Drink From the 18th Century

Pauline's.  Have you been to Pauline's?  It's on Park Street, just up from ye olde bookshoppe.  It's many thousands of square feet on two floors - jam packed with treasures.  It's where I found the perfect Tiki glasses for the Bad Monkey cocktail.  You'll always find something, even when you're not looking for anything.

Especially then.

They have a sale right now - 45% off everything in the store.  It's a thank-you to their customers for recently being voted the best Antique Store in the East Bay.

I went in looking to buy an incredible Mason jar I've been coveting - and don't give me heartache about what I covet, ok?  She was still there, beautiful and big.  Bigger than any Mason jar you've ever seen, lid and all - which was impressive considering she was more than a century old.  We have a few of her cousins, and outside, on a summer day, full of flowers?  They're delightful, I think.

Pauline asked after the girls, wondered how things were going at the shoppe - and then was intrigued when my eye was drawn to the seven glasses behind two Mason jars - neither as large as the beauty who had siren-called me into the store today.  I'd been allowed behind the counter and past the brass chain, close to some of those treasures I told you Pauline carries.

But those glasses?  In the display crowded with trinkets and baubles?  Ooh, that little toy gun, like the one Uncle Dean gave to my brother Dean.  Or the double daguerreotypes in the wood and copper frame?

And again, behind the Mason jars, those seven glasses?

Those are from the 1700's, Pauline said.  I bought them from Muriel Johansen - she lived over on Grand?  She was the biggest glass dealer in Northern California.  I must've bought them from her forty years ago, and at the time she didn't own anything less than a hundred years old.  The family she bought them from had been using them for water glasses.  I had them appraised after picking them up - the appraiser was beside herself.  Couldn't believe what I'd brought her.

I couldn't quite believe it either.  The glasses were simple, but gorgeous - the bases thick, full of constellations of tiny air bubbles.  The glasses were tall, with straight sides sloping to a smaller base.  Pilsner shaped, though Pilsner beer hadn't been invented yet, wouldn't be for another hundred years.

I just imagined the number of drinks that each glass had carried, alcoholic and non.  The number of lips that had tasted some frothy concoction.  The different people from different generations.  From the time of our Revolution to now - with the forty year break that they had spent behind glass in Pauline's display case.

This was a Dusty Hunt of a special kind.

I put my beauty of a Mason jar back with a sigh, spectacular though she is.  Did I mention how large she was?  But these glasses - these wonderful glasses...

I took my time choosing two.  I always take my time - sometimes too much, of course.  But a few had some nicks taken out of the rims, and while I'd love to have them all, you can't have everything, so I took my time and chose two.  Besides, when I find lovely cocktail glasses, I pick up singles, always singles, so our set is blessedly mismatched.  But these glasses sang out for two - at least.

How could I separate sisters who are 250 years old?

So I picked out my two and told Pauline I'd be filling them that night with something a bit stronger than the water they last held.  She wrapped them with care in brown paper torn from the huge roll behind her - then I went back to work and shared my find with my coworkers.

Those who would listen.

On my home I stopped by Du Vin Fine Wine - even though Dan, the owner, is in Santorini right now sampling Greek vintages, that bastard.

He now carries a few good beers, terrific additions to his curated wine selection, and I scored a six-pack of Drake's Blonde Ale because it's brewed with Pilsner and I thought that'd look good in the glass.  Also, who doesn't like drinking with a blonde?  And Drake's is local, did I mention that?  So if you want to drink it, you have to come visit me.

So come visit me.

Karen had crocked up some ribs for the kids tonight, and if you don't think that Blonde Ale was going to go wonderfully with ribs slathered in Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce - well, then you don't like beer and ribs.

But the beer.  The beer?  In that glass?

It was beautiful - beautiful just because, sitting there against the wood of our buffet, but beautiful again because of all the drinks that had gone before.

All the people who had drunk from it before.

The languages spoken over its rim, the jokes told behind its back.

The romances begun.

The fights that ended with those glasses clutched in hand.  Their contents forgotten - and then looked at, and then remembered, and then the clinking of glasses, truces called.  Kisses sought.

And then I smiled at the notion of a beer brewed in San Leandro in 2013 almost perfectly fitting its twelve ounces into a glass blown by a forgotten craftsman in 1750.

So I drank from the 18th Century, the 19th, and then the 20th.  Drank from those centuries and then introduced my glass to the 21st.

Hello, 21st.

Oh, and the after, of course.  The lacing left on the inside of the glass after the blonde had gone.  That was beautiful, too.

So come visit.  We'll pick up some more of the Drakes while those glasses chill, and then we'll clink to happy times.

Happy, happy times.

Ernest Hemingway, 21 July 1899 - 2 July 1961

In my office at ye olde bookshoppe there's a poster above the desk.  Ernest Hemingway looks down, impossibly young.  Not the bearded Hemingway that comes to mind when you think of him - not The Old Man and the Sea.  It's his passport photo from when he lived in Paris in 1923.  It's before the Sun Also Rises, before Fitzgerald, before everything, really.

So very young.


The only words on the poster, besides his name, comprise one line from A Moveable Feast:

All you have to do is write one true sentence.

I look at those words, at that face - that face that had so much living ahead of it.  His sentiment sounds so simple and of course that means it's going to be so very hard.


Today - his birthday - and I'm thinking about Hemingway.  Trying not to think too much about the end - about that other July day in Ketchum, Idaho.  But of course I do think about it, and thinking about it brings to mind one of his brilliant, late stories:  Get a Seeing-Eyed Dog.

Hemingway has already been on the Safari in Africa where he was hurt so badly, was already in the pain that would be with him the rest of his life.  In the story, a man - Philip - has suffered an accident and lost his sight.

Philip can now only see himself as a burden, less than he was, and so tries to distance himself from his unnamed companion - obviously a lover.  Not so obviously a wife, and Hemingway doesn't say.  What Hemingway does do is describe her trying to provide relief even though they both know she's ill-suited to the role of babysitter.

She'll say:

"Can I make you a drink?....You know how worthless a nurse I am.  I wasn't trained for it and I haven't any talent.  But I can make drinks."

Later, he'll think:

She has been so good and she was not built to be good.

But her simple question?  Can I make you a drink?  Sometimes, there's nothing prettier.  If you ever have need to get into my good graces, that's the question to ask.  And for Philip, a drink is just the tonic for the rainy day he finds himself trapped in.

Then comes a string of Hemingway sentences.  Not the choppy mockeries people use to ridicule his writing, but a paragraph of his own:


   He heard her coming up the stairs and noticed the difference in her tread when she was carrying two glasses and when she had walked down barehanded.  He heard the rain on the windowpane and he smelled the beech logs burning in the fireplace.  As she came into the room he put his hand out for the drink and closed his hand on it and felt her touch the glass with her own.
   "It's our old drink for out here," she said.  "Campari and Gordon's with ice."


There's so much I love about those images.  Without sight, we're given a glimpse of Philip's heightened senses - of hearing her coming up with two glasses, then the rain on the window.  We reach out into the dark, his dark, for the glass he knows will be there.

Then?  Then she touches his.

Clink.

Oh - and the drink?  Splendid and easy.

In his book, To Have and Have Another - A Hemingway Cocktail Companion, a different Philip, Philip Greene, describes the loveliness of Campari in cocktails, from the Americano to the Negroni to this, the most simple of all:

 

 

CAMPARI & GIN:

 

1-2 oz. Gordon's London dry gin
1 oz. Campari

Pour over ice in a highball glass, stir.


Tonight, I'll be reading a little Hemingway, sipping a damn fine drink, and will continue looking for that one true sentence.

National Daiquiri Day - 19 July 2013

Today was National Daiquiri Day, but you knew that.  Did you also know that daiquiri's don't have to come out of a Slushy machine?  That all you need is rum, lime juice, and a sweetener?  I know, I know - simple.

Unless you don't have a lime, which I didn't, so I made a plea via social media - pick your poison, Twitter, Facebook - it's a great big world out there with friends available to help.  You just need to ask, even though asking for help can be hard for some people.  Not for me, but for some.  I need so much help it would be a shame not to ask.

I got plenty of responses, but the closest available limes were in Napa, which is a bit of a drive on a Friday night - so I did things the old-fashioned way.  I knocked on our neighbor's door.

John maintains he loves it when we knock because he never knows what we'll be asking for - Chairs? Cheap labor? Vodka?  It's a crap shoot with us.

