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Archive for the ‘Travel’ Category

I’ve been actively watching what I eat. And by that I mean I eat whatever I want but track each morsel, with laser-like focus, as it makes its journey to my mouth.

I know what you’re thinking: “It’s not Food’s journey. Food isn’t trying to get into your mouth!” Really? Are you sure about that? Think about it this way: If Food doesn’t have a mind and influence of its own, they why can’t I stop eating the tasty bites?

My relationship with Food is by far the most complicated in my life. (That’s a bold statement for someone like me who’s made many questionable dating choices.)

Food is celebration, sorrow, entertainment, quality time and nourishment but it’s rarely just fuel. I get the concept of “calories in” and “calories out” and the impact of that delta on my waistline. I still find it’s easier to get the calories in. So this time of year, after the high of the holidays and as we slog through the last slow, grinding, snow-filled days of winter, my meager attempts at mindfulness are taxed to the max. That’s a problem.

About 2 years ago I lost weight and thankfully I haven’t found it again, though those pounds stalk me.

I didn’t have a weight loss plan. When my doctor asked how I lost the weight, I told her I was on the “close my mouth” diet – Food can’t jump in if you don’t give it an opening. I ate what I wanted. I just ate less and less often.

The cornerstone of my weight-loss plan was (and still is) my diet donut. Every morning, I have one old-fashioned donut. And here is where the mysterious and mythical power of Food peeks out from behind the curtain.

The diet donut isn’t about portion control. Food has always been a little standoffish with me in the mornings and I don’t pig out at breakfast. It isn’t a health choice. After all, donuts are fried and to the best of my knowledge, a kale, beet, chia seed flavor donut is yet to be invented. The diet donut is a bit funny and a bit of comfort. I remember going to an old-time cider mill as a kid and getting crisp and hot, real-deal donuts. My diet donut is not one of these. It is not the stuff of memories.

I think my daily, diet donut is all part of Food’s master plan. It’s just tasty enough to call me back again and again and just bad enough to prime me for even more deliciously bad things. Like last Sunday at brunch when I thought it was a good idea to have a margarita with my cinnamon strudel cake at Sonny’s (Portland, ME).

You should go to Sonny’s if you’re ever in Portland. The brunch was awesome (even the parts with protein and no tequila) and they take their drinks seriously. When you go, you should take me. Let’s do it before I give up donuts and pry loose Food’s grip on me.

I will quit them one day – donuts, that is. It is my intention to break up with them and keep up the diet. I’m just not ready. I’m not ready to take Food on and break its mysterious hold on me … maybe after one more great meal…?

Disclosure: I wrote a draft of this post back in January after an amazing dinner with margagogo correspondents at Meadowsweet (Brooklyn, NY). The Down East Bureau Chief, the Head of Borough Research and margagogo’s Medical Director all gathered for one of the best strategy sessions ever. The food and drink at Meadowsweet was so good, I’d go back there as fast as the subway will take me. After dinner, we moved the meeting over to Baby’s All Right. It was NOT all right (Ok, you probably saw coming and it was double cheap because I stole it from a Yelp review.) But the waitress promised us a pitcher of margaritas with “like 7,000” limes.

7,000 of anything plays perfectly into my notion of excess so even though there was live music in the back and different music blasting in the front and even though our pitcher of margs was “like” 6,995 limes short of the promise, the evening was great.

So tonight I will go home and have soup and an apple for dinner as a token step toward freedom from tasty treats. But as I slurp soup, I’ll be thinking of friends and margaritas and dinners and cake and all the great things I can do with 7,000 limes – like maybe make a donut.

Baby's All Right

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In honor of National Margarita day, I want to tell you about the most well-balanced, perfectly shaken, slightly smoky, not sweet, not sour, perfectly-citrus-with-a-tequila-tang margarita I’ve had all year. (And by “all year,” I’m going for a rolling 12 months and not the less than 2 months of 2015.)

That’s what this blog is about after all: The search for the perfect margarita.

The thing is, I don’t remember. I don’t remember the best margarita I had all year.

I remember my vacation in Colombia with my friends when my only concern was where I was getting my next great meal and what would be on my plate when that meal was set in front of me because my Spanish is sub-par at best. I sipped margaritas, looked at palm fronds waiving in the breeze, rolling ocean and cloudless blue sky. Every one of them was perfect.

There’s something about context that colors a whole experience.

