“So…are you as bummed as I am?” Genevieve said to me over the phone on Monday afternoon. “Yes. I’ve been depressed all day. It’s just not fair.” It was true. Ever since we arrived home in Mobile on Sunday evening, we were in a funk. But let’s rewind a bit, shall we?
As a child, I mixed “potions” in a wee-sized scarred copper pot. At ten, my childhood partner in crime and I concocted a scheme to make a million. We juiced. We squeezed every fruit we could get our hands on. It was going to be a hit. An upscale lemonade stand, if you will. Sadly, our products didn’t exactly take off, but we were pumped full of Vitamin C for at least four years. When I grew up, I found that alcohol could be mixed, muddled, and manipulated the same way. There’s nothing wrong with a Tanquerey and tonic, but what about a cucumber garnish instead of a lime? Or go a little further and tie in the crisp, herbal notes with a few drops of rosemary simple syrup? When my family and friends convene at our beach house on the Gulf of Mexico, they joke about their “resident mixologist,” yours truly. I love to concoct. Which brings us back to Friday, July 22nd.
We (Genevieve, Sarah, and I) left for New Orleans, our bags heavy and our hearts light. As we passed through Alabama and Mississippi, the excitement mounted. We were heading to Tales of the Cocktail, New Orleans’ festival celebrating mixology and the people who make it an art.
As we checked into our hotel, the quaint and affordable Historic French Market Inn, I could hardly contain my excitement. I felt like screaming, “I’m at Tales!” to everyone on Decatur Street. It was Tales’ 9th year and my first. My absence was not purposeful; for some reason, the timing was never right.
We quickly gathered our bearings and headed to the historic Hotel Monteleone, Tales of the Cocktail’s headquarters. We were greeted within seconds by two affable bartenders handing out shots of Saint Germaine, dulcet elderflower nectar redolent of pear, peach and lavender. We clinked glasses and cried, “To Tales!”
At Registration we procured our tickets for the night’s event, the Bar Room Brawl, and our tasting room wristbands, which were included in the price of our ticket. The tasting room wristband, or our unbarred access to everything lovely in life, was the perk of perks. I kept pinching myself to see if it was true. Was this really all for us? Could we really, (if we had arrived on Wednesday, when it began) taste top-notch cocktails in fifty four tasting rooms over five days for only $50? The answer, my friends, was yes; however, before you start calling all of your college buddies or your sorority sisters, be warned. This is not Beerfest. It is isn’t about grabbing “Big Ass Beers” and Hand Grenades on Bourbon Street and hurling your $1.56 Krystal dinner all over the stoop of Larry Flynt’s Hustler. Tales of the Cocktail, or “Tales” as we called it, is about the art of mixing great cocktails. The buzz is just a bonus.