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I bellied up to the bar and got the attention of the young lady serving beers to the starving artists around me. I asked her for the worst drink she could make. She knew of one drink with three ingredients that was so foul, so powerful, and so demonic that I nearly died that night in bed. She didn't know the name, and she had only made it once before, for a man who rode into the bar on a black steed and said to her only three words: Grenadine, 151, and FIRE.
"Make sure you blow out the fire!" she warned. "Of course," I said. She warned me again. I was waiting for her to pull out a release form for me to sign, but all grew silent. I lifted the shot to my mouth, blew out the flames, and swallowed. In my search for the worst tasting drink, The Grill was lord and master of all.
I made my way home and slithered through the house like a brain-damaged snake, spilling an entire bottle of ibuprofen into the sink, tripping over basically everything, and making lots of noise. That night as I lay in bed with one leg draped over the side to help subside the rapid spinning sensations, I realized something. I have seen Hell, and Hell is drinking four of the worst drinks a bartender can think up in one night on top of lots and lots of good old beer. Or you might just like to contribute a foul drink of your own. |
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