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Drinking the World Every Afternoon

Don’t Underestimate the Refreshing Properties of Churned Cream

Apr.04.17

Don’t Underestimate the Refreshing Properties of Churned Cream

by Ranjini Rao

Buttermilk in Coimbatore

The raging heat at the onset of summer in Tamil Nadu was a clear sign that the worst was yet to come. There was no rain in sight, and the only saving grace in the magnificent campus of the Isha Yoga Center in Coimbatore was its green canopy, even though the thick, sultry air was stifling most of the time. Cold showers were barely helpful, and even though the air-conditioned interiors of the simple cottage rooms seemed like the best refuge, we spent most of our time exploring the campus.

After having spent a couple of days there, we had become quite well-acquainted with the abundance of fauna (and flora) at every bend. Water snakes coiling and shimmying around the lotus pond, cats meowing and purring from behind brick-tiled compound walls, insects and crawlies of all ilk and order slithering underfoot—all on their own, doing their own thing. The cowshed was different. There was order there: milk being sorted and carried away in traditional receptacles, the immaculate cleaning and clearing of dung, which was in turn used to make manure. The indigenous cows and calves seemed people-friendly, visibly well cared for and happy.

On day three, at 5 o’clock, it was still just as muggy as it had been at lunch hour, when we were quietly worming our way past the cow shed after a visit to the Isha home school. We were headed to the Pepper Vine Café for tea and a snack, more by habit than by choice. But under a gazebo just a few yards ahead, a crowd was gathering in front of two volunteers with big earthen pots, dispensing some kind of drink.

Curious, we went closer and learnt that it was mor, or buttermilk: not the kind made from watering down thick yogurt, but rather, the remnants from churning big batches of butter from fresh, thick, milk cream. A closer look only roused a sense of mild aversion—the stuff in the pots was far from appetizing. It was a pale, diluted liquid, with little knots of cream floating about like unwanted dregs.

My husband, meanwhile, had crept ahead, gulped down a full glass and was in line for another, oblivious of his creamy mustache. We made eye contact for all of ten seconds and he seemed to convey that it was heavenly. I inched in gingerly, got a glass of it, and took a little sip, then another. It was a moment of inexplicable joy, in which I felt at once refreshed and reinvigorated. The hot sun streaming down onto my skin, and this marvelous, earthy drink that was flavored just so with salt and hints of ginger cooling my insides. I had forgotten all about the hot tea and deep fried vadas at Pepper Vine.

When the volunteer caught my animated expression, he knew better than to ask if I was up for some more and graciously offered a second serving. I had many more servings during my stay there—every evening—and the prospect of a hot caffeinated drink in the summer hasn’t appealed much since, regardless of where I am.

Mourning the Death of a Muckraker in Malta

Oct.20.17

Mourning the Death of a Muckraker in Malta

by Steven Bonello

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Beer in Marsascala

In Malta, everyone will probably remember where they were when they heard that investigative journalist Daphne Caruana Galizia was assassinated. She was killed on Monday, shortly after leaving home, when her white Peugeot 108 exploded. Her son, Matthew, was still at home; he heard the explosion and tried to save her. She was 53.

I was at a pub in the resort town of Marsascala, enjoying a pint of Kilkenny with a journalist friend. We were just at that moment discussing Caruana Galizia when I got a call from my wife telling me that friends were messaging her with the news. I didn’t believe it; I told her it couldn’t be true. But after putting my phone down, I overheard snippets of conversation from the next table, stuff like: “if you live by the sword…” I knew then that it was true. When my shocked friend confirmed the news on her smartphone, it was just a formality.

I first met Caruana Galizia 26 years ago, when I wrote her a letter asking her whether she would write a short note for my second personal exhibition of drawings. That led to her introducing me to newspaper cartooning, something I’ve done ever since. Incredibly, for a small place like Malta, I had only run into her once since then—about two months ago at a local trattoria.

