I come to you humbled. I am but a humbled man. There was a time when I was celebrated. We all have our time. Or maybe we don’t, but the stories of my work still percolate. Whether you know it or not, the true nighthawks will likely have been acquainted with my work. I am too old and too wise to take my lack of fame to heart. We are, after all, at the mercy of gravity and precise mixer measurements. I didn’t make the rules but, when I was at my best, I broke them with daring and panache.
You might hear about me in the wee hours from a wide-eyed rogue as they wax lyrical about my exploits and achievements in the midst of their latest drunken stupor. You might hear them say something like; “There was once a great connoisseur of drinks. A facilitator of wild and extraordinary nights on which legendary relationships were founded. Without him, hedonism was but a theory. Without him, we would never have become what we are today – romantic and seriously jaded.”
They would be referring to me, The Lost Welsh Mixologist.
Yes, I admit it, it is me. Yes, it is years since I have contributed my genius. Yes, I will soon succumb to consumption, and yet, I have a final contribution to make. In fact, I feel it necessary to leave you all with that which I was once too fearful to share. This extraordinary collection of drinks that I am about to reveal came to me in dreams, but I never dared put them into practice for the simple reason that I was scared. I never wanted to be Frankenstein, creating monsters with my liquid innovations, but now I realise that I was simply an aerial. No, I can’t claim responsibility for these concoctions, not really. Maybe I willed them into existence, but, more likely, I ushered them. And now, before I depart, let me reveal the lost drinks that will elegantly mark the completion of my oeuvre. But before I do, a story.
There I was, thirty-three in Dublin at two in the morning. There had been a lot of Guinness. Heavy drink. It was weighing me down, but I wished to go on.
‘I need a livener,” I said, hunched over a table. The swish was facing a crisis. They pointed to the cocaine, but I would have nothing to do with that nonsense.
“An alcoholic livener,” I said.
“No such thing,” they said.
Determined to find a solution, I went to work the following week and the Tequila Livener was born. It was potent. I was suddenly having visions of myself as Zeus. I didn’t dare share it, though. Perhaps I was being selfish. I felt it was akin to the discovery of caffeine and I wanted the effects all to myself. The next day I wrote my first novel, The Loquacious Karaoke Hen, in all of three hours.
A week later, Craig David allegedly galloped into Wrexham on a horse. No one knows why. Some say he had Welsh heritage. Some say he took a wrong turn at Church Stretton. Some say he’d heard good things about the cuisine in Pizza Palace.
Not long after, there were whispers of a new drink about town. They called it The Craig David. By now, you likely will have tried one. Tequila, swiftly followed by a shot of pineapple juice. I won’t knock it – it works – but we can do better. In fact, I had done better. And so, for those who wish to get to the other side, even if there is no other side, I present the Tequila Livener:
- Tequila Livener
Tequila, a spoonful of sugar, and a shot of espresso.
The rest of the lost drinks need little to no explanation or introduction. They do the talking. They are living and breathing. Art? Sure, even if they do result in death or stomach cramps. Don’t blame me, I’m just an aerial.
- Welsh Grinning Crow
Espresso, Canadian Club, Tia Maria, vermouth, and a quarter can of Guinness. (Measurements don’t matter.)
Shaken, stirred, and served over crushed ice.
Sprinkle 85% organic dark chocolate on top then take a blow torch to it and serve flaming.
Optional touch: present on a golden platter.
- Delilah’s Revenge
Vodka and a ladle of Tabasco, poured over a foraged mushroom.
- The Bob Bank
Warm Carling in a plastic, served with a Clark’s Pie
