I get it, we all did the same thing. Young, stupid, cheap ass bottle of Bacardi rum in hand and hours later head in the toilet, retching, blaming the rum. Shame on you, you blamed the rum. As you went forward in life, aged a little, everyone you knew gravitated toward vodka. It’s clean they said. Those other things, “the browns” are bad for you. Then, one day, you were out with a friend from work and they started drinking tequila. The same experience happened to you with tequila when you were younger. As the smell of your friend’s agave spirit wafted toward you, it caused a flip flop reaction in your tummy tum. Not for you.

And so it went on. For years you drank vodka sodas, a flavorless, fizzy entity that still retained the ability to calm the nerves after a long week in the office despite its total and complete lack of character. Hey, it was alcohol after all. Later, when the luster failed to linger, martinis became more apropos. The big whammo. Dirty of course. Then, on a Friday night date, the person across the table from you ordered a classic gin martini with a twist. Lucky for you it was a joint that had good bartenders. Your date slid it across for you to taste. This was something different. Flavor. Botanicals. Structure.

And so gin. What is gin if not vodka with some herbs and dried berries in it? So many gins out there in the world to try. The gin and tonic a no brainer masterpiece of the Nineteenth Century. The simple highball, the easiest and most times most pleasurable of the bunch. Any asshole can do it.

Next stop, your first Negroni. Now what was this? Sweet, bitter, strong, a touch of orange oil floating atop. No one had ever told you about something like this. Perhaps the greatest ever. Somewhere along the way someone suggested a boulevardier. “It’s just a Negroni with bourbon,” they said. Bourbon. You had stayed away so long for no reason. The gateway to whiskey and whisky. Such history, such subtleties of flavor across so many brands it seemed almost impenetrable once you lost yourself in it. But you did anyway.

Once the magic, charred oak, corn liquid graces the tongue, there is no turning back. It is a road paved with history and one goes forward into the spice of rye, then down the golden road to Scotch. And then if a barrel mystically changes all of these why not give reposado and añejo a try? Woah. Yeah. Something else altogether.

It all comes full circle. All of a sudden, a good blanco tequila is no longer vomit inducing but nuanced with black pepper and all the insane vegetal qualities. Plus, its the healthiest, they say. We’re back to square one. A clean spirit you can quaff with less guilt. And so why not give mezcal a chance? It’s artisan. Small batch.

You sit down at a bar one night, alone. It’s the weekend. There’s some weird looking old guy behind there. Bearded, bags under the eyes, disheveled. it’s been a long one and you’re feeling somewhat open to suggestion. The drinks menu is full of alien stuff, strange, foreign words. Umeshu, amazake, pisco, cachaça.”What’s good tonight?” You ask the Aging Bartender. “Rum,” he replies. Rum? Rum you think. Despite the decades behind you, the trauma of rum lingers. Your whole life you’ve reached for whatever you could to shield yourself from the demon rum.

“Rum is too sweet,” you say. The Aging Bartender smiles. He’s heard this one before.

“Why don’t I make you something? If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay for it.”

“All right.”

“A little dairy is ok?”

“Yes.”

Dairy? What the hell?

He sets to work. A practiced movement, many flicks from his wrist, the hand gripping the bottles from some secret place underneath. Mysterious catacombs. You count seven ingredients, most of the bottles bereft of commercial labels. A dash of something. An empty rocks glass goes onto the bartop with a large cube inside. He adds a scoop of ice to his tin, clamps the two ends together, follows it all with a violent spasm of ten seconds or so as he shakes the concoction and strains it into the glass, adorns the finished beverage with a lemon wheel, then a dash of red powder. He places the drink down in front of you on top of a black bar napkin square.

A pinkish hue, the ends brimming with froth. The whole spectacle like some odd reverberation of alchemy passed down from the ages when people knew no better, when they were told this magical potation would cure them of their troubles. Ah, but it’s still true, isn’t it? You taste and it is unlike anything you have ever experienced in liquid form. A long lasting flavor. First very sweet, then very sour, then finishing with an extremely pleasant flavor you were never aware of previously. The rum you were so concerned with not even a factor. The second sip is even better, more pleasing as the initial alcohol of the day trickles into your nervous system.

“How is the drink?” He asks.

“It’s delicious, not sweet at all.”

“Ok. Cool. Yeah, rum isn’t sweet on its own, it’s the sugar they put into the drinks to make them sweet.”

“What is this?”

“It’s called Nobody’s Fool.”

You read the ingredients listed on the menu in front of you. White rum. Strawberry. Macadamia. Fresh lemon and lime juice. Shio koji. Six ingredients listed but you swore he put at least eight or more in there. No dairy items to your knowledge. What the hell is this sorcery? It goes down, the cube dropping sadly into the bottom of the glass with a final thunk, and you’re open to more.

“Another suggestion?” You say.

“Rum?” Says the Aging Bartender.