Caruana Galizia was both lionized and hated in polarized Malta. She was a merciless critic of Malta’s ruling Labour government, in particular the two government personalities involved in the Panama Papers scandal, both of whom refused to step down, and both of whom enjoyed the continued support of the prime minister, Joseph Muscat. But she was also scathing about Malta’s main opposition party, and its new leader in particular, whom she accused of having financial links to a brothel in London’s Soho.

The current Labour government was re-elected earlier this year after a snap election, called as a vote of confidence after Caruana Galizia published stories about the prime minister’s wife taking kickbacks from Azerbaijan’s ruling family and stashing the cash in a secret Panama account.

Under this government, Malta has experienced rapid growth. A building boom has been fuelled by skyrocketing rental rates and the need to accommodate an influx of foreign workers. The other side of that coin has been a withering of national institutions, scandals involving government ministers, shady deals with Azerbaijan, and the sale of Maltese passports under the so-called Individual Investor Program, while Malta-born citizens are denied the right to know who their new compatriots are.

This is the first time a journalist has been assassinated on the island. Malta is in shock. The nature of the assassination was brutal, even for Malta, where car-bomb murders happen from time to time.

DCG_last_words_(1)The last words Caruana Galizia wrote on her blog before she was killed have been spray-painted on a wall in Malta.

Most friends I have been talking to are confused, and still can’t quite believe it. The assassination was no doubt a professional job, perhaps pointing to hired, imported hitmen. The motive is still unclear. Caruana Galizia had made many enemies over the years, but the general feeling is that no Maltese would really have gone this far. People are speculating that the murder might have been ordered from outside. There are whispers that she was about to break new stories involving international crime rings.

All this is happening in a vacuum. Information about the murder has been scant, and in the days after Malta’s highest-profile assassination, the Commissioner of Police—regarded by many as an incompetent stooge—was notable only for his silence on the matter. The police finally called a press conference on Thursday evening, but answered no questions. The prime minister has gone on record to say the FBI and Dutch experts will be joining local investigating forces, which only reinforces the locals’ poor perception of the police. A police sergeant’s Facebook post celebrating her death hasn’t helped.

There is also a feeling that, as with other brutal crimes in Malta, this one will remain unsolved, and forgotten after the international spotlight moves away.

After we heard the horrible news, we finished our drinks in a hurry and, perhaps unforgivably, failed to toast the memory of a very brave woman. All I remember saying to my journalist friend was: “Fuck! And I have to do a cartoon about this next Sunday?”

#Resist in Virginia, with Love and Proper Beer

Oct.19.17

#Resist in Virginia, with Love and Proper Beer

by Alex Court

Imperial IPA in Virginia

“By the power invested in me by absolutely nobody I declare you husband and wife!”

Once those words left my lips I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I’m no priest, but in a last-minute reshuffle I had been asked to preside over the ceremony of a couple of very good friends in the heavy Virginia heat, and I needed a congratulatory drink to calm the nerves.

Slipping past the international crowd that had assembled for the special occasion, I reached the bar and spotted a beer I’d never heard of: Dogfish Head 120 Minute.

Hoppy and tasty and cold, it hit my lips and I realized why the couple had selected this beverage to get the party started. An American bride of Ghanaian and Filipino heritage was marrying a British chap from Sheffield, a city well-known for “proper” beer.

Orange, Virginia was the venue they had chosen well in advance, and they had invited people with all kinds of cultural backgrounds. Everything had been planned before August, when white supremacists marched just 30 miles away in Charlottesville, Virginia carrying torches and chanting “You will not replace us.”

As I swigged back that bottle of beer the alcohol helped me relax. The speech I had just delivered mentioned the importance of celebrating multicultural and interracial love, and the importance of doing this now, in Virginia.

Finding the right words had not been easy for a white British bloke like me, partial to avoiding all kinds of conflict, but my wife—who is American and black—helped me find them.

