Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2007/02/11/barretts_mixology.php
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Scotch
2 oz. Single malt Scotch whisky.
A splash of spring water for flavor.
Serve in a tulip glass. Agitate.
I am the verging-on-forty pasty pale nearly globular opera critic for the Long Island Shackle, and it’s glorious. But, reader, though I am nightly bombarded by soaring arias and lilting recitative, there is one additional hope, one fragile aspiration I ensconce in this cholesterol-crusted heart of mine: a lady. Yes, a lady, of my very own. I spotted her one day in one of Nassau County’s most fetching KFCs. Oh, how I yearned at that very instant to whisk her away her in my Ford Aspire to a performance of Tannhäuser or some such musical extravagance, yet, oh! How I dreaded to approach. Finally courage came, and we were set for Friday. The damn TicketMaster, however, had other plans: the tickets I received were not for Götterdämmerung as I had planned but for “An Evening with Ghostface Killah”! We waddled into the lobby—I, with noticeable apprehension. For you see, reader, my great fear was to be seen by my companion as a musical boob. Could this Killah pull through? So jittery did I feel that I loosened my comically immense cummerbund and gasped for a drink. What came wafted into my nostrils with all the pleasure-giving power of Purcell’s Dido death aria: it was scotch. It took only several of these made me feel better. All that was left now was the performance: Superb! A more perfect artistic performance I have not witnessed on the American stage. I confess that I led the final standing ovation with tear-streamed jowls, and there were not a few Bravissimos. Later, I purchased Mr. Killah’s album and found that he was not so delightful as he is in person. Strange: either he had reached his singular artistic pinnacle that night, or it was the whisky. And milady? She is forever now my faithful companion, caregiver, and mother of my children.