Few things last long in a whisky-soaked memory. I remember no names. A person’s drink, however, stays glued to my mind like a dachshund humping a leg. I met Nurse “Barbara” (so called) and her White Russian last night.
She had just hit bullseye on the dart board, and then in celebratory gyrations, bumped my elbow. My whisky became a puddle. To apologize, she dragged me to the bar and ordered a White Russian for both of us.
I’d never had one. The bartender set an old-fashioned glass in front of me, then filled it with 5 parts vodka, 2 parts coffee liqueur, and 3 parts cream. The taste was gentle, and reminiscent of a café. I liked it.
Here was a drink for calmer nights, not a go-to for debauchery and mayhem. Drinkers with a taste for smooth would do well with a White Russian.
“Now, how about a White Canadian?” Barbara said.
“You replace the cream with goat’s milk.”
“I’m leaving now.”