Tonight he had what I needed - the Anderson's always have what we need.  In addition to the lime, John also had a glass which I borrowed in case there was extra daiquiri juice.  I took it just to be safe.

You never know.

Imbibe Magazine had tipped me off that it was the special Day, and they had conveniently included six daiquiri recipes.

I went for the Brooklynite because it used Jamaican rum, which I had, and honey syrup, which I had, and it was courtesy of the Bartender's Guide by Trader Vic - and I have a soft spot in my heart for the Trader since his first bar was here in the East Bay, in Oakland.

So, with lime in hand, I had enough for two.  Coulda made three but John's wife Beth is in Tahoe.

BROOKLYNITE

2 oz. Jamaican rum
.5 oz. fresh lime juice
.5 oz. honey syrup

Combine all ingredients and shake with ice. Fine-strain into a chilled glass and garnish.


I didn't have any lime left over for a garnish, so I skipped that.

John didn't mind, not at all.

Dusty Hunting in Modesto Reveals Lolita - Peanut Lolita

Driving through the hot streets of my hometown and I have just a few minutes for a quick Dusty Hunt.  To recap, Dusty Hunting is hitting old-school liquor stores for bottles of booze that have collected dust because they were purchased, set out on display, but never found a home - often just getting shuffled to lower and lower shelves, sometimes for decades.

Fine bourbon can be found - not by yours truly, not yet, no butterscotchy Old Forester from the '70's for me.  For me so far it's been other finds - other, well, oddities.

In Jason Wilson's book, Boozehound, he describes Dusty Hunting, but he calls it Liquor Store Archaeology.  For him, it was a game he played with his brother - each trying to unearth something as singular as a Schliemann discovery.

He finally declared his brother the victor in their games when Tyler dug up Peanut Lolita - the dancing harem girl on its label enticing him to buy this bourbon-based peanut-flavored liqueur.

That's gritty on the tongue.

And that was last bottled when James Earl Carter, Jr. was President.

Winner?  Winner.

So I'm motoring down Tully when I see the sign for a store I've seen my whole life--

--but now?  With Dusty Hunting on my mind?  Tully Liquors takes on a whole new meaning.  I pull into the lot and hustle inside.  Did I say the clock was ticking?  The clock's ticking.  I'm supposed to be somewhere so I read the shelves like a bad summer book - fast but fascinated.

Curiously, in this Modesto liquor store, I come across a bottle of St. Germain, a gorgeous, elegant liqueur - which is a little like finding Grace Kelly in a whore house.  But why is the spirit inside the splendid bottle colored dark brown?  The elderflower liqueur should be delicate and light - this is anything but.

They've also got 1.75 liter plastic bottles of Wild Turkey - old?  Old enough that the bottles are collapsing in on themselves.  Old, yes - appetizing?  Not really, no.

But there, on the bottom shelf, my eye spies five (!) bottles of Peanut Lolita.

It's hard to make out the name on the label - it's faded, practically white.  But the girl swaying her harem hips on the front of the bottle guarantees that it's Peanut Lolita.  I try and take a quick picture of the bottles on the shelf, only to be yelled at by the guy behind the counter.

No pictures!  No pictures!

Trying to placate him, I show that I've got one of the bottles in hand - I'm a customer, I'm buying - but he still doesn't like it.

I pay for the bottle and head to my car where I'll send Mr. Wilson a quick message - just, you know, shooting a query off to a man I've never met but who might receive it because all the world's connected and all the men and women tweeters:


@boozecolumnist Just found 5 bottles of Peanut Lolita in a liquor store in Modesto, CA. #ToBuyOrNotToBuy

Then I head off into the Modesto afternoon wondering what the heck I'm going to do with Lolita there in my backseat.  I'll be able to mix her into something, right?  I'm sure of it.  I just don't know what.

Later, as the July sun finally sets, I receive a reply from Mr. Wilson:


@NickPetrulakis Whaaaaaat?!!!!!! Buy. Buy two and I will buy the other from you.


So I'll do just that - grab another bottle of Lolita on my way out of town.  I'm thinking, there's no need to rush.  The bottles have been there for more than three decades - they'll still be there in a few hours.

And that's one of the things I love about this kind of Hunt.  That the bottles have been there - from Carter to Reagan to now.

Just waiting.

