It was the drink’s name that got us into trouble. “Dew Drop.” Vodka, splash of sparkling wine, fresh grape juice, and something called St. Germain. The latter ingredient was what really got our attention. What was it? We were intrigued. While our table pondered the possibilities, the restaurant owner overheard us and came running over, very excited. He was dressed like a movie star, with a purple velvet sports jacket, a white shirt with not many buttons buttoned, and a few silver chains. I couldn’t place his accent – Australian, South African?
“St. Germain? You really must try it. Made from ElderFlower. It’s fabulous,” he said excitedly, adding that the drink was imported from France but created by an American right here in Colorado. All the bar shelves in Aspen restaurants were stocked with it. I guess it was the drink of the moment.
He offered us a taste. Of course, we couldn’t refuse anything free in this overly-priced town.
The bar manager brought over a small glass with a clear liquor in it. It smelled like spring-time, like apples and melon. Delicious. Yes, of course, we would have a round. Mine arrived in a martini glass, with two green grapes floating on the bottom where olives normally rest. But Siig’s was different. His came in a big tumbler and was more bubbly. Our new BFF Lauren the bar-manager came over and looked at the drinks, her pierced tongue clucking unapprovingly. Turns out none of them was actually the real Dew Drop. They were “alternatives.” Apparently, the bartender had already had one too many drinks of his own, even forgetting a key ingredient in my cousin’s mojito, which tasted like bland soda water mixed with mint.
But we were quite enjoying our “mistakes.” It had the desired effects. Soon, our table was rolling with laughter. I swear I saw a 70-year old proper woman at the table next to us sucking on the fingers of the man next to her; my cousin Jordan stole my mom’s cell phone and started texting her boyfriend. “What are you wearing?” he wrote covertly. The answer came back: “White shirt and jeans. What are you wearing?” When he responded: “leopard-print thong” the gig was up. I guess that particular item is not in my mom’s panties’ drawer.
Then we started doing the ChaCha. No, not the dance. It’s a number you text to find the answer to any question. We started writing: “Who is Melissa Siig?” Answer: “Sorry, no one of importance. We have no answer for you.”
Ouch. And here I thought I was a world famous blogger. Nothing like technology to put you in your place.
As we left the Wild Fig giggling, our heads swimming with the sweet scent of white grapes and ElderFlower, the acid jazz and electronic music of the French band St. Germain played above our heads on the loud speakers. I guess we hadn’t so much gotten into trouble (unless you count my middle-of-the-night headache) as stumbled into synchronicity.
St. Germain, “Sure Thing”: