Campari girl

I love bitter things, Angostura, Cynar,Pimms Cup, the bitter taste of herbs, astringency of grapefruit in the morning and now Campari. As with all things, too much is too much, and this is the zen karma balance of food. ( Mixing religious metaphors aside) Too sweet and it is cloying. Too sour and pucker up. Too chared and the free radicals of carbon will date you. And, too bitter will deny any nuance.

However, this holds true with my sensibility of things; when wildly sentimental, I am also slightly cryptic, when wearing bright colors I tend to add a neutral, when in a wild no holds barred full on romance there is a part of me which is cynical. So also my perfumes. Not for me the cloying scent of insence, amber, rose or lily. No girly things like that. Black bra under the pink top, Leather with lace, and my perfumes tend to the androgynous. I used to wear 4711, herbaceous, with lime, now a scent developed in the 1920's for the jet set marketed as "worn by Cary Grant AND Ava Gardner". It is tart, herbal, slighly floral, and crisp.

Maybe I protest too much and it will take the right guy to find that inner rose. None have gotton it yet, and tough gal that I try to be, the military kid, I keep a stiff upper lip and put on the scent, the careful balance of clothes and crispness. I put on internal chain mail with the crisp smoke of sandlewood perfume, and go into the kitchen. It would be nice to discover that rose, damask'd and subtle. But, I wait.

So I have discovered Campari. I like Scotch, neat, with the layered flavors of smoke, maple and wood. Campari works in the same way. It is terrifically astringent, tight, bitter, and on the tongue very light. Paired with soda water, or Pelegrino over ice it is much better to me than a cold beer on a hot day. And, it appeals to my snobby food side, just like my perfumes. Mixed with other liqueur it becomes the Negroni, the Italian cocktail. Mixed with grapefruit juice it is a double whammy of sharpness, a two punck kick of tart and tight, just right.

I detest the drinks that have things in them. Small umbrellas, cherries, whole spears of fruit or celery, ice that bangs against my teeth, none of these have a place in my glass. I do not want to collect charms, play with the umbrella or eat the lime. I don't want to circumnavigate my glass following the salt. Although, I do like salt on my wrist, a lime and tequilla. I do like a martini if it is sharp, say made with cucumber or pomegranete. See, again no sugar.

When I was painting murals, in college I had a job creating whole walls in the bar. I would go in during the day, lights up and paint the alpine village. And, raid the olives and martini onions. These are ok, not in drinks but by them, along with Kalmata olives and almonds toasted with rosemary and salt. As for the maraschino cherries, only with stems. I can, with my tongue, tie the stem into a knot in under a minute, less if not laughing. A talent for another time, my whole family can do this, something about genes and tongue rolling.

Campari to me also creates in my imagination a drive down the hills to Monaco, in a Ferrari, red of course, and a light chiffon scarf around my Princess Grace hair, pulling into the casino where James Bond will order his martini before saving the world from thugs. I can dream. It reminds me of horizontal striped black and white fisherman's tops, black crops and espadrilles. It makes me want a scooter to run up to Triest on. I dream of 1935 and want to meet Ava Gardner. We wear the same scent.

So, in the middle age of summer, at the height of the day waiting for friends from the Eastern Mediterranean, I am chilling the glasses and getting ready. The olives are out, the almonds are toasting, and my bitter is on the way to a sweet afternoon.