I was in Costa Rica after a day of horseback riding through rain forest and eating with a local family when our guide offered us cashew wine. Cashew wine, you wonder with a raised brow and wrinkled forehead. Yes, it turns out a cashew is a nut and a fruit. A fruit that looks a little like a giant apricot or pepper with a claw.

And cashew wine, in that moment in the forest with macaws cawing in the trees was extraordinary. So extraordinary that we couldn’t wait to try some at home and sitting with friends in a New York City apartment, it was the worst thing ever.

In Portugal, we sailed the ocean blue and drank vino verde. I loved it. I loved its green tint and young, crisp taste. The sun set over the ocean and sails filled with wind and the wine was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. And then I got back home and you can guess what I think about vine verde now.

But I remember those moments and those drinks and always will. Those moments and those drinks were the best.

Last week, Moss Beach Distillery (Half Moon Bay, CA) was the scene of a perfect moment if not a perfect margarita. I was with people I love with a view anyone would have to love and got a margarita that would be hard to love if not for all the other lovely things that went along with it.

I realize this blog isn’t about the goal of finding the one, single perfect margarita but about the journey and all the fun and friends and family who keep my company on this path. “Perfect” is a subjective concept anyway, right?

So maybe I’ll never find that “perfect” drink. But, I’ll have lots of fun trying.

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I think America’s love affair with the automobile has less do to with the romance of the open road and everything to do with the grossness of the shared travel experience.

In your car, you’re the master of your destiny. Sure, getting stuck in traffic can mess up a schedule. But you can control your departure time. No need to plan around catching the 10:03 train out of Penn Station. And you have complete control over who rides with you. Your seat mates are hand-picked. You know, before you invite someone into your car, if they have suspicious hygiene habits. You might even appreciate your passenger’s annoying quirks and because you’re friends (or family) you can tell them to “cut it out” if they become too much.

You’re not locked in a hurtling tin missile full of cell phone chatting, coughing, seat hogs who can’t spell etiquette let along display the graciousness required for group harmony.

You can probably tell that I’m bitter because I’m car-less.

Yes, I’m a mass transit user. I take at least one plane trip each month. I ride the subway and I’ve taken a few MegaBus trips. In the last several weeks, I’ve jumped on Amtrak for several round trips. I’ve had lots of experience. I’ve had hours to endure and lots of time to think.

My last Amtrak trip was especially hideous. I fought my baser instincts (as I always do) and didn’t try to protect the empty seat next to me. As much as I’d like a buffer, everyone has a right to a seat and they shouldn’t have to work hard to get one. I don’t need the conductor announcement asking riders to be courteous. I am the picture of courtesy. So when a Converse clad hipster asked if the seat next to me was taken, I beamed, “It’s all yours!”

It was a beautiful moment. He was polite, I was polite. The possibilities stretched before us. Maybe we’d strike up a conversation about the latest must-have plaid shirt or about which Brooklyn restaurants are curing artisanal bacon in their basements.

And then it hit me. The smell. His smell.  He had a dank and stale dirty hair, over-worn clothes smell.

Between his foul odor and his gurgling – yes, he had a rumbling, wet cough, I felt as if he’d unzipped his chest, plucked out a lung and pulled it down over my head. The train ride was four hours long.

Maybe Amtrak could increase ridership over night if they took a page from Soul Cycle’s book. Soul Cycle, a popular spin class, felt the need to put a list of rules up in their gyms reminding riders that nobody wants to share their odor. Check out #3.

Soul Etiquette SoulCycle 1024x695 Soulcycle brands spinning and spirituality

Maybe we’re all a bit bonkers and need to be told to leave our phone out of an exercise class and to be kind. Maybe odor control isn’t just an automatic, well-of-course-I-don’t-want-to-stink kind of thing. Soul Cycle is on to something (and I’m deeply sorry I giggled at the list and I swear, that will never happen again).  It seems we need rules. We do better when we have standards to live up to and guidelines to follow.

And so here I am with… drum roll please …  margagogo’s Official Rules for Harmonious Travel.

The first few apply to all Transit Options (Trains, Planes, Subways, Buses and even Taxis)

Be clean. This includes hair, teeth, clothes – everything on or about you should be spiffy. Once, on a plane trip back from Istanbul, I sat next to a young man who smelled so bad that every time he shifted enough to accidentally air out his pits, I nearly suffocated. When he lifted his arm to take his drink from the flight attendant, I feared I’d faint. I think he was an exchange student off on his first big adventure. I wanted to tell him that the hero, the guy who gets the girl (or the guy), is never smelly. If you think of it from a purely selfish point of view, you never know who you’re going to sit next to – your future spouse, your future boss … or the person who doesn’t speak to you and hates you because they have to share your air.

