Sitting at Holeman & Finch for brunch, icy Bloody Mary glass held to my temple while a family of frenzied, battle-crazed, (apparently Viking) badgers tried to pickaxe their way out of my head via my eyeballs, I came to a realization: this was not one of my better ideas.
The plan was to see how many Bloody Marys I could drink in a weekend. Call it a pub crawl, but restricted to vodka-laced gazpacho. (Gin is okay, too. Or even tequila:Sangriento Maria!) Call it gonzo restaurant journalism. Call it “running a Marython,” which is what I did, much to the groans of my less pun-inclined brunch partners, Bobby and Josh. The brunch — or bronch as I call it, given how it was just us three bros — was the end of the story.
The story begins with yours truly as a child. I never could stomach tomatoes. As an adult, I decided that sometimes you have to “put on your big girl panties and deal,” as my mom loves to say. So I set out on a Steingartien quest to learn to like every food, and I finally conquered the tomato one serendipitous day with a seasonal, fire-red Roma and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. My priorities being what they are, I turned my attention to the Bloody Mary, since I always seemed to see those as haggard as I was on Sunday mornings slurping them down while I effeminately sipped my mimosa at brunch.
“I DRINK YOUR BLOODY MARY! I DRINK IT UP!”
Since this initial foray, I have greedily sucked them down, far and wide. There have been winners, Holeman & Finch chief among them, and losers, such as the sake-Mary I downed in New York City that has been blissfully banished from my memory.
The Bloody Marython began at home after work on Friday night. I’ve got something in my freezer resembling the H&F Bloody Mary mix, except the consistency of a milkshake (I DRINK IT UP!) and lacking the depth of flavor and seasonality of bartender Greg Best’s masterwork. He was kind enough to inform me via email that the current concoction contains watercress and toasted cardamom pods, improving upon the recipe that was featured in Bon Appetit as the “definitive artisanal Bloody Mary.”
Saturday night, my blood running hot after witnessing the Braves lay waste to Pure Unadulterated Evil the Florida Marlins, I decided that I would run the second leg of the Marython at Six Feet Under, since everything’s better with a raw oyster in it. Made with over-the-counter but delicious Zing Zang mix and aggressively spiced, Gulf oyster clinging to the side of the glass like a hopeful child at the toy store window, SFU’s offering admirably primed the pump. They even give you a shot of Guinness to drop in there. How nice! Unfortunately, the pump was overly primed, and some oyster shooters followed that, and as the evening progressed, I learned that snow crab legs don’t make the best hangover-prevention food. (Butter shots may also have been consumed.) From that moment forward, everything went blurry in a haze of booze and debauchery. Think VH1’s “Behind the Music.”
Sunday, I woke up mere hours after going to bed passing out, still inebriated. The gods smiled upon me and I managed to dice a potato without losing any more of my fingertips (coming soon: the 2008 Honey Pig Shochu Story). A little Vidalia and smoked paprika later, I had breakfast. There might have been a nap somewhere in there. Then came brunch. A very, very hungover brunch.
Due to the recent Serious Eats burger porn about Holeman & Finch, there were between ten and three hundred people waiting outside the door at noon. (Hangover math isn’t my strong suit.) Greg Best’s perfect Bloody Mary and the first cool day in ages made the wait more than tolerable — it was downright acceptable. The food was, as always, phenomenal: crispy, sweetly-glazed boar belly over vinegary greens and fluffy grits, piquant crowder peas with chunks of the seldom-seen tasso ham, and perfect pimento cheese. Oh yeah, and the two bros had their first H&F burgers. Seeing their grizzled faces light up just about numbed the pain behind my eyes.
Oh, wait. That was the Bloody Mary.
[Editor’s note: this was written a few weeks ago for another, more secret-y blog. DUN DUN DUNNNN.]
