lick, sip, suck

According to Wikipedia Tequila is distilled from the agave, a pretty looking cactus-like desert plant that thrives off the volcanic soil in the highlands (Los Altos) of the western Mexican state of Jalisco. A particularly good Tequila is made from the blue agave, which is more native to the area near the town of Tequila, hence the spirit's name.

Whenever I make a Margarita, either frozen or not, I never, ever use that sickening pre-made crap that you add the Tequila to. You know, the one that your lovable brother-in-law stocks in his basement bar? It tastes nothing like a more authentic version. I believe a good Margarita is simpler than that, so I just squeeze out the juices of a couple of limes (around 1-1/2 oz.), add 2oz. of tequila, and a splash of Cointreau, all shaken in my cocktail shaker with ice for several seconds, and finally strained into a pre-chilled martini glass rimmed with salt and garnished with a slice of lime.

If I'm not mistaken the authentic Margarita is sour by default, not sweet, which partly explains the salt on the rim of the glass. The salt tempers the sourness of the lime and the sourness tempers the sting of the Tequila. Of course, many Americans or otherwise non-hardcore Tequila appreciators can't stand sour so that may explain why many pedestrian bars and clubs give you Margaritas that taste more like spiked limeade (i.e. made with pre-made crap). Yech. I prefer my Margarita to taste like it means it - powerful and unapologetic.

^ Una planta muy bonita sí.

But it seems if the Tequila is of a much better quality no salt is needed as it's believed by bartenders specializing in Margaritas that the salt is there to mask the inferior flavour of lesser Tequilas. Fine Tequilas like Herradura or Sauza are the kind that when you spot the bottle on the shelf you do a double take on your wallet before deciding. The finest Tequilas are so nice they must be taken neat. You savour it, sip it lovingly. Whatever, I'm poor so the $10 gold one from Trader Joe's will do.

If you know more about Tequila than I ever will, please comment, I want to learn more. Give me some good recipes, too, if you have any.

Tonight I'm too lazy to make me a Margarita so I instead did a Tequila Cruda (as the title of this blog post implies). In other words, a Tequila Shot. Pour a little salt on the area of skin between the base of your thumb and forefinger, lick the salt off, gulp down the shot of Tequila, and immediately bite into and suck a lime wedge, all within 3 seconds.

Believe me, it's very sexy doing a Tequila Cruda, especially with someone you just met at your favourite watering hole. Hey, if Melanie Griffith and Harrison Ford doing it in Working Girl (skip to 2:38) didn't convince me, I dunno what would have.

rite of passage

^ New Order - Krafty

I wish I had lost my virginity this way. Simply, beautifully, poetically.

huile de parfum

> I should rub a drop or two on my laptop to tease me whenever I blog.

I'm running out of White Musk perfume oil so I made a trip to get more. Instead I found Japanese Musk. Hmm, I thought. What's the difference? I've been using White Musk for well over a year now (two years? I forget) and I'm very fond of it - earthy, robust yet subtle, sensual, arousing at times, and it goes beautifully with the Chinese sandalwood soap I normally shower with. They did have a couple bottles of it left.

Then I noticed the Japanese Musk.

There was a sample so I took a whiff. Whoah. There is certainly a difference - unmistakeably exotic, unusual, even strange, but definitely intriguing and perhaps a bit mysterious. It seems to draw you in through sensuous intrigue, but somehow also inspires you to ask questions, about its essence, maybe even about its wearer. I had to buy it.

I love my White Musk but I knew I wanted something new, something a little challenging even. I just didn't know what it would be or even where I'd discover it. It's a good compromise, too. It's still musk, which works well with my natural chemistry (as do woodsy and citrus essences), but it's also something more, and something more unique. I don't believe this scent to be worn by many people.

Leave it to this alien to choose a scent that itself seems rather alien, too.

la séduction d'une ville

^ Bryan Ferry's Slave To Love, shot on location in Paris in the mid 80s. Like fine vintage wine, the writing of Colette, or the visions of artist Odilon Redon, the romantic art direction and sepia toned dreamlike photography are eternal and will always inspire me to dream.

Paris...Chicago...Petaluma...South Pasadena. I just read an old blog post from my good friend N., while by coincidence listening to a song from Carla Bruni (or is it now Madame Sarkozy?) , and thinking about the fact that my niece K. has yet to experience Paris (preferably on her own, one must experience that world for the very first time on one's own, it's absolutely necessary). What a confluence!

So I leave my suburban homestead each morning, walk a few metres and catch a bus, where a nice portugese man greets me every morning. I ride to the local SNCF station, sit on the train for 20 minutes, surrounded by a melange of strange African languages that I have never heard before, wake up to the Eiffel Tower on the left and arrive in the center of the city. I have no sense of direction in the circular flow of things in Europe...I am accustomed to the grid-like structures of modern-day American cities, thus I have purchased a compass and have honed my intuitive skills even further. I am Rudolphe the red nosed reindeer. Guess I look like I know what I'm doing because people ask me for directions all the time. If only they knew...

I have befriended a few fun pals from all over the place. A gal from Pasadena, a boy from Trinidad, and Spaniard, a Texan, an Algerian and a Parisian. Imagine that. My first day here I met a 65 year old Parisian man who offered to buy me an apartment in Paris so I could stay here. Hmmmmmm. WEIRD! Then there are the Japanese business men on the CHamps-Elysees who want to give me 1000 euros cash to go buy things at Louis Vuitton to help them smuggle back to their boutiques. Then there are the men in Montmartre who grab your face and want to paint you. I haven't come up with a good comeback yet but I'm working on it. They're really irritating. It's all just too weird. Everything. But oddly enough, why do I feel more at home wandering these streets then I do in the USA?

- from N.'s blog J'y pense et puis j'oublie...

N. and I share similar passions over Paris. She is of French descent but of Midwestern upbringing, and I having been there a few times years back for work and pleasure. N., much to my jealousy, has actually lived in Paris for a while, something I plan to do in the future, preferably making art, writing, blogging, and of course, experiencing. I think N.'s blog post sums it up well enough that I needn't do so myself, she speaks for me just as much.

Paris must be experienced for the very first time alone. You must be alone (even if already partnered). That is when everything opens up and invitations cascade at your feet and you can pick and choose, or let fate choose for you. Once in the city, an itinerary is about as useful as a prison cage with a view. Throw it out and get lost - literally. Only then will the city begin its slow and gradual seduction and you have no choice but to float along. "Let your pleasure be your guide", as Jeanne Moreau tells Anne Parillaud in the French action thriller La Femme Nikita.

^ Carla Bruni - Those Dancing Days Are Gone

K., and for that matter another good friend of mine, J., have never been to Paris. They have only the experiences of others to live through vicariously until they themselves can go. Paris, I tell them, is an entirely different state of mind if you allow it. When you're there it is not a holiday, it's not a sightseeing tour (not the way N. and I experienced it). Rather, it is a tonic, a seduction, a lover's hot embrace, a swig of whiskey, an aphrodisiac, a sensuous wafting.

And then you wake up back home, and the hangover is magnificent.