Smiles Everyone, Smiles! Though it’s a risk, it’s possible to say “hello” without being obligated to chat for the duration of the trip. And I’ve heard (I’m sure I should quote a study here) that being nice in general is not only a good thing for other people but it makes you feel happier. So, when we’re all in it together, being nice is a win/win.

Make an Effort! Make an effort to keep your germs to yourself. Even if you believe that coughing into your elbow doesn’t make a bit of difference, everyone appreciates the effort. Same goes with crying babies. Effort gets you sympathy. Apathy, even due to complete exhaustion, earns ire.

Air Travel:

– If you’re sitting in Row 28, don’t put your luggage in the overhead at Row 5. That just messes everyone up and causes a giant traffic jam when the person in Row 5 has to fight against the tide to get the stuff they had to store in the space above your seat.

– Board as your row is called. As tempting as it is to try to board first, you just gum up the works.

– Please leave your beer soaked rabbit and cabbage curry hot pepper surprise at home. Nobody cares that it was your dear Grandmother’s special recipe. They just care how it smells.

Subway Travel:

– There is a special place in heaven for the subway rider who willingly gives up their position in the car to step out when it isn’t their stop so they can clear the path for people getting off. Please do this.

– Don’t lean on the pole. People need something to hold on to when standing on a moving train. Nobody wants that thing to be your belt loop or any part of you.

– Please take your backpack off. Believe me, you have no idea how big that thing is.

Bus & Train Travel:

– Shhhhhh. I might want to know what you’re having for dinner so if you stand up and make a general announcement, something like, “If anyone wants to swap recipes, meet me in the café car in 10,” I might join you. But, I don’t want to hear a lengthy cell phone discussion about peas, or roast beef or what your Aunt Jane did at dinner the night before.

And finally, always share. I’m not woman enough to tackle the age-old problem of who gets the arm rest. But, I do know that you shouldn’t try to save the seat next to you for an imaginary friend. Share the aisle space. Don’t hang out in the bathroom, tuck stuff under the seat in front of you if it will fit. Put it on your lap if your ride is short. When you get your private plane or train or bus, you can do whatever you want. (And when you do get that private ride, please invite me along. I’m an excellent passenger.)

See, isn’t everyone feeling happy now? (Did I leave anything out? Feel free to share – sharing’s good!)

If you want to feel happier – or even happiest (and at this point you’re not afraid of a subway ride) go check out the new bar on 121 West 10th street, NYC called The Happiest Hour.  They smile, they’re kind and the only odor I detected was from the free french fries they kept bringing out and setting on the bar. Yes, I said free french fries – could they get any more friendly?

The vibe is tropical retreat meets old school diner meets high-end cocktail bar. Picture getting a grilled cheese in Havana. And you should get the grilled cheese – it was warm, buttery, cheesy goodness and it came with tomato soup. The fries were bottomless. The margarita was excellent.

The Happiest Hour was worth the trip. There was harmony. The Happiest Hour lives up to its name … and they haven’t even published a list of rules.

 

 

 

 

 

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“Shit is about to happen”  –  an Ode to unstructured time. It’s not exactly a lyric poem but epic stuff can happen when you least expect.

Margagogo.com’s Marketing Director met his wife (the margagogo West Coast Correspondent) in a bar on a random night. Of all the saloons in all the world, they both walked into that one.

Years ago, just before a long weekend in Maine with my family, my then boyfriend and I broke up. So instead of entertaining him while my family looked him over, my mother and I went out looking at houses. I bought one.

Life isn’t a Jane Austin novel so every story can’t end with secured real estate and a wedding. Sometimes the prize is more subtle; it’s the adventure itself and the memories you tuck away with the experience.

A few weeks ago on a very raw and rainy Saturday, my friends (and margagogo correspondents) left the warmth of the wood stove and central heating to see what we could see. We braved the drippy sky and dropping temperatures and were rewarded with ocean views. That tends to happen when you’re on the coast but the view wasn’t just “ocean” – it was awesome, rocky cliff, churning ocean! And we found color. Bright red and green popping up to give the finger to the oppressive grey sky.

And then my Brooklyn Correspondent needed a bathroom. A great view can have that effect.

