Rinaldi and I were discussing bravery and war and bullfights and fly-fishing and the smell of death in the trenches when suddenly I had a hankering for a drink. A drink that would be good and cold and make the hot sun feel, well, not quite so hot. Yes, it was time for a drink.
Did I mention it was well before noon?
We walked across the village square to the town bar. Montoya greeted me as I entered the way all good Spaniards greet equally good America expatriates. He greeted Rinaldi not quite so good.
We sat down to our table and waited to be served. The waiter came over to us. As luck would have it, the waiter was Romero. Turns out he was a total hack bullfighter and is now serving drinks at the town bar.
After heckling Romero and reminding him how many times I bedded Brett Ashley, I ordered Rinaldi and I a bottle of ale and a bottle of whiskey, mixed together.
“A bottle of good ale mixed with a good bottle of whiskey,” I said to Romero.
“That sounds disgusting,” said Romero. “How would you like to try this new thing called… frosé.”
“The fuck is that?” I said, in a good and true voice.
“Frozen rosé. It’s pink wine that’s been frozen, like a margarita.”
The sun was hot and I was hot as well and I had Romero bring us the frozen pink wine.
Romero returned with the pitcher. It was glistening and icy and pink and reminded me of the blood on the snow in the Italian Alps.
As Romero walked away, I burned him with a sick zinger. “Lady Brett Ashley said you left her as unfulfilled as your bullfighting career.” I said this just loud enough so he’d turn around confused but not loud enough so he’d hear what I actually said.
We’d still not tasted the wine slushy and my alcoholism was really starting to itch. I poured two full glasses, one for me and one for Rinaldi. I had a good long sip. This alcoholic curiosity confused me. But it had booze in it, which was a good and necessary thing.
I drained the first glass and poured another. My shakes were beginning to subside and I could finally start to appreciate this concoction. In fact, I rather liked it.
“I’m pretty sure they just take regular rosé and put it in a slushy machine,” I said to Rinaldi. “It’s nothing that special. Not sure what all the fuss is about.”
He said something back in Italian, which I do not speak.
I drained the remainder of my glass. I poured another strong pour from the pitcher like all good men do. I downed this cup with strength and bravery. Suddenly, my head began to ache from the ice-cold wine. It was as if I was hearing rifle fire echoing around Swiss mountaintops. Or like my brain was fighting a marlin off the coast of Cuba. No, wait, it was like my brain was frozen. That’s it. I was having brain freeze.
Only the bravest of men aren’t afraid of brain freeze.
“Romero,” I called to our waiter, who, let’s not forget, is not as good at sex as me. “Bring us another pitcher of the frozen wine.”
Romero nodded.
“And maybe a third glass, just in case Brett Ashley shows up.”
When I said this, a shadow came over Romero. Almost as if my insult had cast it. My voice had cast a shadow over Romero, as if I’d thrown him into the shade.
Romero, you could tell, was very afraid of death. And most certainly afraid of brain freezes.
I looked out the window. Outside, the sun was getting ever hotter. Today was a good day for a bull fight. Or fly-fishing. Or big-game hunting. Or maybe even a good war. But probably, it was a much better day for getting really super drunk.
Just then, Romero set another pitcher of frozen wine on the table.