As I asked the barman for a second beer, the mother of the bride thanked me for the kind words I had said about her daughter and son-in-law and promptly dragged me to a photo shoot.

Arranging couples in front of the camera, the photographer wanted one of the bride and groom and my wife and I. Four people—two black ladies and two white chaps—smiling wide on the steps of a glorious homestead.

We were not putting our bodies on the line at a rally against white supremacists, but as the camera snapped away, I thought perhaps we were protesting against hate in our own little way.

Absinthe, Meet Tropical Slushie Cocktail

Oct.18.17

Absinthe, Meet Tropical Slushie Cocktail

by Anna Hiatt

Cocktails in St Augustine

Down the bar from us sat a 20-something couple. She’d ordered what looked like an adult shaved ice. Taking picture after picture, she said with a laugh, “I don’t want to drink it.”

What’d she order, I asked the bartender. A Cabana Boy. The bartender took a banana leaf and deftly looped it in a circle, placed it in the glass, and began to fill the lowball with shaved ice—just like the shaved ice we’d had at the beach the day before. It had been soaked with almost sickly sweet passionfruit and mango syrup. Sickly sweet, but delicious, just enough to cut through St. Augustine’s midday heat. She spritzed the shaved ice with absinthe from what looked like a perfume bottle and set the drink in front of me.

I sipped my Cabana Boy and wondered if I should have passed on the second cocktail. I asked the bartender about the incoming hurricane. “People love to panic,” she said calmly. Last hurricane, a second bartender told me, he’d taken shelter at the bar; nothing would bring down the Ice Plant, a former ice factory. The plant was chilled as though the building still stored blocks of ice. I shivered, hunched on my bar stool, did the tipsy calculus, and decided to drink faster. The longer I let it sit, the more the shaved ice would melt, the more I’d have to drink, the longer I’d have to stay in the cold. Let’s get out of here, I motioned, back into the warm night.

The next morning, the pressure had changed. Pea-soup air. Hurricane Irma was coming. We ducked into Catch 27 in downtown St. Augustine for blackened snapper sandwiches and blackened snapper tacos and beers.

We left the restaurant to do one more drive through the city. The storm was coming in from the south: it was still a Category 5 and hadn’t yet torn up St. Martin’s. St. Augustine had quieted after Labor Day weekend, and in the days before Irma. Windows were boarded up, or being boarded up; I wondered if the Ice Plant’s bartenders would take refuge in the old ice factory. We admired a boat moored in the Matanzas River that runs along downtown.

A few days later, after we’d flown out, Hurricane Irma moved in. From my apartment in New York, I watched video footage from St. Augustine and scanned Instagram for evidence of the storm, and what it had done to our little paradise. The streets along the water flooded, though the water quickly receded; the remaining boats in the Matanzas River rocked hard. I couldn’t see ours, and I wondered when, or if, it had been moved. Our oasis momentarily disturbed, but still filled with stubborn Floridians.

The Ice Plant
110 Riberia Street St. Augustine, FL 32084
Cabana Boy: $12

Photo: Mallory Brooks for VISIT FLORIDA

Remember, People: Do Not Get in the Car with the Self-Professed Bad Man

Oct.17.17

Remember, People: Do Not Get in the Car with the Self-Professed Bad Man

by Michael Standaert

Beer in Ngapali Beach

Last year, long before the current wave of terrible violence began, I was in Ngapali Beach, a white-sand, beach-resort town in Rakhine State, having drinks with Sara—a hotel manager—and a local artist.

Our conversation got around to the “troubles” a few years ago. After news spread that Rohingya Muslims had raped a Rakhine girl, a Buddhist, violence ensued. As a result, tens of thousands of Rohingya had been moved to camps to the north of Ngapali Beach, around Sittwe.

