The Sportsman’s Bloodies

How the Vodka/Tomato Juice Concoction Warms One Drinker’s
Soul

I’ve long felt that unless mind-altering substances are going to
be involved in any social activity, I’d rather be alone. Although
this philosophy is not so much alcoholic as it is misanthropic, it
does have seriously troubling implications for my liver. Given my
tendency to imbibe heavily whenever I’m around, well, other people,
I learned early on to limit my drinking options to two (very
filling) beverages: pints of beer and Bloody Marys.

I’m not so picky about the beer. I’ll take lagers, pale ales,
IPAs, the occasional malt liquor. My only insistence is that it
come in a pint glass, not a bottle, to get the most lubrication
possible out of the least number of drinks.The idea is to feel like
an alcoholic, not seem like one.

But Bloodys are an entirely different story. While a good Bloody
is the best drink on the planet, a bad Bloody is the absolute
worst. The first sign of a good Bloody is the size of the glass:
Bloodys belong in tumblers, not those namby-pamby glasses diners
use to cheat their customers out of as much fresh-squeezed orange
juice as possible. A good Bloody should look, and taste, like a
meal. I don’t pretend to know the best recipe for mix, or even what
all of the ingredients are. I just know it should be thick and
spicy and require a whole lot of vodka to be diluted. Like I said,
if I’m home alone and able to freely exhibit all the crazy behavior
my natural personality drives me to — such as dancing around like a
maniac and making out with myself in the mirror — I don’t need a
strong Bloody Mary. It’s just when there are people around that the
flavor and texture of Bloody Mary mix take on paramount
importance.

At no time is this truer than while the sitting in the Sportsman
Lounge on a Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, surrounded by photos
of drunk girls proudly displaying their cleavage and four or five
70-year-olds who have been drinking Coors Lights since 9 a.m.
Fortunately, the Sportsman on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons is
also blessed with the thickest, spiciest, most intoxicating Bloody
Mary in town, thanks to Wayne, the bartender on those days, and the
anonymous elderly man who faithfully drops off his master mix every
week. Wayne has been known to lure more than one well-intentioned
shopper or downtown worker into the Sportman’s sunless bowels with
a call of, “Hey, are you a lawyer? Then why are you trying to pass
the bar?” Before I even have time to get pissed that someone is
talking to me, Wayne is filling up a tumbler with one part Vodka,
one part mix before adding some extra Tobasco and shaking
vigorously.

As my best Bloody Buddy likes to say as Wayne tops off our
glasses with pickled green beans, “It’s like a salad.” Good. I’ll
need all the nutrients I can get before I go home and start
practicing my solo dance routine — a nuanced combination of
jazzercise and strip tease — while belting out every word to the
Empire Records soundtrack.