One of the perks of going to a small Catholic high school was the inability to get wild and crazy. With a school that small, any indiscretion would make it's way back to the parents faster than strep throat runs through a preschool. I have never tried drugs, I rarely missed curfew, and my first taste of alcohol was (gasp) in college, unlike so many people I know. In fact, the thought of drinking a beer just for the taste was beyond foreign to me, and I learned to drink via Boone's, wine coolers, and the occasional Zima. (Don't laugh, you know you tried that too.)
After
four five years in college, I was finally able to say with a straight face that, given a choice, I'd choose a beer over pretty much any other drink. Don't get me wrong, I love a good margarita, but there's rarely a day an ice cold Blue Moon doesn't sound delicious.
For most people, drinking a dirty martini might not seem like a very exciting thing to put on a list of 33 things. But for me, it's WAY out of my comfort zone, so when Jay brought me a dirty martini from the bar in Jamaica, I was hesitant to try it.
Maybe it's because the drink was slightly pink. I'm no expert, but with the ingredients of gin, vermouth, olive juice and olives, having a pink tint isn't normal.
Regardless, I smiled and got ready to try it. I was going to do this, I had an audience (shout out Katie and Dean, our new friends) AND a photographer. Besides, how bad could a
questionably pink dirty martini be?
Turns out, pretty bad.
It smelled like feet. It tasted like feet. I gave it the old college try, but I could only manage to eat the olives.
I would go ahead and check it off my list (I DID try it, after all) but Mindy had a good point: Perhaps Jamaica, where the best drinks come out of a slushy machine, is not the best place to try a not-top-shelf martini.
I guess there's a trip to the bar in my future!
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