When He Tells You Who He Is, Listen.

Dirty Wanderer

Ingredients:
1 oz Whiskey
1 oz Pineapple Juice
3 oz Ginger Ale
For Martini Rim: ¼ Cup Simple Syrup and Brown Sugar on separate plates

Directions:
Wet the rim of the martini glass with simple syrup, and dip into the brown sugar several times to give it a “dirty” rim. Set aside.

Combine the whiskey, pineapple juice, and ginger ale in a cocktail shaker filled with ice, and shake. Strain into rimmed martini glass.


The world is full of sound advice that you happily ignore. It’s the beauty of being young, or in my case, younger than the couple sitting next to us at Macaroni Grill. But if I knew then that the advice I’d happily ignore on this particular morning would push my dating life onto a downward slope, I would’ve listened more closely.

“I love a good buzz in the morning,” my mother said ordering a crisp bottle of Chardonnay for breakfast. She smiled at the waiter as he filled her glass, and then turned her attention on me. I stared back, absentmindedly, hoping my vacant gaze would deter what was coming next.

“You really shouldn’t date a man who can’t remember your name,” my mother said getting her nose deep into the buttery Chardonnay. “Nothing good can come of it,” she said remarking on the pear notes tingling the back of her throat. “Unless you’re just in it for the sex.”

Unfortunately, the sex was nothing spectacular the day Joe returned from his outdoor adventure trip. In fact, the man I affectionately referred to as Beck, appeared less rugged than when he set out. In the two-weeks he had been gone, his boyish frame had thinned a bit, and his dimples were even more pronounced. The only thing that appeared the same was the tuft of back-hair peaking out of his shirt.

I studied his face for the playfulness that had first attracted me. Nothing. I listened for his impersonation of a French Chef selling used cars in Mexico. Silence. I waited for all of the things that had made me forget about our third date.

The Good Luck Bar was darker than most, which made it a perfect spot for our “transitional” third date. We both knew that if the date went well, we’d most likely transition from date to dating. If the date went poorly, the low lighting made for an easy escape. Already deep into our second dirty martini, Joe and I swung, dangerously, between the two.

In an oddly conceived French-Mexican accent, Joe ordered another round of drinks. He bobbed his head back and forth, pretending to sway to a Spanish guitar that would’ve been romantic had it existed. I laughed through the bottom of my drink as he bobbled toward me. In fact, I laughed so hard that I almost didn’t hear him affectionately call me, “Julie.”

Julie was his ex-girlfriend.

I stepped back, perching myself securely on my dirty martini, and asked him to, “Come again?” Joe stared back at a slanted angle that made him look like a lava lamp in this light, and let the mistake settle. A silent beat passed between us before his dimples started to apologize.

It wasn’t that he had actually forgotten my name, he explained. He was simply a lost soul. A wanderer. At twenty-six, he wanted to explore the jungles of Africa; travel through Europe tracing his family heritage; and then head to the Midwest to write a novel, preferably on a ranch where he could hunt and gather. He covered the next fifteen years of his wandering life, but failed to explain the bit where he called me by his ex-girlfriend’s name.

I quickly hit the eject button on our transitional date. Before I could locate the exit, Joe grabbed the stem of my dirty martini. He explained that he was lost, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in me. Standing in the dark bar, wrapped in the warm glow of a heavy buzz, somehow it all made sense. I had to stay.

The next morning, I realized we had made the transition over several make-up rounds of martinis. I was now successfully dating a hairy, non-committal, passport-wielding nomad who may flee the country at any moment. Wrapping my arms around him, I wondered why the only place he could grow hair was on his back.

Seven months later, we sat on my vinyl couch with our knees touching at an odd angle. In a perfectly flat American accent, he explained that the nomad in him, resurrected on his trip into the wild, couldn’t commit to the relationship. In fact, he told me everything that I heard on our third date, but I still wasn’t listening. The only thing I could hear was my mother’s voice bubbling over a crisp glass of Chardonnay, “You should never date a man who can’t remember your name.”

Standing alone in my room, I was no longer shocked or upset. If anything, I was proud. I had ignored every bit of logical advice given to me in the last seven months, and had taken a chance. Under the red glow of the bar, even if for a brief drunken moment, I had followed my heart.

As I drifted off to sleep, it became clear to me that I was opening a brave new chapter in life. A chapter full of infinite possibilities. Only before that journey could begin, I had to Hoover his back hair off of my sheets.

Suggested Number of Drinks: