Maimaitai
Some believe that the gods were around long before we were, that they created the world. However, there has always been an argument that the gods exist because we have belief in them. The truth lies somewhere in between…
Existence is said to be relative to ones surroundings. So the fact that everyone else around him was a half-formed concept without shape or form made it acceptable that he was, too. He had no name. He was just a concept waiting to hatch, waiting for a moment of divine inception. The shapes around him were similar to himself, but there were differences. They were subtle variations, almost inconceivable - a difference in colour, or height, or flavour. Together, they remained for millennia without change. Their energy spent radioing their half formed concept at the world in an attempt to find somewhere to exist. And so they waited.
The summer of 1811had been unseasonably dry, and by the end of August the grounds at the Knickerbocker Boat Club were scorched brown. The banks of the Hudson river were down, revealing the dirty soil beneath. The boats were too high to float, and so their owners were at their leisure. The gentry were lounging in the supperhall, fleeing the summer’s heat and were thirsting for drinks served cold to fight the heat and made from the dry fiery rum from St Croix (as it was all the rage).
“Boss, the knickerbockers want summin cold. They say’s too hot for a glass of toddy or cocktail. C’n you think of anything t’ fancy ‘em?”
“Damn these knickerbockers. Never mind that it’s the only ice we have for the meat cooler. They’re the one’s ‘ll complain when they get sick. They wanted it on St Croix , I heard”
“Yes, boss.”
“Tell them I’ll fix them something. Go to the kitchens and fetch me some of the summer’s key limes. The ripest ones you can find.”
“Yes, boss.”
The man walked into the bar, considering his bottles of cordial and syrups. His stocks were up after a long spring and summer’s fruits had yielded many gallons of preserves and syrups to last him the year. He knew that the gutsy rum was favoured for its fire, but his bottles were of an very high proof, bought straight from the boats last year in Florida
The boy returned to the bar with the citrus. The bartender quickly assembled a tray of drinks for the gentry and gave them to the boy on a platter.
“Boss, they’ll wanna know. What’s in ‘em? And what d’ya call it?
“Its their cursed rum with my finest citrus, orange cordial and raspberry syrup. And take the chance to say the name “Knickerbocker” to him – it will be the only time you’ll have the opportunity.”
He didn’t notice at first, but after a few years, the idea next to him faded away. It grew more solid, more developed, but on the other side of reality. To him, he simply faded away. Dozens of years of projecting passed. Until the idea on his other side began to fade as well…
Ernest Beaumeant-Gannt stood behind his bar and smiled at his joint. The rest of the country might be in this depression, but to stand at this vantage in his place, you’d never know it. Booze was legal again (both a blessing and a curse for someone with his trade history) and he had the best ‘escape from the doom and gloom of the real world’ joint in town. Live shows, entertainment, booze and flooze. The real escape from this horrible world. Step through the doors and you’d arrive in beautiful Polynesia , where all is pure and beautiful and most importantly, exotic. And he had the reputation as the guy to come to for the mixed drinks you can’t get anywhere else.
“How do you do it, Donn? What’s your trick. Whats the trick to making a drink?”
She leaned over her shoulder as she spoke to him with a cigarette pointed up, pale wrists exposed. She was becoming bolder, louder.
“Miss Crawford, there ain’t a trick to it. Y’just gotta know the magic behind the flavours.”
“Oh surely there’s a trick. Clark , get him to teach me how to do it!”
The man at her shoulder laughed and put a hand on her arm, calming the rogue cigarette. “There’s surely something you can do to teach her. Show us! Make us a new drink for this occasion!”
Ernest smiled at his patrons. “Sure, I’ll make ya’ll a drink. Just don’t ask me what’s in it. It’s all about the flavours. Citrus to cool you down. Rum to warm you up…”
As he spoke, he concocted a quick selection of things that would be difficult to remember. ‘Citrus juice – orange juice, lime juice for acidity and soda water to dilute. Rum – Sweet and fruity, dry and aromatic and overproof… Jamaican, Puerto Rican, demerrera op…’
“…sweetness to help it down and spice to make it last…”
‘Sweetness – honey water mix so they can taste it with the dilution. Falernum to help with the… Spice- falernum, ginger syrup, bitters.’
“Then y’just blend it t’gether. The tricky part’s the name.”
“How do you usually name them, Donn? Some distant recollection from your travels? Some wonderful native girl you promised you’d bring back with you?”
“That I do, ma’am, but tonight I’ll name it after y’all. What name did y’all book under tonight?”
“Quinton Blake and guest was the name on the door tonight, Donn.”
“Damn Clark , y’know I don’t let press in here. Too much hassle. Quinton Blake? Well this drink’s for him. QB’s Cooler.”
Within days he was all but alone. A hint of an idea to come was in the air, but not yet even that formed. It was not long, however, before he felt a pull. There was a tension in the air, someone was preparing something powerful…
It was a hot afternoon in Oakland
The man behind the bar laughed, and peg-leg’ed his way out of the bar to greet his old friends.
“Ham, Carire, good to see you both. When did you arrive? I thought you were coming at Christmas this year?”
“Oh, we needed a quick dose of civilisation. It’s so boring back home. Besides, we missed you, darling. We need a Vic original today. Something new and amazing to celebrate old friends re-united. “
“If any other person demanded that, I wouldn’t know what to say. As it’s you, I’ll say this. No-one else inspires me to make a drink than you do. A new drink! Let’s see…”
Limeade is great on hot days, he thought. A citrusy, rummy, sweet drink… Something like a knickerbocker, but spicier and punchier. Like a QB Cooler. But shorter. What rum? Something oaky and sweet and fruity… Wray and Nephew! Perfect. But more… body and earth, an agricole… with something sweet and aromatic… Orgeat. Taste… Sweeten. Perfect.’
The man quickly assembled the ingredients as he nodded sagely at Carrie’s prattle. The quick shake to the sound of a 4-step and the drink was prepared. He dumped it into a glass and put mint in for aroma, and served his concoctions to his guests.
‘What do you think, Carrie? Do I still have it?”
“Oh, Maita’I roa ae! Out of this world – the best! What do you call it?”
“My dear, that’s just it. Mai Tai. Out of this world.”
He felt a deep pull at the name. ‘Mai Tai’. He felt his shape solidify as he became recipe, then drink, then a name. He slowly faded from the old reality. But he felt another presence behind him. Very like him, but young, and not yet formed…
“Make us your favourite cocktail.”
“Oh no, I can’t. I don’t have a favourite. They’re like my children. I love them all equally.”
The blonde on his left said, “What about Toblerones and French martinis?”
With a smile, “Well…Whew. Probably good I’m not a parent.”
The joke made its mark, and the girls laughed. He was in his element. The two girls had walked in off the street and asked to see a menu. They were clearly waiting for a table at one of the nearby restaurants, because they were dressed too well to be out for a stroll. He’d seated them and given them menus, and it wasn’t long before he saw them looking confusedly at their menus. He’d strolled over and sat down with them and that’s how he’d found himself with two girls demanding his attention.
“Ok. So. If you tie me down, gun to head, all time favourite straight off the top of my head, Mai Tai.”
“Ohh, what’s in that?”
“Oh… No, its not an ingredients thing. Everyone makes their Mai Tai’s differently. It’s a story thing. It’s a flavour thing. It’s a guy’s drink in a girl’s drink guise. It’s strong, sour, sweet, dry. Complex, bitter at times… It’s the god of rum drinks. It’s got everything you need and want in a rum cocktail and the way you make it speaks as to the sort of man you think of yourself. Once I was aware of that, my Mai Tais are perfect. They’re me in a glass.”
“We’ll have two. But they’d better be good.”
“Hey, come on. I’m this good. At their worst, they’re still gonna be good.”
A jigger of Appleton Estate 12yr old for body, fruit and oak. Half an ounce of Vsop Rhum Agricole and orange curacao. Quarter ounce of home made orgeat syrup – beautiful mix of almond meal and almonds grinded with honey and orange blossom water. An ounce of fresh squeezed lime juice. A luxury to be wished for would be key-limes, with their high sourness and low bitterness, they are incomparable. Shaken over mixed ice and dumped into a glass. Garnish with mint, and bitters.
“He looks lovely, but a taste will reveal he’s dry and sour at first but sweet at the same time. Heavy and warming, spicy and floral and just a hint of bitterness just to add to his complexity. A drink that you go back to again, but not always straight away. And you’ll always have a spot for it in your heart.”
“These are amazing!”
“I know I am. Thanks for saying it, though.”
“What do you call these things?”
“Me? I call him ‘Maimaitai’. Ir’s samaon for ‘My rum god’.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“I’ve got no idea.” He winked, and she smiled. And he said a prayer to his rum god.
He felt a deep pull at the name. He felt his shape solidify as he became recipe, then drink, then a name. He slowly faded from the old reality, into the new.
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