Years ago, when I was much younger, I spent a weekend in San Francisco at the behest of a few friends who were involved in the yearly Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. It would be the first time I would meet John Waters, and salvage a discarded pack of his Kool cigarettes, which still hang, framed, in the home of my writing partner. But that's another story.
It was the late 80's, and thanks in part to the movie "Cocktail," complicated mixed drinks were enjoying something of a Renaissance. So it was there, in San Francisco, after a night of very heavy drinking at a long-forgotten bar in the Castro, where I came up with a unique variation of the martini that I hoped (in my inebriated state) would become the next big thing not only for gay drinkers, but for middle-aged Chippendale hausfraus, and free-thinking alcoholics everywhere.
The drink is prepared in exactly in the same manner as any dry martini (I prefer gin, but vodka works, too), with a very special ingredient added at the end: after the drink has been poured in the serving glass, the bartender pulls down his pants and proceeds to "teabag" the elixir before popping in an olive and serving it. The teabagging doesnot have to involve full immersion--that could create a nasty spill--but the bottom half of the mixologist's scrotum should at least be glistening with liquor once the task is completed.
With the aid of a twenty dollar bill, talking the bartender into it was surprisingly easy. As he climbed up on the bar, unhitched his chaps, and straddled the dainty glass, the din of the bar evaporated into silence. It was over in the blink of an eye, but history had been made and everyone there knew it. Applause and cheers erupted in the room as if the clock had just rolled over into a New Year. My friend took the drink, examined it playfully, and, as he plucked a coarse black pube from the rim, asked me what I called this brave new beverage.
"I call it..."The Scrotini," I said.It was the late 80's, and thanks in part to the movie "Cocktail," complicated mixed drinks were enjoying something of a Renaissance. So it was there, in San Francisco, after a night of very heavy drinking at a long-forgotten bar in the Castro, where I came up with a unique variation of the martini that I hoped (in my inebriated state) would become the next big thing not only for gay drinkers, but for middle-aged Chippendale hausfraus, and free-thinking alcoholics everywhere.
The drink is prepared in exactly in the same manner as any dry martini (I prefer gin, but vodka works, too), with a very special ingredient added at the end: after the drink has been poured in the serving glass, the bartender pulls down his pants and proceeds to "teabag" the elixir before popping in an olive and serving it. The teabagging doesnot have to involve full immersion--that could create a nasty spill--but the bottom half of the mixologist's scrotum should at least be glistening with liquor once the task is completed.
With the aid of a twenty dollar bill, talking the bartender into it was surprisingly easy. As he climbed up on the bar, unhitched his chaps, and straddled the dainty glass, the din of the bar evaporated into silence. It was over in the blink of an eye, but history had been made and everyone there knew it. Applause and cheers erupted in the room as if the clock had just rolled over into a New Year. My friend took the drink, examined it playfully, and, as he plucked a coarse black pube from the rim, asked me what I called this brave new beverage.
He gazed at me with a mixture of pride and disgust, then brought the drink to his lips and took a long, slow sip. He gave me a knowing smile. "Not bad for a breeder," he said, and offered me a sip. When I politely declined, the bartender scowled. "Pussy," he muttered under his breath.
Soon the Scrotini had taken the Castro by storm.
Forget Tom Cruise in "Cocktail." You hadn't seen anything until you'd witnessed a bartender leap-frogging a dozen martinis, leather pants around his ankles, deftly dangling his jewels in each concoction, and, depending on his grooming habits, imparting a flavor described by many as familiar yet indescribable. In one BDsM bar, the mixologist went so far as create his own variation on the Scrotini, which he dubbed "The Flaming Scrotini." His gimmick was to light his sack on fire, albeit briefly, before serving the drink(s). He said this proved he had not skimped on the teabagging, but frankly, I think he just liked the feeling. Another bartender used a thick blue rubber band--the kind employed on broccoli stalks--to tie off his testicles until they turned a disturbing shade of blue. This, of course, was "The Blue Balls Scrotini." Soon there were more variations on the drink than one could imagine, some as inventive as they were unhealthy.
And so it came as no surprise that the perennial party pooper known as The Board of Health soon came down with all its weight on the Scrotini and all its variants, ending the trend before it had truly blossomed.
Still, in private homes across this great land, voyeurs can occasionally glimpse a familiar shadow on the wall or silhouetted against the blinds. The squatting man, the small gasps of joy, the clinking of martini glasses can only mean one thing.
The Scrotini lives on.
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