Drinks After Work: We went a-drinking

Oh yes we did. We sure did.

Friday night it was raining and I was running late. I ran into Noizy in Taranaki St as he was leaving and then had this weird flashback as I rounded the corner to the entrance to Vintage (scroll down). When was the last time I was here? Was it still Monkey Bar then? Was I thrown out? Was I experiencing deja vu of from another place/space/time/parallel existence? Or a movie of the same? Was I really interrogated by the Stazi in East Berlin for several days in a stone building with an arched gate? Were there bright spotlights and guard towers? And dogs? My god, I really need a drink.

Vintage was nice, but for some reason I had to keep telling the barstaff to serve my beer (Monteiths Black) in a glass. Tom and Hadyn enjoyed their absinthe, though, as did I my tequila (Herradura Antiguo; thanks for asking). At least the barstaff didn't give me funny looks when I said I didn't want it in a shot-glass with lemon and salt; points off for offering though.

Five or six rounds later Jo, Martha and I were the last left after many present had departed to either watch Che learn how to cook a lamb leg-roast, or to gawk at the out-of-towners at the Mandatory 10th birthday party. So we're hoofing it down Courtenay Place in the rain and I was struck by how far it actually is to Hawthorn Lounge when it's actually raining and you're actually getting quite wet. Luckily ol' HT wasn't packed to the gunnels like it usually is later on of an evening, and nor was it sweltering, like it usually is later on of an evening; the fire was going, though, and it was nice.

I like Hawthorn Lounge and I don't like Hawthorn Lounge. I like that the bartender remembers you and which gin you prefer; and that he was happy to mix a Dirty Martini (only it's not bloody olive juice, Drinksmixer.com -- it's brine) for me with the sometimes too-strong-and-"big"-to-be-classic Tanqueray 10 (47.3% a.b.v.), though it was against his better instincts. I don't like how hard it is to actually get to the bar, how hot it gets in there, how crowded, that they are apparently -- in the top-shelf spirits analogue to a "brewery-bar", I suppose -- a "42 Below" bar, and how their cocktails are so little.

I mean they're really little.

I mean, they're so little that you'd want to be careful breathing too near your glass, in case you inadvertently inhale the lot.

Nevertheless we had negronis (with mandarin-infused gin, no less), and martinis, and Jo had wine and that violet spirit the name of which I knew I'd never remember and sure enough I don't. Then in dribs and drabs we made our ways to Boulot.

Which is a wonderful place. Could be said to be everything that Hawthorn Lounge is not, including generously-sized cocktails, and (possibly) the best pizza in town. Jo and I finished off our night scoffing a Quattro Formagi which I accompanied with a big glass of random Spanish red wine from the bottle that M.G. abandoned when he left. (Fucken nice, it was, too -- thanks Michael.)

Drinks tally for the evening:
Monteiths Black (4)
Tequila (double, 2)
Negronis (3)
Dirty Martinis (2)
Classic Martinis (1)
1951 Martinis (1)
glasses of random Spanish red wine courtesy M.G. (1)

Home by 11. How very civilised. Viva la Wellingtonista!

Next time I'm determined we'll pace ourselves and make it out past the witching hour.