If you’re going to stop into a restaurant to use the facilities, you should probably get a drink. It’s only polite. And if we’re anything other than polite, we’re thirsty. So hitting Cook’s Lobster House was a win/win.

In all the years I’ve hung out in this part of Maine, I’ve never crossed the threshold of Cook’s. I decided it’s too touristy. My New York-living, Maine-visiting self is not a tourist unless there’s a festival, fair, parade, strong man contest, pancake breakfast, national landmark, museum or maybe leaf peeping involved. Cook’s has lobster and it has crowds. Big, giant bus loads of people looking for seafood and salt air. No pie eating contest, no biggest ball of twine, no reason for me to go. Until now.

Stepping into the bar is like taking a trip to 1958 on a WayBack Machine (without Peabody and his pet boy.) It’s the kind of place where hanging out is encouraged and I bet Cook’s has it’s share of friends who sit and stay a while. On this icky November Saturday the crowds were gone. It was just us and some locals who were probably wondering why we were there and wishing we’d go anyplace else. (Tourists!) The thing is, one of them was wearing a t-shirt that said “The drinking will continue until morale improves.” I think that makes us kindred spirits so like us or not, he’s our people.

Cook’s has a Bloody Mary with a lobster tail and bourbon with Maine blueberry and of course, they made me a margarita. As the bartender was mixing our drinks, a string of Christmas lights jumped off the wall (where it surely hangs year-round) and swung into his face. He looked at the lights and looked at us and said. “Shit is about to happen.”

Well, yes indeed it is.

Drinks at Cook's Lobster House. Check out the lobster tail hanging off the drink at the end!

Drinks at Cook’s Lobster House. Check out the lobster tail hanging off the drink at the end!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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As a recovering smartphone addict, I’ve needed my next text so badly that I’ve neglected friends, dropped out of conversation, let vacation scenery wiz by unnoticed and walked entire blocks without seeing where I was going.

For me, distracted walking is guaranteed to lead to disaster. With eyes wide open and no obstacles in my way, I’ve managed to damage my property and my body.

I’ve misjudged the curb and ended up in tears more times than I can count. Once, playing soccer, I broke my ankle and cracked my tibia. I wasn’t doing fancy tricks or going in for a tackle. There was no collision; no heart-stopping, breath-holding moment of impact. I just tripped myself.

Turtle_On_Its_Back_Cartoon_Royalty_Free_Clipart_Picture_090122-130120-872048And then there was the 42nd street Incident. One cold night, crossing 42nd Street with a large and weighty backpack strapped to my shoulders, I tipped over. I landed on my back, smack in the middle of the street, arms and legs flailing. It took a team of coordinated and shocked New Yorker’s to hoist me to my feet. It was humiliating, life-endangering and to top it off, even though I landed on my back, I managed to put a hole in the knee of my brand new jeans.

All of this without any “help” from a smart phone.

People should be taking tumbles and trips of the most un-fun kind.  There should be more broken ankles, bruised shins and skinned knees. I don’t wish pain on anyone. I just don’t see how we can routinely cross the street like this and come out unscathed.

And, we are in fact, hurting ourselves. I read an estimate that at least 10% of injuries landing people in the ER are caused by cell phone distraction. The number may be bigger. People tend not to self report embarrassing things like falling through an open manhole while playing Cut The Rope.

The problem of distracted walking is so bad that in London, they’ve installed bumpers around light poles. Really? Yes. You can read about it here.

I hope New York City won’t resort to bubble wrapping light posts, mail boxes and the few remaining pay phone stands to keep us safe from ourselves. But these obstacles are very real – as are pot holes, traffic, uneven sidewalks and surly, surging crowds.

For me, getting my nose out of my phone was a survival imperative. Let’s face it, I need all my faculties synched and focused when I’m walking. So I put myself on a 12 Step Program: 12 steps without looking at my phone … then another 12 steps with no phone and then another. Now I make it to and fro without a tweet or a text.

Once I picked up my head, I noticed all the people around me walking with their heads down. For these shots, I held my phone up and allowed distracted walkers to move themselves into my frame. Not a single person noticed a stranger taking their picture. I was sure I’d have some explaining to do. I was sure that in New York City, a city where there’s so much to see, that someone would look up.

Paying more attention to my phone than my feet isn’t just physically hazardous. It’s also socially awkward and stifles the senses.

