How strange. I was wandering around Chicago in July after a round with Brother Shivas at Exmoor, when I stumbled upon a fabulous rooftop bar a couple blocks from the river inlet.
I asked the Barkeep what kind of high-octane Mezcal he had - being in a perverse mood and waiting for the pills to soften up my sore back - when he asked if I'd like to try a piece of Chicago history. On the house I might add.
So, I got the whole story of Carl Jeppson and his blown out taste buds - before he inflicted what tasted suspiciously like a combination of Pine-Sol and absinthe . . . . a shot of something so vile, not even a desperate alcoholic could choke down more than a few drops.
Not wishing to insult the Barkeep - pretending to enjoy a shot of his own and who wryly suggested an effete bozo from "Frisco" might not have manly enough chops to finish a jigger of viciously toxic poison - I picked up the gauntlet and defended my manhood.
But little by little - between healthy quaffs of Old Style (just to keep it real) - I managed to drain the last droplets of nitric acid, but did not ask for another.
I figured out they like to assault foreign newbies (they consider anybody not from the Midwest from a different planet) at the bar with Jeppson's Malort as a right of passage - or some kind of test of your machismo.
A couple (full rip, SEC Southerners - so an easy target) came tottering in and no sooner had they sat down, Mr. Barkeep (30-something, ripped, handsome and completely full of shit and mischief) winked at me and after they ordered, ran the same hustle on the beefy hubby, sporting a Seminoles jersey.
"Free drink to go with my beer? Sure, love to!"
I noticed wifey (young Dolly Parton doppelganger, with all the trimmins') got served a Cosmo, since that trick only gets played on boys, apparently.
Well, Seminoles are clearly not as tough as Trojans, because that ol' boy took a serious snort of that shit and I swear literally spit it on the bar and his pants.
"What the hell is that stuff? That's not really for people to drink, right?"
Got to hear the same legend of Carl Jeppson all over again, so it must be part of the regular schtick. I left the Barkeep a great tip, primarily because he gave me with a great story - although thinking I'd probably never have a chance to share it. One more reason to hang in the Treehouse.
I also have never heard or read the word "Kummel" since reading Stephen Potters' book in my youth. My curiosity being piqued, I'm going to get on my scooter and head down to our gourmet liquor store (locals have run it since I was a child) and pledge to buy a bottle of Kummel to try.
They *do* have it in stock, I just looked it up.
More later . . . . . it might need to be adopted as the official drink of Ran's Treehouse.
We should also keep a bottle of Malort under the bar, to be reserved as punishment for heresy - like suggesting Pasatiempo is a marginal golf course. Barny and Brauer get the first flask of hemlock, so enjoy it.