My boyfriend is addicted to Original Glaze. But only when he’s drinking. I don’t mean to make him sound like an alcoholic or morbidly obese. He is neither of these, let me reiterate. So many of my bar tending friends become someone else when they drink: chain smokers, therapists, professors of modern history, and that one guy that actually becomes Beyoncé. I’ve got it pretty good, as Peychaud (code name) just likes misshapen pastries.
One of the problems with dating a bartender, especially one who is passionate about his job, is the concoctions and cocktails that must be consumed for research purposes. This doesn’t sound like much of a problem, I know. Oh no, poor baby has to have delicious cocktails all the time. Oh no, my boyfriend keeps bringing me drinks on a silver platter and keeping me cool with a palm frond. Fun fact though: you cannot eat healthily if you drink all the time, because nothing goes hand in hand quite like anything from 7-11 and being drunk.
I live in the fabulous West End (the Brisbane variety). It used to be the slums, but recently there has been a collective effort in the community to raise the real estate value. So now it’s full of Italian vintage wines and fancy Greek restaurants. There are tiny cocktail bars, whisky bars, and places that serve assorted cheese and cured meats. The décor can only be ceiling lights with Barbie heads on spikes, bars made from books or giant ant farms. You want a schnitzel? Good fucking luck buddy (actual lie, you can get plenty of schnitzels, but I’m trying to make a point here). I can fetch you some beef shavings with cauliflower puree. Want a drink? You must have this new cocktail served in a cracked vintage mug: chipotle bitters with white peach liqueur and the blood of a virgin. I can find you some Glenfiddich old enough to be my father. Even the tap water has probably been blessed by monks and smoked with pinewood and basil.
Someone desperately wants to bring West End out of the ghetto and into the dimly lit lounge of hipsterdom. I appreciate those people. But all their willpower and good-doings isn’t enough to get rid of the junkies that litter the pubs. Or the Sunday boys in snapbacks and Saturday girls with mascara two inches lower than their eyes and heels three inches too high to walk in. They get their kebabs with a slice and a half of tomato and enough onion to kill a small rodent and sit around, loudly showing off their ignorance and arrogance.
The funniest thing living in this jumble is that you become a weird combination of both worlds. My boyfriend is the epitome of this with his addiction to Krispy Kremes and complex cocktails.
“You know what goes well with a revised Sidecar? Krispy Kremes.”
“Nothing sets off a $22 schooner of craft beer like original glaze.”
“Hold my non-digital polaroid camera… Want to know how many I can fit into a single box?”
I have eaten more Krispy Kremes in the last three months than the last 21 years. You may ask why I’m also eating them if Peychaud (still a code name) is the one who is addicted. Because eating Krispy Kremes alone is like drinking alone. It’s depressing. Being an ex-bartender myself, I can vouch for the depressive state of the solo drinker. And not the quick-beverage-after-work or the waiting-for-a-plane drinker. But the 11am-on-spirits-already drinker, the tequila-shot-for-one drinker. The how-funny-is-it-when-you-lose-your-job-and-your-wife-leaves-you drinker. There is no better way to prove your dedication to another person, than to help them eat a box of Krispy Kremes. It will probably written on my tombstone: Amy Wallin, dearest sister, loving daughter, back-having with Krispy Kreme addictions. Died of diabetes at age 23.
Oh and If you’re wondering how many he can fit into a box, it’s eight.