I know, I know. I’m like the friend who finds their soul mate and can’t believe anyone lives single or the person who reads about Chia Seeds or tries Boot Camp – completely drinks the Kool-Aid and wants you love it as much as they do. I think I’m on to something though and I’ve discovered more than just how to avoid a visit to Roosevelt Hospital’s ER.

I came to Candy Crush late in the craze but made up for it with lots of enthusiastic play time. One Christmas, my mother and I spent so much time blowing up sugary confections that my then 7-year-old niece apologized for introducing us to the game. I’ve sat at dinner and pulled my phone out of my purse because I think I hear my text ping or because I haven’t and I wonder why nobody is texting.

And New York City (any city, any place) has a lot to offer or a lot to be missed. There’s architecture and art and love isn’t just in the air, it’s on the street right in front of you! You just have to look up, look around, pay attention.

So come on everyone, give it a try. Save your ankle bones, protect your knees and lift your spirits. Put your phones down and pick your eyes up.

If you don’t want to listen to me, listen to Tupac.

"Hollar If Ya Hear Me" closed but keep your eyes open - it will be back!

“Hollar If Ya Hear Me” closed but keep your eyes open – it will be back!

Or listen to Annie Lennox … or if you don’t know that musical reference, don’t worry. Just know this: The streets where I walk are a little safer now that I’m phone free. It could be argued that I’ve lost my chance to “bump” into someone interesting but I’ve increased my chance to make eye contact. I still slip when out with a group of friends. Social media sometimes sucks me back, but I try to stay in the moment – ready and present for potential magic.

We found some magic at The Spyglass Rooftop Bar at the Archer Hotel (38th St, NYC). Rooftop bars in NYC are crowded and magic can be tough to spot in a packed room. But the bouncer hooked us up with comfy seats and an amazing view of the Empire State Building and the Eternal Lights from the 9/11 Memorial. And they serve Cakebread Cellars Sauvignon Blanc. (It’s much too busy to order a margarita here. Stick with something simple.)

Cakebread Cellars believes that life’s occasions are elevated by good wine, good food and good people – and I couldn’t agree more.

Life’s occasions are also elevated by keeping your head up and your phone stowed so you see more than you miss and you have the chance to capture every, single, magic moment.

Magic captured at the rooftop of the Archer Hotel

Magic captured at the rooftop of the Archer Hotel

 

 

 

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There are a billion reasons to travel.

I won’t list all billion here because my blog is not the cause of anyone’s eyestrain! I want you to use your eyes for very important things – like booking a trip to Iceland. Pronto!

Really.

Iceland is the kind of place that imagination and research can’t do justice. When I read up on Iceland, I learned the Gulf Stream moderates the temperature so the island’s northern location doesn’t mean sub-zero misery. But I had no clue what it was like to spend an afternoon in a sun-hail-rain-snow-sun-storm. I didn’t know that going up a few feet, really just a few feet, could change the world from dry to snow-covered and stormy. Without making the trip, I wouldn’t have learned that the weather is changeable and brutal and beautiful and works to form not only the character of the landscape but of the people.  As we walked the streets of Reykjavik, sun smiling on our faces and hail biting our cheeks, our guide told us that “… Iceland doesn’t have weather, it has examples of weather.”  He also told us that there isn’t any bad weather, just bad clothing. (My damp, loose weave wool mittens that begged the wind and rain to turn my hands blue proved his point.)

These people can really roll with change … except when they can’t.

If you live in Iceland, 50% of the calories you consume are imported.  That must take some planning. While the geo-thermal power is impressive and gives heat and electricity to the majority of the country, it doesn’t make it cheaper or easier to buy a car or a camera or any of the other goods and services that come cheap and easy to someone living someplace other than Iceland. Lots more planning!

So go to Iceland! Expect the people to be lovely and happy to see you. And expect a quick “No” if you ask for something that strays outside the norm. (In our case, it was a late-night bottle of wine in the hotel bar and the need for a detour around a snow-closed road that caused a reflexive “No” but we worked it out.)

And when you’re there, order a margarita (or two). You’ll enjoy them because the food and cocktail scene in Reykjavik is alive and well.  Eat a lot of lamb and fish and absolutely have dinner at Dill and Grill Market (both in Reykjavik). Dill has a tasting menu with wine paring and is an experience you’ll never forget. Grill Market has amazing food served in a very cool space. I had “Red Fish.” It was described as a very ugly, angry fish that can make you sick if you come in contact with it while it’s alive. But they promised me that when they cook it, they get the ugly out and it’s delicious. And it was.

