On a drink that beats the Aperol spritz any day of the week.
On a drink that beats the Aperol spritz any day of the week.
N ational Review did not hire me to complain about alcohol. But in April, I used my position anyway to denounce the Aperol spritz and announce my campaign, Abigail Against Aperol 2024.
Plenty of people disagreed with this stance; one NR editor sent a photo in Slack of the Aperol spritz she ordered in response to my article. But others endorsed my campaign, and I noticed this comment online: “Abigail should write a regularly-occurring column where she subjects herself to a different traditional cocktail in each one. I would read the hell out of that.” I took a screenshot of that and sent it to my editorial overlords, informing them that the people have spoken. Encountering no resistance, I asked if I could expense my bar tabs to National Review. I immediately received this reply: “Imma stop you right there.” And thus a column was born, to the detriment of my bank account. I’m learning my limits — in terms of alcohol tolerance and ability to exploit NR financially.
I write from Lynrace Cocktails in Jericho, a speakeasy-esque bar in Oxford with an intimate environment that feels both scandalous and relaxing. It strikes me as the kind of establishment where important men lounge before smoking expensive cigars. Do I bring fellow graduate students here because the 19-year-olds wasted on cheap beer don’t dare enter? Yes. Do I go here because I once saw the famous Harry Potter actress Emma Watson sipping a margarita at a high-top table? Maybe. Do I think one of the bartenders is attractive? Never mind. . . .
I flipped through the leather-bound menu, and I ordered just what I needed to ameliorate the fatigue from my recent final exam: “The Painkiller.” Normally, I just resort to Advil, but even the adult-strength capsules aren’t enough to soothe me now; I’m debilitated by fears that my phonology essay won’t get a passing grade. But more than the cocktail’s name was alluring. The ingredients — two ounces of dark rum, four ounces of pineapple juice, one ounce of orange juice, and one ounce of coconut cream, topped with a dash of nutmeg — seemed appropriate to celebrate the emerging summer weather.
As I munched on salty chips and watched the busy bartenders perform their magic, I was given an informative lecture, which is rather characteristic of Oxford. The cocktail’s rightful inventor is contested, although the drink’s indisputable origin is at the Soggy Dollar Bar on a sandy shore in the British Virgin Islands. The earliest version of the Painkiller was concocted by either the bar’s original owners, George and Marie Myrick, or the woman who later purchased it, Daphne Henderson. Charles Tobias tried to extract the recipe from Henderson for years, but he never succeeded. Eventually, he attempted some reverse engineering and used his own brand of rum, Pusser’s. His version allegedly won an informal taste-test among patrons, then earned a trademark in the 1980s. Now, it is one of the few cocktails protected by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
“So, what’s the difference between this and a piña colada?” I asked one of the bartenders, Joe, who looks like a detective.
“A piña colada is in a much larger glass, with more juice, and blended,” he answered.
“Yeah, but you can order a piña colada on the rocks,” I mentioned.
“Well, that’s wrong,” Joe countered. He handed me a book about rum that was perched on a shelf, which I had erroneously assumed was purely decorative.
And then it was time for the moment of truth, the first sip. I was immediately pleased: It was as though my tongue had been blessed with the liquid form of a beach vacation. The dominant pineapple flavor is tropical, exotic, and refreshing. There is a delicate creaminess from the coconut that tastes luxurious and not heavy, unlike a piña colada. The drink is fruity without tartness, and sweet without any syrupy consistency. A rum flavor is subtle but detectable, so I didn’t completely feel like a child drinking from a cardboard juice box.
I have two complaints about the Painkiller. First, it was not served with one of those fun little disposable Tiki umbrellas as a decorative garnish. I’m a simple gal who appreciates a bit of whimsy. Give me mini umbrellas or give me death.
My second complaint is slightly more substantive. I simply don’t understand the name — the “Painkiller.” Sure, the fruity drink is soothing, insofar as it mentally transports you to a quiet beach with water as blue as the sky, and the thoughts of serenity preclude any concerns about the caloric content from the coconut cream. But the cocktail is also energizing, since the orange juice is practically a Vitamin C injection. If the drink has to be named after a pill, it is better labeled an anti-depressant than a painkiller.
Actually, I have a third and final complaint: Next time I order one, I’d prefer an ocean view.