice. Maybe it’ll be brought to me by a virgin dressed
in white, or, at the very least, a velvet pillow. Nope: none of the above.
What
was presented to me was a very plain, slender glass of a carbonated concoction
with a single lemon wedge resting on the rim. No fire; no virgin. Though there
was a basic sophistication surrounding the beverage, the size of the glass was
quite disheartening. As the waiter unceremoniously called out drinks to us like
we were children in an elementary school cafeteria, I was beyond underwhelmed.
Ah
well, the show must go on. I feigned excitement as I took my first sip. When I
say “sip,” I mean going through the motion of bringing the glass up to my face,
but barely opening my mouth so as to allow the least amount of liquid possible
to escape the glass. When you’re dropping 23 large, and by large I mean euros,
you need to savor the flavor.
Speaking
of flavor, the drink was delicious. What it lacked in bells and whistles it
made up for in taste and drinkability. The lemon, carbonation and top shelf gin
all coexisted in perfect harmony. A harmony that was tragically cut short in
one terrible staccato note as my oafish, Cro-Magnon hands swept across the
table in one ogre-like motion, colliding with the drink and sending the rest of
my precious Gin Fizz all over Krystle’s lap.
Motherfucker.
The initial
disappointment I felt when seeing my former plain beauty was nothing compared
to the sheer devastation that overtook my tuxedo-clad body as I realized what I
had done. I immediately went on a self-loathing binge, critiquing myself far
beyond the accident at hand. How could I have been so foolish? Why haven’t I
worked out in two weeks? Why don’t I pay more attention, and why is my hair so
damn curly?
After berating
myself for what seemed like an hour, I began apologizing profusely to Krystle
for spilling my liquid gold all over her skirt. I contemplated multiple ways to
attempt to salvage the twenty-two and a half Euros worth of drink from its
current resting place, but to no avail. As the waiter came over to wipe up the
scene of the crime, I went from bad to worse. I had nothing left; my life was
over.
As the rest of my
fellow Cannes-ers sat there drinking their nearly-full glasses, I held back my tears
and tried not to be envious of them as they sat there gulping down their
delicious beverages like gluttons. They are animals. They are the devil. I hate
them.
No. No I don’t. I
love them…kind of.