If only we had another few nights in Iceland I feel sure we’d have seen the one thing we missed: Northern Lights. For now, I have to settle for pictures on the Internet. But I feel pretty sure I’ll be back someday so I have another chance.

Thanks for reading – If you go, you should also expect to be blown away by the landscape. I hope you enjoy my pictures!

 

I think what I liked best is that the people seem to have their priorities straight!

And they have a sense of humor! Reykjavik is full of street and public art.

And the landscape is like nothing you’ve ever seen.

And finally, one of my favorite signs ever!

Do you think Iceland is used to dealing with silly tourists?

Do you think Iceland is used to dealing with silly tourists?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Not being Santa Claus frees me up to do lots of stuff.

I’m not responsible for delivering gifts to the 1.9 billion children of the world.  Be thankful for that.  Logistics isn’t in my wheelhouse.

The Santa Operations Center at NORAD reports that Santa had an on-time departure.  He’s following his usual route, starting in the South Pacific, hitting New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Asia, Africa, Europe, followed by North America and South America.  At the time of writing this post, Santa is about to deliver to Kenya. NORAD says they aren’t responsible for planning Santa’s route – they just track him!  Which is good for NORAD because that frees their staff up for other things too.

Here are 5 things I’ve done with the free time I have (from not being Santa):

1. Travel to Seattle.  I made my way to Seattle to spend the holiday with margagogo’s Marketing Director and North West Correspondent, as well as margagogo’s two biggest non-margarita drinking fans and margagogo’s future Investigative Reporter and Managing Editor. (Tracking how people move around so gifts can be delivered properly must be time-consuming and a giant pain in Santa’s tuchas.)

2. Win all Tickle Fights.  Since the future margagogo employees are only 8 and 5, I can still take em. Size and a team approach makes my future standing in tickle fights uncertain. My nieces are getting bigger and getting organized.

3. Manage Amazing Feats of Athletic Prowess.  Ice skating and rock wall climbing topped off with cartwheels are what it takes to keep up with the margagogo team. I made it to the top of the rock wall (in the children’s section), never left the ice till skating ended and after years of considering my body a no cartwheel zone, managed impressive cartwheel form. Christmas is an endurance event for everyone. I’m a little tired now so I can’t imagine how Santa feels when he parks his sleigh back at the North Pole on the 26th.  He is an endurance champion. But as crafty as he is about getting down chimneys, I’m certain he can’t pull off cartwheels.

4. Eat and Eat More.  Evidence indicates that Santa makes this a priority and everyone celebrating is doing the same.  So I won’t dwell on food. I’ll just say that I’m stuffed full and can’t imagine eating again at least until dinner.  Thank goodness I only have to wait a few hours.

5. Drink Margaritas.  Santa needs to be sober but since I’m not driving a sleigh tonight, sobriety isn’t a priority for me.  My future Managing Editor and I invented the song “The 10 Margaritas of Christmas” and I’m ashamed to say that actual events don’t live up to the lyrics.  But, I did manage to taste test at three different venues:

La Catrina.  Seattle, WA. Nothing says “Christmas” like a mural with a skeleton.  And nothing says “Christmas” to me like a pint-sized margarita that’s actually good. What a gift!  So if you’re in Seattle, check out La Catrina. It’s in Georgetown – a hip and gritty neighborhood. (For you East-Coasters, it reminds me of Hoboken of ten years ago.)

The Whale Wins.  Seattle, WA. I made a mistake by not asking them where the name came from but going here was a genius idea (credit to my Marketing Director).  They’re serious about their drinks and take great pride in the mixing.  And the bartender was happy to share his margarita secret – Dry Curaçao instead of Triple Sec or Cointreau to give the drink zip without syrup sweetness.  It worked.  I had two.  If you go to the Whale Wins, make a reservation or go at lunch.  I hear they get quite a crowd.

The Big Picture. Possibly the best place in Seattle, WA.  It’s a theatre and a bar.  A bar and a theatre.  If you give them your seat number they will deliver drinks to you as often as you direct.  They too serve a margarita in a pint glass (scary sign) and they too pull it off!  And they’re serious about their mixing.  They also serve popcorn in champagne buckets and give out Hershey’s Kisses with the tickets.  I love this place.

The Big Picture

Merry Christmas!  I hope not being Santa gives all of you time to focus on the important stuff too.

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