Just back from a recent expedition to the Central American country of Mehico, Vancouver resident Chuck Morris is about to take his leave from a friend’s Mexican-themed party (due to an insufficient number of Mariachi band members – only 11, whereas his Cancun resort sported at least 20 musicians on call at all times) when from three rooms, two hallways, and eight conversations away he hears someone say the magic words: “Hey, does anyone want a tequila?”
Like a bat to an unpollinated agave plant in the Chihuahaun desert, Chuck makes for the crowd with both hands outstretched, waving his arms vigorously for attention and explaining his credentials as he approaches, a paramedic arriving on the scene of an accident that could have been so much worse.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Guys, guys, guys,” Mr. Morris says, rolling up his sleeves as he wades into the fray, grabbing limes out of peoples hands and knocking salt shakers to the floor in anger. “You cannot be seriously about to drink that crap. What the hell are you thinking? I wouldn’t strip my traditional Mehican wooden kitchen table, the one I bartered some tired guy down to $20 dollars for in a market full of overweight cruise-shippers, with that shit. Hold the telèfono hombres.”
And with that Chuck produces an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid from his back pocket, where the glass vessel has been lodged since he arrived at the party, waiting for just the right moment to be better than anything anyone has ever tasted you will thank me later.
“This, my friends, is a Tek-ila. Found in just one corner of one room of one house in one town in the middle of nowhere reachable only by donkey, stallion, or centipede, this is only the second bottle of it to ever leave Mehico. I had to physically subdue four customs officers to get this into the country. There’s a nationwide warrant out for my arrest. Everyone wash their hands. Mierda is about to get real.”
Morris proceeds to give a short lesson in the history of Tequila, starting with the big bang, and ending with a Utopian future in which the drink is used to sustainably power entire cities and increase the average human life expectancy to ‘indefinite.’ A brief crash course in conversational Spanish follows, as well as a tutorial in the art of lucha libres (“Mexican wrestling guys, c’mon, I cannot believe you had to ask that”) and a demonstration of salsa dancing that ends with him poncholess standing in a puddle of his own sweat.
“Ok. I think everyone is as caught up as they’re going to get,” Chuck says raising a glass. “Amigos. Salud.”
All present throw the drink down with abandon, grateful to finally get to partake three hours after the idea was first proposed. Widespread, if tepid, agreement that this unnamed tequila is a superior beverage ripples through the gathering. People begin to drift back to enjoying themselves.
“Told ya.” Chuck says, pulling his poncho back over his head and nodding at his friends, before again producing the now half-full glass relic from his pocket. “I’m glad you all enjoyed it. Now spit it back into the bottle.”