Back home and I send off Mr. Wilson's bottle with a note I typed on my dad's old Remington.  I hope Lolita arrives safe and sound - I hope the Federales don't intercept her.  It's probably not legal, right?  Shipping booze to the Boozehound?  

Oh well.

With my own bottle, I've decided to beat the heat with a Sundae - a Bourbon Sundae.  Come on over, bring friends.  You scoop, I'll mix and we'll both drink to the general joy of the whole table.

Bourbon Sundae:

1.75 oz. Four Roses bourbon

.25 oz. Peanut Lolita Liqueur
.25 oz. simple syrup

3 dashes Scrappy's Chocolate Bitters

1-2 small scoops vanilla ice cream

Combine bourbon, liqueur, syrup and bitters with ice.  Stir.  Strain into a chilled glass.  Using a melon baller, scoop once (or twice) and add the vanilla ice cream.

 

Voula Saris, April 15, 1926 - July 8, 2013

I visited Voula in the hospital last Saturday.

My mom was sitting in a chair, one of her feet propped up on the end of Voula's bed.  They were both resting, both so very tired.


Hearing me walk in, my mom opened her eyes.  We talked, quietly, while nurses came in and out.  One took Voula's blood pressure - wrapping the sleeve around Voula's arm, pumping that sleeve up, recording the reading in pencil.  Finished up by taking her temperature, all without Voula waking.

All while Voula slept.

Voula?  Officially her name was Paraskevi, but all called her Voula.  Voula was one of my mom's closest friends.  Both of them helping at the church so often.  If I think of Voula I see her in the kitchen, at the Greek Orthodox Church on Tokay, with her hair net on and hands buttering phyllo for baklava or stirring rice as it bubbled in one of the church's huge pots, tossing salad.  Cooking, so often cooking.

Voula was one of the people you could take for granted - like so many of the women and men who donate their time to the church.  So much happens under the guidance of Father Jon, but it wouldn't happen - couldn't happen - without Voula or Paul or Des or Greg.

Working, always working - cooking with my mom, cleaning, boxing pastries.  Ah, Voula.

You and my mom.  Ah, Voula.  Wrapping grape leaves for dolmathes, you and my mom.  Twisting koulourakia, you and my mom.  Frying kalitsounia, you and my mom.

You and my mom.

My earliest memory of Voula is from one of our many visits when I was a kid - she lived in South Modesto, over on Marshall.  Little house on a big plot - big at least to me, then.  On this occasion, Voula greeted us outside her house, now painted bright yellow.  Her smile could've stopped a truck as she pointed to herself and said in Greek:

I did this.

So happy to have accomplished this thing by herself since no one else was going to.  So happy.  Such a bright yellow over the dark, weathered wood.

Voula had a wonderful garden there behind her little yellow house - her grapes?  Her white grapes?  Her tomatoes?  One year she planted pumpkins for me and my brothers.  I don't know if any other kids received this wonderful present from her - probably they did.  When it came to kids, Voula was shameless.  The gleam she'd get in her eye if a kid came into the room? Twinkle twinkle.


But on Saturday Voula slept - tired from life, right?  Looking to rest.  I stood up after the nurse left and leaned over.  I can't say much in Greek, but I can say I love you.  So I told Voula that.  Told her we all loved her.

Voula opened her eyes - and while the twinkle wasn't as bright as it has been, it was still there.  I love you too, Voula said.  All of you.  Especially the children.


This is what I want my daughters to remember about Voula - that the last thing she said to me was how much she loved the children.  Mine, certainly - but their cousins, too.  And all the children lucky enough to have met Voula.

Especially the children, Voula said.


When I left her hospital room after Voula fell back asleep, my mom said Voula woke back up.  Kristina was just here, Voula said - Kristina my daughter - but I think she left because I don't see her.

My mom stood up and walked closer.  What's that, Voula? my mom said.  What are you saying?

The children, Voula said.  The children.  The children.  And then nothing after that.

Voula ate dinner that night - fed to her by Mary Zak, on the Saturday.  Ate with an appetite she hadn't shown in a long time.  Ate everything on her plate and then raised her hand.  Raised her hand firmly, indicating - I'm done.

I'm done.


Voula Saris passed away around the midnight hour on Monday morning.  Passed away in the comfort of the Hospice House in Hughson.  We love you, Voula.  We love you a lot.  And we'll miss you.  My mom especially.  My mom and the kids, especially.  Eternal be your memory, Voula.  Eternal.

