Sunday, 25 March 2012

'Trade Secrets from the Cocktail Industry' #3 (in a series): Bombs

Had such a fun night, last night.

My friend, Ophelia, asked me to DJ at her 25th birthday party, and, late on, I managed to slip in my favourite mix of thumping house tunes and classic 80's rock. I say late on, because my favourite part of any  DJ'ing sesh, is the point when everyone is so mullered from drinking too much, and dancing to crappy popular tunes, that I get a chance to take advantage of the 3am happy apathy to play whatever I feel like, without the risk of receiving a request for 'My Humps'.

DJ'ing is such a curious pursuit - you are never sure whether you want to be popular and play commercial floor-packing tunes which are dull, overplayed and offend your own tastes, or whether you want to amuse yourself, retain your integrity and mix tunes which represents your own personal style, regardless of the crowd's reaction.

In my fantasy world, the crowd look at me quizzically as I move away from rubbish urban R&B and I start to play interesting obscure tracks, and then they slowly get into the vibe until the dance floor is heaving - and then I receive accolades for educating them about a fantastic, cutting edge new style of mix. It has never ever happened to me, yet. But I live in (possibly misguided) hope. However, last night, the closest I got to my pipe dream was my self indulgent 3am hour slot, where the hardcore nucleus of party animals stuck around, and things got a bit... spicy. Totally brilliant, and as far as I was concerned, worth the wait.

What separates the hardcore nucleus from the 'Sorry guys, gotta go - Tarquin has marathon training in the morning' sad cases, is, er, alcohol of course.

At an unspoken stage of the proceedings, the drinking patterns shift from the 'slowly-sipped glass of Pinot Grigio' crowd, to the 'wholesale consumption of brightly-coloured industrial ethanol' crowd. This mainly happens at 12.07am. Tarquin and his plain, mousey-haired missus, bugger off, leaving the rest of us to self-harm in the name of fun - and the chosen method of Bacchus-inspired masochism is the 'Bomb'.

Bombs are the best way in the world to drink stuff you hate, quickly. If you gave someone Jagermeister to drink, and convinced them it was cough medicine, they would find it bitter and repulsive, and grimace as it burned its way down their throat. But, sink a shot glass of it into a highball glass of Red Bull (that other objectively foul concoction) and neck it as quickly as you can, and it's called a 'Jager-Bomb', and lauded as nectar of the party gods.

Bombs can be made up of a shot glass of any strong liquor, which is then quickly plunged into a highball of a fizzy drink and drunk before: a) the liquor shot dissipates into the highball glass; and b) the fizzy drink erupts out of the glass all over the floor.

Bombs. Are. The. Best. Drinks. EVER!

Try all sorts of combinations - the weirder, the more colourful, the more spectacular, or the more reminiscent of childhood confectionery the better. Here are a few to get you started.

See my notes on alcohol costings here.

Jager Bomb: Jagermeister and Red Bull

Nuclear Bomb: Black Sambuca and Red Bull

Skittle Bomb: Cointreau and Red Bull

Glitter Bomb: Goldschlager and Red Bull

The Alamo (aka The Mexican Boilermaker): Tequila and Beer

Fire Bomb: Red Aftershock and Red Bull

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