My friend Gord wanted to go to Victoria's Art of the Cocktail.
"Art of the Cocktail? What's that?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "it involves the drinking of cocktails."
Such a concept was appealing and easy to comprehend. And so it came to pass that we attended Saturday's Art of the Cocktail tasting at Crystal Garden.
It was an en masse event, attended by hundreds of cocktail devotees.
Gord's wife had managed to get coveted VIP passes. This meant we were among the privileged few allowed in early. We'd be allowed to sample cocktails - as many as we wanted - for an hour before the masses arrived.
Before we left (by taxi, of course), my wife wondered about attire. I assured her Art of the Cocktail would be highly casual. She dressed up anyway.
I wore Levi's, plastic shoes and a plaid shirt with a hole in it. I'd previously repaired the hole with a tube of something called "sewing glue," so it seemed OK. As for the plastic shoes, well, they just seemed practical somehow.
We arrived early and joined the lineup. To my surprise, everyone was dressed up, as though attending an opera or a Christmas party thrown by rich people.
"You see," said my wife. "Don't worry," I said.
"These are my drinking clothes, allowing for easy movement."
Inside were 50 cocktail stations. There was only an hour to sample before the masses arrived. It occurred to me the best strategy would be to consume as many samples as possible within 60 minutes.
Others obviously had a similar notion. I won't say we were running from cocktail station to cocktail station. But we did stroll briskly, in the manner of highly trained speed-walkers (sans the goofy arm movements).
We listened carefully to explanations of the cocktail provided by the mixologist. It'd be something like, "Now, this is Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey, similar to Jack Daniel's, but boasting a cheeky hint of honey
and a naturally smooth finish. We add a little lemon, a dash of bitters, burn some sage, sing the last verse of O Canada and, viola, here's your cocktail!"
We'd nod and take a sip. These were small glasses, the type your great-aunt used for sherry. We'd sip again and the mini-cocktail would be gone.
It was all very elegant. But, after a while, certain members of the cocktail-tasting crowd realized it'd take six Lilliputian cocktails to make a normal-sized one.
And I believe with that realization, a slight shift in the VIP cocktail-tasting atmosphere occurred. It wasn't exactly desperation. It was, well ... whatever you call that emotion describing the need to drink lots of mini-cocktails before the general hordes descend. (I believe the French call it j'ai envie d'al-cool. For the Inuit, it's a tongue-clucking noise.)
We now nodded impatiently during the cocktail explanations. We'd say, "Oh thank you, but I've already heard it." Or we'd make that "yeah, yeah, just-get-on-with-it" rolling motion with our forefinger. It seemed to speed up the proceedings.
My wife appeared, as though out of nowhere. It occurred to me I hadn't seen her for quite a long time.
"Where were you?" she said.
"Getting my share of cocktails," I whispered loudly. "I've figured out a way to get quite a few of them."
Just then, the remainder of the cocktail crowd poured in. Hundreds of them. Lineups formed; cocktail ingestion slowed.
I bumped into a well-known Victoria media personality. Literally. His glass was quite a bit larger than mine. "Hey!" I said.
"Where'd you get that great big glass?"
"They're at the front door," he said. "Are those plastic shoes?"
I walked to the front door and demanded the big glass. The lady asked to see my entry ticket. She also wanted my little glass in exchange for the larger one.
"Both my entry ticket and my sherry glass seem to have disappeared," I said, after frisking myself. "Strange. I had them a little while ago."
All too soon, it was time to go. The exiting crowd was in a happy, festive mood. One woman, linking arms with two male friends, walked in stockinged feet along the rain-splashed sidewalk.
"Merry Christmas to all!" shouted another cocktail enthusiast.
And to all, a good night.