Elizabeth and Kristina will remember.  With sadness now - but not later, hopefully.  They didn't take the news well.  What child would?  They were sad, bereft - and mad they hadn't visited more.  But mainly sad and bereft.  And what I want them to know is, what I want them to remember is--

I love you, too, Voula said.  Especially the children.

The children.  The children.  The children.

National Martini Day and the Cali Martini

Today is National Martini Day (I wish I knew who determined these things - certainly, I would buy them a drink), and in its honor, I wanted to whip up something a little regional.  Something good.  I went first to St. George - the bay area spirits producer, not the George of dragon fame.

They've created a trio of gins, and you should try them all.  For tonight's martini, I went with #3, their Dry Rye Gin.  Yes indeed, it's all rye and wickedly good.  Is the juniper still there?  Of course - with hints of pepper.  Deliciously dry.

I don't believe a martini is a martini without vermouth - otherwise, you're drinking gin, neat.  And that's fine, but it ain't a martini.  To continue the California theme, I added my favorite vermouth, Vya - bottled in California's Central Valley.

I then went north but stayed west for the bitters - Scrappy's Aromatic Bitters from Washington state.  Put those together, add your lemon twist, and you've got a martini worthy of the Golden State - bold, crisp, but with the strong charm of a Hollywood character actor.

So celebrate National Martini Day, June 19th, 2013 - and enjoy the...

MARTINI CALI:

2 oz. St. George Dry Rye Gin
.5 oz. Vya Extra Dry Vermouth
1 dash Scrappy's Aromatic Bitters

Stir with ice.  Strain into chilled martini glass.  Add bitters and garnish with a lemon twist. 

Spending Father's Day with a Bad Monkey

I woke up today thinking about my dad - naturally, right?  But I was also thinking about the Bad Monkey.

You know, the Bad Monkey cocktail.  And - if you would - please don't confuse the Bad Monkey cocktail with Bad Monkey, the new book by Carl Hiaasen.  Although, since the Bad Monkey was named for Bad Monkey, I can understand getting them mixed up.

None of this is clear.  I'm sensing that absolutely none of this is clear.

Ok - Carl Hiaasen has a new book out - I said that, right?  Bad Monkey.  If you like your capers fast-paced, if you like your voodoo sorceresses to be sex-crazed, and, of course, if you like your monkeys bad, then get yourself to a bookstore and buy the book.

Are we clear?  Go buy the book.

And - if you live in the bay area, you can see Mr. Hiaasen next Sunday, June 23rd, at the Chapel in San Francisco.  Ye olde bookshoppe is hosting the event and it's going to be a humdinger.  Mr. Hiaasen will be in conversation with Christopher Moore - and since these two are responsible for the funniest novels written in the past twenty years, and since they're going to be under one roof in San Francisco - seriously, just buy the book now and get yourself a ticket for this Sunday.

To commemorate the event, and because the Chapel has a bar - I know, I know, only in San Francisco would a Chapel have an open bar on Sunday - I thought it would be a good idea to offer a special cocktail.  Hence, the Bad Monkey.

And since I get to put on a suit and introduce the authors and pimp the drink, I wanted it to be a tasty one - so I kept it simple and good.  I had to start with rum.  If Florida had a state alcohol, that's what it would be.  And since - if you've read even one of Mr. Hiaasen's novels - you know that Florida is as much a character as the characters, you're with me.

Are you with me?  Florida = rum, so we begin with rum.  And to make it go down as easy as the book, I sweetened it up, just a skosh, with a dram of banana liqueur.

Because it's a Bad Monkey, I threw in some mole bitters because a bad monkey might want his banana dipped in chocolate.

Usually, when I'm mixing drinks at home, I snap a quick pic and throw it online.  And so I did this with the Bad Monkey.

The Bad Monkey

 2 oz. rum

.5 oz banana liqueur

20 drops (1 full dropper) Xocolatl Mole Bitters

Stir with ice.  Strain into ice-filled glass.  Add your monkey.


But then, since it's kind of a big deal, what with these two heavy-hitting authors coming to town, I thought maybe I should stage the picture a little more than I usually do.  And that's why I woke up today thinking about my dad - it being Father's Day and all - and the Bad Monkey.

You thought I forgot about that connection, didn't you? 

