Maybe it was a trailer for Dune and their bloody worms. Or perhaps it was an ad for a 0% Mexican beer with a slice of lime rammed down the neck—the epitome of pretentious pointlessness.
Whatever… some ricochet of thought had tricked the mind into a rabbit hole at about 10.30 pm, which bizarrely resulted in my salivating for a glass of Mezcal. I think the timing was simply some muscle-memory of a moment when a long-lost 1980s London would be starting to get jiggy, when life would be getting interesting.
I remembered a time, almost 45 years ago, when I was working in Covent Garden and Cafe Pacifico had just opened some 500m away from my gaff. The distance was relevant because I could get there and back in a time frame when no one would notice my absence. I would often be joined by my mate Ron who ran the wine bar Brahms and Lizst, and despite being a wine bar, Ron drank Tequila, even there. Not having a till button for Mexican spirits, he simply had a button called Staff Drinks, and put everything through that. I preferred Mezcal, although to be fair, whether I could have told the difference at three in the morning is speculative, but Mezcal and Tequila was why Ron and I would often jog through Covent Garden.
This juxtaposition of random facts and memories, all conspired to lead me to the thought that I needed to drink Mexican. Room temperature, in a shot glass, with a saucer of orange slices surrounding a small dish with
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