Imagine this. Something bad happened–extreme drought, nuclear war, all of the above–and now the entire world looks like the stretch from Wilshire Boulevard between 18th and 12th. Trash blowing, storefronts gone, the glass behind the shuttered safety cages broken. The occasional glow from a fire lit inside where the forgotten huddle to keep warm and plot to eat one another.

Wandering bands of armed savages patrol the streets, tribes of barbacks, each led by a bar manager. Cocktail groupies kept in line with the promise of sweet nectar once they adhere to their master’s bidding. The once well known recipes all gone, all forgotten, a handful of master bartenders now the only bearers of the torch. Sages with dedicated followers who construct their quantities of drinks in secret and dole them out sparingly to control the masses.

Ah, but you, you little bildungsroman. You’ve heard the call from an early age. The raspy voices of the cocktail Mount Rushmore in your head–Jerry Thomas, Don the Beachcomber, Trader Vic, and Dale DeGroff. You were born knowing all the recipes, all the specs. You are the “Chosen One” they all whisper to one another about. They’ve all heard the prophecy passed down through the generations and soon, young one, soon you will lead your own followers to the promised land by releasing the recipes and ending the tyranny.

Yes, this is all very much like the scenario I conjured up in the post Enter: The Clothespin.

It’s quite possible I’ve been watching too much Dune.

Anyway, we’ve got this amazing dude who comes in and gifts us with his limes. BBQ Mike. And in the apocalypse where only cocktails reign, he will be raised up like a demi-god. He and two others with a stranglehold on the market. One who imports sugar and the other who makes great rum. Ah, but what about the remaining pantheon of spirits? Yes, there are whispers of those, but one must travel. Kentucky for bourbon, Indiana for rye, up into the deep woods of Oregon for gin. Ok, ok, I gotta stop. My mind is muddled a bit after two busy nights. It’s my day off, allow me to be a little scattered.

The point of this post? Hypothetical situation time. You’ve got three cocktail ingredients to work with the rest of your life. What do you choose young padawan? I’m going with rum, BBQ’s Mike’s limes, and some regular old raw sugar (organic please). Daiquiris, yes, but especially a caipirinha.

I’ve found the cheat code. I won’t tell you what it is but I will give you a few crumbs so you can follow your own trail. Think about this: every caipirinha recipe is pretty much the same but not all limes are created equal. That’s the problem.

BBQ Mike’s limes are from his backyard and yellow. They make the best caipirinhas because they’re a little bit sweet and have a crazy intense flavor. I investigated this a bit. Your store bought limes aren’t so good because they’re not allowed to ripen in the sun. The sunlight is what makes them turn yellow and slightly sweet. Yeah. That’s how nature intended. Most of our limes come from down south, in Mexico, picked early in order to survive the trip. BBQ Mike’s limes are allowed to ripen on the tree and fall off. It’s the reason why a tomato from your garden will always be better than the one you buy at the store. Not just freshness but the decision to pluck when it’s ready to go.