Disclaimer: The following review is a dramatization based on a true story and was performed by trained, albeit lightweight, food tasters. Consumption of alcohol may lead to impaired judgment. Don’t try this at home.
On one hand, I am an adult (well, legally at the very least). I can sit patiently for extended periods of time. I like listening to the news first thing in the morning. I eat vegetables every day. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner.
On the other hand, I am a mess of a young person. I can’t keep my bedroom clean. I prefer to eat with my hands. I will borrow $20 from my parents any chance I get with no intention of repayment.
In between, there exist several fusions: adult kickball leagues, bars crowded with arcade games and skeeball, and the subject of the adventure that follows, alcoholic milkshakes.
Act 1, BLT Burger
In the West Village, three friends and I embark on an Oz-like mystical journey of what is sure to end in heartburn and possibly in vomiting: consume as many alcoholic milkshakes as possible in one evening.
We begin at BLT Burger, the homeliest of the many fiefs under the Kingdom BLT. Four of us, four ‘shakes on the menu. There is the Nightrider, with chocolate ice cream, Kahlua, chocolate liqueur, and Oreos. It’s frozen hot chocolate with a tame alcohol bite, excluding the crushed Oreos, which shoot up your straw like booze soaked Kamikaze pilots aiming for your tonsils.
Coffee ice cream, Jameson, and Baileys are pulsed together to create the Wake Up Call, perhaps what might occur if Dunkin Donuts Coolata-fied a perfectly creamy Irish coffee. There is also a kick in the stomach called Grandma’s Treat, made with vanilla ice cream, Makers Mark, and caramel. The strongest of the bunch, it has the flavor of overcooked caramel, but instead of the charcoal burn end note, there is only the burn of whiskey in your gullet. Finally, there is the dark horse, The Shocker. With vanilla ice cream, vanilla Stolichnaya, and Oreos, it’s only defining feature is that it tastes most like a milkshake from your childhood, which perhaps makes it the most dangerous.
Feeling pretty emboldened thanks to all those whiskeys, we kissed the moderately fancy burger joint goodbye, shouting over our shoulders, “I can tell your whipped cream comes out of a can!”
Act 2, Brooklyn Bowl
I don’t know. Maybe it’s that blend of booze and dairy, but somewhere on the L train, one of our comrades had to drop out. Look, if you’re lactose intolerant, perhaps your shouldn’t agree to drink all these goddamn milkshakes with me. Regardless, the rest of the gang made it to Williamsburg at the Brooklyn Bowl doorstep–the best combination bowling alley/music venue/dive bar/Blue Ribbon restaurant in all the land! I ordered the Bourbon Street, which unsurprisingly consists of bourbon, vanilla ice cream, and Nutella.
So like, wow, you’d think, after all that whiskey earlier in the evening, the alcohol sting would have worn off, but with the firs sip, the bourbon zips straight to the fingertips. And, you’d think, as the ‘shake goes on, your frazzled taste buds would get used to the flavor, but no. Each gulp gives the squisky pucker face that comes with one’s first shot of Bacardi Razz (don’t judge) junior year of high school. It creates a confusing blend of youthful associations—the innocence of a creamy childish dessert and the stupidity of mixing booze (i.e. bourbon, Bacardi Razz) with something too sweet (i.e. Nutella, Cherry Koolaid).
Act 3, VanDaag
The nausea has set in. Why did I leave Manhattan for Brooklyn only to take a vcoluntary trip back on the L? Let’s not rehashe the details. The point is VanDaag is mad classy, so naturally their Bergamot Ice Cream Float is upscale and real adult-like. It combines bergamot ice cream, genever, Cointreau, vanilla, and spa[rkling wine. What the hell is genever? Wikipedia sahys something like a juniper-based cousin of gin. I like gin.That’s cool. I think.
My diningpartner (oh, right–we lost one more on that return from Williamsburg) says, “That thing’s got balls.” Which, yes, but I also think it tatses rather feminine. It is a Creamcicle for grown-ups, herbal and citrusy. It is a consumable version of a hand lotion my mom might have bought from Bed Bath and byond. I mean the Bath Shop, or the Body Shoop or whatever.
At the end of the evening, we are two remaining on a journey to Oz. (Was that really my original metaphor? God.) I stire the contents of my dish into a dessert soup. “What was Oz, really?” sayts the Scarecrow. “Like ona metaphorical level?” I am reassured that I am not the only one intoxicated on a weekday (woops). Oh oh oh oh oh, rainbows and stuff. This was the goal right? Drunfk? Yes. I try not to think about the fact that an ice cream flaot isn’t technically a milkshake. I try not to think about the spinss. I try to think of home. There’s no place like it? We stumble out of the restaurant and a cab arrives at the corner. Click your heels, babe, let’s go let’s go let’s go