Since time's a wastin, I needed to figure out how the staged picture would differ from the snap - and that meant a different glass.  Different because the drink, we decided (we being the crew at the store), needed to be served over, not neat.  Over, because the ice would mellow the cocktail a little.

I thought a heavy rocks glass would do.  Something with a '60's feel because that's what the drink tastes like - a nostalgic Florida with a little Beach Boys thrown in.

But then I thought - Tiki.  Something Tiki would be tailor-made.  And then I thought of my dad.

Specifically, I thought of my dad and my mom and the Tiki bar set he bought for her while they honeymooned in Hawaii in 1962.  It's beautiful and bamboo - highball glasses, shot glasses, an ice bucket, all with that wonderful Tiki vibe.  I've had two of the bamboo glasses on my desk in my bedroom in my parent's house for forever.  I don't remember when I first took them and filled them with pens, not booze, but I did.

My fondness for the drinking culture was obviously instilled early.

So those glasses would be ideal - actually, Collins glasses of bamboo would've been dead-on, but they didn't come with the set, just the highballs.

Still - woulda been perfect.

Except the set is in Modesto, not Alameda (though I really should have it here - it's just I need to convince my mom and my brothers that I deserve it the most), and I didn't have time to drive home to borrow it and did I mention the event is a week from today?


Today was Father's Day.  I mentioned that, I know I did.  And my day began with my daughters making me breakfast.  You might not appreciate peanut-butter toast with a Diet Coke chaser as much as I do, but my girls made it for me without assistance so it tasted better than room service at the St. Francis.

Then?  Then Elizabeth suggested that I should take her and her little sister antique shopping.  Wouldn't that be a great way to spend the morning?  Wouldn't it, Daddy?

If you knew me, you'd know the answer was yes.  Antiquing is something Karen and I used to do all the time, and the bug has infected the girls - so away we went. 

They would be searching for vintage handkerchiefs - their passion - and I would be looking for that old-school rocks glass.

We visited three new-to-us shops in Oakland - and except for one shot glass decorated with cartoon monkeys - I didn't see anything on the money.  The girls?  The girls were also without hankies, so we went back to Alameda and hit two shops that always provided.  Always.

Elizabeth found a boxed '50's dolly at Park Street Antiques - and at Pauline's, Kristina hit handkerchief pay dirt.  Pauline always has hankies - many of her bins overflow with them - and she smiled as she saw Kristina sitting on the carpet carefully looking at each one.

I told the girls to hold down the fort on the ground floor and I'd check out the downstairs, that pastiche of treasures just waiting to be picked over.  Like Abu, Aladdin's monkey in the Cave of Wonders, it's hard not to grab at all the beckoning, shiny objects.

Sure enough, a rocks glass practically leaped into my hands - with exactly the right sixties feel to it, what with its outside pattern of gold leaf squares.

I'd found what I was looking for - I thought - but instead of hurrying upstairs, something held me back and I decided to take one more spin down one more aisle.  That's when I saw, by itself on a small table - and this itself is a miracle because nothing is ever by itself at Pauline's, everything's in a wonderful jumble.  But there - on a small table by itself - was a Tiki bar set.  An exact match to the set my parents bought in Hawaii more than 51 years ago, except instead of highball glasses, the six glasses in this set were taller and skinnier.

Collins glasses, just like the ones I had imagined this morning.

Bamboo Collins glasses, absolute mates of the set that sits tucked away in my parent's garage in Modesto.  The perfect thing.

I grabbed everything:  the six glasses, the ice bucket, the tongs.  And headed upstairs with that set and my rocks glass (why the heck not, it was just a buck) and Kristina's handkerchief.

Pauline gave me a deal - she always does, if I ask, and I asked - and then we set off for home.  Then I headed into work - Father's Day can be busy at the store.  But all day all I could think about was - how the heck did that happen?  What magic occurred in the basement of Pauline's Antiques?

Did I manifest those glasses?  Or had they always been there?  Just waiting for me to see them?

Sometimes it's best not to question things too much - so I won't.  But I will think of my dad today - and I will mix a Bad Monkey and raise it high to him.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  Can I please have the Tiki set you bought in Hawaii?  It'll match a set I picked up today - perfectly.

Now the rest of you - go buy your Bad Monkey.  It'll go down smooth, I promise.