Sara told me that during that time, right in front of where we were now sitting on the beach—where boys had been playing soccer just an hour before—a large group of local men had emerged from the shadows into the light from the bar, machetes in hand. They’d heard that “two boats with Muslims” were out there on water, and said if they came ashore they were going to kill them.

Sara finished her white wine and the local artist left after downing his lassi, and I was alone with the last of several caipirinhas. The bar keep made them strong and rummy, squeezed in several small limes and added brown sugar, on the right side of sweet.

There was still a little light, so I walked south down the beach to a clump of restaurants and ordered a local beer. A European couple, the only other customers, left after tiring of a slightly drunk local who was talking to them, wanting to take them to a disco. Each time he said disco, he’d wiggle his hips and shake his arms. Being alone after they left, I attracted the man, who sat down close to me and ordered a beer.

His name was Momo, he said. “I’m a bad man. Bad man. But good father. I own that restaurant there,” he gestured across the road, now dark. “I provide for my family. Take care of my parents, my wife’s parents.” But he was still a bad man, he laughed, because he liked disco.

I didn’t feel like walking back to the hotel, so decided to check the place out. We passed my hotel and about a half-kilometer on, took a left down a dark road into jungle. I could see neon and Christmas lights strung around a large wooden building. I asked if this was a disco, as he called it before. “KTV,” he said.

I decided I didn’t like the vibe of the place. It stank of mildew. Sweat. I stayed close to the door, which was still slightly ajar. He was talking with the doormen, asking about “girls, I want girls.” I could tell they were wary of having a foreigner in here while Momo was trying to line up KTV girls. The doormen were shaking their heads. I grabbed Momo and said, let’s go, some other time. He tried to tell me there are other places, but I convinced him to drop me off at my hotel.

“I’m a bad man,” he said as I shook his hand. He drove off, steady, not a swerve.

The Three Things You Must Do in Veracruz

Oct.16.17

The Three Things You Must Do in Veracruz

by Martina Žoldoš

Lechero in Veracruz

They say there are three things one must experience when visiting the port of Veracruz: the aquarium, the biggest in Latin America; live street music and dancing; and lechero, the famous coffee, served in the 200-year-old Gran Cafe de la Parroquia.

It’s was a typical Saturday noon, hot and humid, and visiting the aquarium seemed the smartest thing to do. We got badly sunburned the day before, so the beach was out of the question. Besides, cooling off in an air-conditioned space and admiring sharks, barracudas, rays, yellowfin tuna meant killing two birds with one stone: my daughter had been daydreaming about sharks since we first mentioned the possibility of taking a short trip to Veracruz.

After visiting the aquarium it was time for a big dose of caffeine, so we headed to Gran Café de la Parroquia, the original one, in front of the main dock. In the last few years, the city has witnessed an invasion of modern replicas of this café that lack both history and soul. I superstitiously avoided them, although this meant I almost always had to line up for a free table in the old one.

Ordering and serving lechero is a special process. One waiter brings you a strong espresso in a glass (not a cup). Then, you have to knock a glass with a spoon to call another waiter, who fills your glass with a stream of milk as he holds the pot several feet it. The origins of this peculiar way of serving the milk are a mystery, but the origins of knocking the glass with a spoon are well-known.

Back in the late 19th century, a streetcar passed by Emparan and 5 de Mayo streets every morning at 6 a.m. As the streetcar approached the café, the driver rang the bell to announce his arrival. The owner would order one of the waiters to run out and deliver the coffee, without the driver ever having to stop. This routine went on for many years, until one morning the bell didn’t ring: the driver had passed away. When the word spread that he had died, patrons and waiters of La Gran Parroquia stood up and knocked their glasses and cups with spoons to commemorate the driver and his long coffee habit.

As I was sharing this story with my parents, who were visiting the café for the first time, a woman in a traditional, colorful dress with a wooden board in her hands and a man with a guitar stepped in. The tune of La Bamba and the woman’s tapping began to fill the room.

Aquarium, lechero, and live son jarocho, all in one day.

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