By her own admission, Patricia Kihoro can be peer pressured into doing things she doesn’t really want to do. The results however might not always be the ones intended. Read on for the story of one unhappy drink on fire.
I never thought the day would come when getting asked for my ID at a club would get me all giddy, full of warm fuzzy feelings and a sense of vain pride. When it happened a couple of nights ago at The Alchemist, I felt such unbridled joy that I hugged the security guard. You see I spent the night of my 18th birthday sitting in a pub with my dad, because the bouncers at the club I wanted to go to wouldn’t let me in. So for the next few years I made sure to smile and chat with every single bouncer and security personnel, just to curb the anxiety that would accompany every attempted entrance to a spot.
It then stands, that to have my ID asked of me in my thirties is quite a joyous thing. Something to hold onto and blurt out to everyone I meet. “Hi, I’m Patricia, nice to meet you, I recently got carded at a club. What’s your name?” Unfortunately though, it turns out that this doesn’t come with the physical traits of youth. There was a time when I would still be able to wake up early and fresh after a night of cocktails and shots, clear skin and bright eyes to boot. Nowadays, even a whiff of tequila brings on the early onset of a hangover.
With this in mind, it probably wasn’t a great idea for me to accept a free birthday drink courtesy of Newscafe when they found out that I was there with my twenty five best friends to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. Turns out the said drink was a grand, postprandial presentation, which on the menu is described as “our signature party shooter, only for the brave – parental guidance advised.”
Even in my youth, I had stayed away from any alcoholic drinks that were the colour of mouthwash or pink food colouring and I most definitely have always stayed away from anything involving fire, so this was one of those moments where I laughed and politely declined. I was turning thirty and did not harbour the burning desire to have a premature end to the night. Responsibility, awareness, foresight; these were all traits that I hoped to usher with me onto the third floor so a Flaming hangover, sorry, Lamborghini, was not on the cards.
Turns out I probably never will outgrow peer pressure, or taunts from my family, so in the end I reluctantly agreed to place myself in the line of fire. It took the manager and two waiters to carry everything required to make this drink happen which included: Sambuca, Blue Curacao, Bailey’s, Kahlua and actual fire.
The ceremony of the drink goes like this: pour the sambuca and kahlua into a cocktail glass. Pour the baileys and blue curacao into two separate shot glasses either side of the cocktail glass. Set alight the concoction and start to drink through a straw. As the bottom of the glass is reached, put out the fire by pouring in the baileys and blue curacao and keep drinking till it is all gone.
Try as I might I could not even make it through half of it. But then I learnt that the manager wasn’t there to personally extend his birthday wishes on his and the restaurant’s behalf, but to dish out curt instructions to me: “Drink now. Drink all of it. Finish it. NOW. Now finish this. All of it. Again!”
Between flashbacks of an incident with a gym trainer who pushed me so hard, I doubled over and a feeling of heat rushed up from my gut. I then proceeded to deposit my entire dinner, very gracefully, under the table. Only three of the twenty five at the table even realised what had happened.
That, ladies and gentlemen, was my baptism of fire into my thirties. A hot mess.
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