I guess I have it my head that ginger ale is a pretty wussy beverage. I mean who opts for ginger ale. When there are other choices about. The only time I hear people requesting ginger ale is when they’re about to hurl dramatically and hope to fend off the inevitable with a little Canada Dry and some Saltines.
But when I had Gonzalo do some research on the topic (and by the way he does have feelings, OK, and I’m the one who has to be up till 2AM listening to him boo-hoo-hoo about your little comments about how he “no longer has the figure” to “pull off” that crotchless unitard you make him prance around in) he came up with something called Red Hot Ginger Ale. And that’s when my brain, made dull and sluggish by years of HFCS, realized something: Oh yeah, ginger. Ginger is spicy. Ginger destroys. Remember those nasty ginger Altoids I sent you? This is not a flavor for wusses. Maybe ginger ale’s been dumbed down over the years but it’s got a rich history of basically not fucking around.
So that led me to ginger beer, which I figured would be even more hardcore. I opted for Barritts which makes a big deal about being an authentic Bermuda kind of drink, enjoyed for generations by authentic British imperialists, and I gotta say: I’m sold. All it took was a single sip to transport me to a humid Caribbean island, wearing a white suit and discussing “the darkie situation.”
It doesn’t have the expected spice kick, but that’s fine with me — it’s sweet and smooth and that’s more my scene, anyway. But it’s still got a pretty potent taste, and in fact I couldn’t really enjoy it with my lunch because it overpowered the other flavors. Barritts is meant to be savored all by its lonesome, on a veranda, while languidly fanning oneself. Or, in my case, guzzled down quick and then smashed against a chainlink fence, the bottle now ready to cut up any bitches who need to get cut.
NOTE: Whoever affixes the Barritts labels does not seem to care about accuracy, straightness, smoothness, or really any sort of attention to detail.