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2006-02-13 - 11:22 p.m.
If you know me, you know about Porkchoplatte. If you don't, just play along.
Just when you thought the Porkchoplatte couldn't get any more meat-a-licious, the world of meat beverages gets even larger. This weekend in Vegas I had a bacon martini.
Say it with me, now: BACON MARTINI. No, say it out loud, I tell you. I don't care if your boss or your mom or your boyfriend is in the room while you read this, say it out loud, say it with gusto SAY IT DAMMIT!!!
BACON MARTINI!!
It was cold, it was smoky, it was kinda greasy. It was cooked bacon, left to rest in a jar of vodka for a week.
As the bartender felt free to tell me: "It's fucking gross."
I drank the whole thing.
My companions, shuddered. A few of them wrinkled their noses. Others made wagers on the exact moment I would vomit.
I didn't give them the satisfaction. I even considered ordering another one, but the small chunk of chewy fat that got stuck in my teeth gave me pause. This is not a beverage a person gets two of. One bacon martini is enough -- at least for one evening.
I'd like to think my companions were impressed, that they admired my adventurous spirit or my willingness to participate in the filthy debauchery that is a bacon martini. But judging by their faces, I think they were merely mortified at my willingness to pour such a revolting concoction down my gullet.
At least they're still speaking to me.
And they're right -- it WAS gross. The full force of the grossness didn't hit me until a few minutes later, when I was smearing greasy fingerprints onto the INSIDE rim of the glass and the faintly musky perfume of week-old bacon was coating my tongue.
But I'm glad I did it. At least I think I am.
The most perverse thing about all of this -- from the obsession with the word "porkchop" to the inception of Porkchoplatte to the ultimate sin of consuming bacon grease-flavored liquor is this:
If I wasn't so fucking lazy I'd be vegan.
How d'you like them apples?