Before Captain Larby turned me on to The Big Lebowski, I had probably consumed no more than a handful of White Russians in my brief drinking life. And most or all of those were probably ordered up at the dearly departed Jack Lynch’s Webb Street Grille, a teeny tiny little drinking hole with the coolest damn bartender I ever knew (wish I could remember his name). Back when I was pre-legal, I had an in at Lynch’s and made it my mission to sample everything behind the bar. Yes, it is true that Long Island Iced Tea and Alabama Slammers taste like Hi-C and will wollap you hours later.
This sampling took place a couple of years before I saw Lebowski, and since then the White Russian has been revered as a sacred elixir. Larby and I honed our mixing technique over repeated viewings of Lebowski, as well as other favorites in his extensive collection. That Atwood Square apartment hosted some damn good times and some epic conversations that should have been recorded for posterity. We’d debate the merits of more Kahlua than vodka (which had to be Smirnoff like The Dude), 2% milk versus 1% milk, and how many ice cubes made it perfect. I dare say we were pros.
I recently discovered that a chic little bar in my neighborhood makes killer White Russians. However, even though they are tasty, they are not potent. I can’t give them an A overall. Next time, I’ll watch while it’s being made, but I suspect a splash of Kahlua, a splash of vodka, and mostly milk. That just doesn’t cut it.
So, what’s your drink of choice? I got this round.
Randy. His name was Randy. And he didn’t have beers on tap, but he served a hell of a pud draught Guiness.
Dude, we waxed philosophical like nobody’s business. You have to add Dazed and Confused to the list of movies we watched religiously at the fortress of solitude called 18 Atwood Sq.
Now you’ll have to excuse me, my eyes are welling up. (Seriously.)
Randy! I never would have remembered that. Thanks.
Yes, I’d say philosophical is an apt term to describe our marathon conversations. Given the obsession with reality TV these days, if our Atwood Square meetings had been televised, we’d both be sitting on a pile of money right now.
Now you’ll have to excuse me…there’s a White Russian with my name on it…