“Hey lady,” which is what Steve called Amanda, “let me take that.” The red hairs on his shoulders shimmered in the light of the lava lamp. Amanda passed him the roach clip. They’d been laying in the back of his Chevy Custom Van for a while now. The prattle of the other concert goers died down just after Steve carried Amanda across the threshold of “Vantasy Island” to the whoops and cheers of the crazy butterflies and bearded sticks.

Amanda’s knit shawl bunched up beneath her side. She could smell Steve’s sandals, or maybe it was hers. It didn’t matter. Tonight, the opening act for Jimmy Buffet, Rupert Holmes, crawled deep into the private parts of her mind and were already altering her recollection of events. In the future, the night was drug free, happy and under the oozy light, Steve’s Nordic-red beard was down right Kris Kristoffersonian.

Steve took one last hit off the roach, turned it and, in quick, tiny gasps, caught the last twists of smoke. Nine months later, you were born.

Sixteen years would pass before you’d eye roll and gag when mom and her girls got together for ladies night. She wore too much perfume. Her jewelry dangled in turquoise jumbles beneath her ears and between her oven-baked cleavage. The International Court of your Taste and Standards did not allow moms to show cleavage or smell like a paper bag of lemony spray paint.

When she returned she’d be super friendly, and want to dance. “Come ON. It’s fuuuun. Don’t you want to dance with your mother?” After a surprisingly good pirouette, she quickly found Escape by Rupert Holmes. That cassette was never far from the stereo.

“DO YOU LIKE PIÑA COLADAS!!!!”

She stomped around, forcing you to dance and making you laugh against everything you valued. Finally, thankfully, the song would end and she let you loose.

“What a son of a bitch…” she mumbled under her breath, staring off at the image of Kris Kristofferson’s beard in the August moon.

That night, you swore to your journal and the ghost of Kurt Cobain that you would always hate Piña Coladas.

…

They’ve Been Lying To You

Most of the Piña Coladas on Earth are blended rum and mixer abominations. I’ve had better Piña Colada flavored Lifesavers than what I’ve been served in the past. I always figured that they belonged in the exclusive domain of trophy wives, imagining that the drink is at least part of the secret to their powers of leisure.

A few weeks ago, I’m in the grocery store and spot Naked Coconut Water, new on the shelves. I acquired a taste for it in Haiti but remained skeptical that it would satisfy the same way it did on the island. On pure impulse, I also grabbed a pineapple. I haven’t grabbed a pineapple since Adventure Island. After a little bit of experimentation, I came up with this:

The Scratch Piña Colada

1/4 to 1/2 tsp sugar
1/4 oz lemon juice
4 or 5 1-inch chunks of fresh pineapple
2 oz Coconut water
2 oz Gold Rum or Cachaça

First, fill a hurricane glass, a large tumbler or pint glass with crushed ice to to chill the glass and set it aside. In a shaker, muddle the pineapple with the sugar to a thick pulp. Add the coconut water, lemon juice, rum and ice. Shake for a good standing eight count then strain into the chilled glass and top with more crushed ice if needed. Garnish with a thin slice of pineapple and a straw.

Notes

JT’s variation:

Dude, I just tried a couple of Pina Coladas based on what I could recall of your recipe, and that shit was FFFIIIIIINNNNNE. I used a sugar cube and 1/4 oz. of whole cream, which I couldn’t recall if yours did or not.

Kim’s variation:

Last week I was at an Asian market that had a bazillion varieties of canned coconut water with chunks of young coconut and (real) sugar. I didn’t use cream, but I skimmed some of the thick stuff off the top of a can of coconut milk and added that. Oh yeah.

You’re going to have to experiment a little bit but you want to end up with about three ounces of the pineapple pulp. I used a little fresh squeezed lemon juice to cut the sweetness of the ripe pineapple. I’m guessing that a slightly green pineapple may provide the right balance of sweet and tart.

Traditionally, Piña Coladas call for a white rum. I wasn’t a fan. The drink was a little too simple and sweet tasting even after scratching the sugar and cutting with lemon. I found that I preferred the rich malty flavor of gold rum.

Pyrat Rum made for the smoothest and richest Piña Colada. Barbancourt Five Star overpowered the drink but it wasn’t bad. Three Star would probably work better. I’d rather save those for more spirit forward drinks or to enjoy neat. Bacardi gold was the best balance of spirit and flavor at a decent price point.

While testing various white rums, I tried using cachaça, a Brazilian cane liquor similar to rum but with more clean burning alcohol flavor. It’s fantastic. I’m sure the Brazilians already on to this… mmm, Brazil…

The Naked Coconut water wasn’t that coconutty. There are other brands out there so I recommend going to an Asian market like Kim. Or even with Kim. That would be fun.

After all this experimentation, I found myself running bare foot and bare chested through the woods, my breath trailing behind me in mighty clouds. Memories of bad Piña Coladas, peeled from my mind and fell in my wake among the rotting leaves and slugs on the forest floor. I stopped at a clearing and squinted my eyes just so, blurring the moon, until I could see Kris Kristopherson’s beard. Anyways, totally drunk.

I’m telling you, this is not Amanda’s Piña Colada.

Posted at 2:27pm and tagged with: Pina Colada, maligned cocktails, Albert, recipe,.