Colorado - Part 5

The evening continues after a dinner of one of the best buffalo burgers I've ever experienced. I had a girlfriend once who used to remind me that I didn't really like buffalo burgers—how wrong she was. We proceed in search of a bathroom, a wallet belonging to one of our party, and Justice Snow's, whither we are bound for drinks. Our priorities being what they are, we find Snow's first, then make a grand circle looking for the smoke shop suspected to contain the missing articles.

Upon finding the smoke shop (closed) across the street from Snow's (open), we put aside the disappointment of the unintentional circuitousness of our path for the elation of finding ourselves at our final destination, and we celebrate with an absinthe fountain. Our dulled senses of navigation suggest that we do not need these drinks, per se, but the dejection of our fruitless search suggests that we could certainly use them, and besides, I need a bathroom ("per se" be damned). Together we seek the inspiration of the green muse. There is fire (which the barkeep diligently extinguishes before I, in my haste, can consume it), and the tiny silver shovel keeps hitting me in the face. It may be a spoon, but it strikes me (ha!) as more spade than spoon.

Inspired, I try the Auchentoshan Three Wood—it's almost unbearably hot (even after absinthe) with peach, cabbage, citrus, grape, and wheat. Even with cucumber slices in the water (try it!) to cleanse my palate of the absinthe (La Fee), I fail to taste any of the stuff listed on the bottle, even with the power of suggestion. My associate is talking to a man on his other side, who is also talking to me, and I to him, though my responses must seem aloof, because I can't hear a word he's saying. I hope my associate will talk to him long enough that he buys us drinks, but the gentleman's attention shifts to someone else (presumably actually within earshot), and we pay for ourselves.

 I look at my watch and realize it's somehow just after lunch the next day, but I'm still here, only my clothes have changed and I'm a few seats over. I peruse the drink menu carefully, and when I hear that the Hamlet of Shacksbury (made with an egg?) is currently not on offer (they're out of something; I don't recall what, but I don't think it's eggs), I shift gears and order a Poet's Dream, which seems exciting and interesting without having a completely asinine name. It's great (and the first time the bartender, who I realize is actually younger than I am) has made one, so I congratulate him. I see something on the bar that is not on the menu, and busybody that I am, inquire after it. The barkeep explains that it just showed up the other day and was not on the menu, so we pour ourselves some, and form our respective (and respectful) opinions. Corsair Triple Smoke is magnificent, buttery, smells like Colonial Williamsburg sans horeshit. Warm, not hot, remarkably smooth, with some peat and smoke, backed up by some serious body.