Not everyone is man enough to join the mile high club. It’s all a matter of taste.
I have learned, with the wisdom that comes with hard experience and ever-advancing age, to take it slow and savor it. It is as much about the experience as it is about the gratification: only amateurs and the helplessly immature want to rush things. So I stop to breathe, I get in close and take a good look. I get my nose in there, allow myself to smell it. Slow and sweet. I let the moisture build from the inside out, one languid drip at a time. I tease it a little with my tongue; I don’t need to remind myself to take it slow. It is always a minor (and occasionally, if it’s been too long, a major) revelation just how amazing it can be. As long as you respect it, can control your passion and indulgence, it always tastes like the first time. Inevitably, it will be over before it even started. This is not necessarily something to regret so much as resignedly acknowledge: these are the unalterable rules of engagement. That moisture builds, bringing a slight burn in the back of your throat. Drinking it in, total return on investment. It is an art one has to understand in order to appreciate.
I am, of course, talking about the proper way to enjoy a cocktail at 30,000 feet.
I can milk a mixed drink on a cross-country flight (if you order a mixed drink on a flight that does not cross time zones, you need to do some possibly uncomfortable self-examination): it’s not that I can’t afford a handful of $7 scotches on the rocks, it just seems…indulgent to have more than one. Or two, tops. Unless it’s a rough flight. Or, say, you are sandwiched between two super-sized ugly Americans on a five hour flight. It’s odd, though: the airplane cocktail costs about the same as it would cost on the ground, in a bar. They just seem so expensive, lined up alongside the diet cokes and bottled waters everyone else is pretending to enjoy.
And so it becomes a matter of commitment. Let the ice mellow the alcohol for a long time, as long as you can stand. A slow burn of melting spirits is the secret. Finally, one purposeful sip at a time, the drink is enjoyed in a way that does both the drink and the occasion justice. This is a drink you imbibe not to quench thirst but to inspire sensations not related to primal imperatives. In this way, a transfigured ice cube sluiced over the tongue can reveal the salvation of the universe. At least it will feel that way, so long as your obligatory headphones are blocking out the babble and blather. Through the distilled physics of solids compressing, something approximating peace is achieved. At least the type of nirvana one can only hope to achieve a mile in the sky with no flight attendant or sexy stranger involved. When all you’ve got are frazzled mothers, noisy offspring and bilious businessmen, that plastic cup can become your gateway to a brave new world, a flashing chance at bliss.
When it’s over you are arguably no wiser or richer; you’ve gained nothing that can be quantified by the root of all evil, which perhaps is the point. The point is, you are still alive. All things being equal, this is progress.
Bonus footage thanks to my man Jamie C. in the hizeee (J: I saw this on YouTube a ways back and totally forgot about it; how could I not have remembered it for this post? You rule!)
