by Ed Sikov
“Old Storrrr-my! Old Storrrr-my!” Craig was insufferable. But he was so perfectly Santana that I laughed despite myself. “Shut up!” I begged, but that only spurred him on.
All was not well. Last Sunday afternoon, Sammy blurted out something horrifically specific about my having shtupped Jack Fogg after the four of us – Jack, Sammy, Dan, and me – had spent a perfectly delightful French-sex-farce weekend together during which everyone but Dan knew about mon petit bout a derriere avec Jacques le Brouillard. Well, I suppose it wasn’t so delightful for Dan, who was humiliated. He packed up and left while I was still at the beach and drove home alone. (I respect his rage, and I’m totally at fault and all that, but couldn’t he at least have driven me back to the city?)
“I’m making the cocktails tonight,” Craig said after crowing the final syllable of the wretched “Stormy.” “It’s all the rage. Wanna know what it’s called?” This was obviously a set-up.
“What?” I spat.
“The Dark and Storrrr-my. Old Storrr-my!”
“Piss off,” I snarled and headed upstairs, inwardly marveling at his talent.
I’d actually had my first Dark and Stormy during the week at Bar Henry, a wonderful place on Houston Street in the Village. Jon, the hunky bartender (blond, cute, middle-weight wrestler’s body, frat-boy-turned-MBA-turned-chic-bar-investor, tragically straight), talked me into trying one. Made of dark rum and ginger beer, it wasn’t the sort of drink I usually order, but Jon swore by it, and since I was dazzled by the thick tuft of light blond hair poking out of his open collar, I tried one. It was perfect for a night of guilt, shame and solitude – spicy-sweet and refreshing, the ginger beer’s fizz cutting through the dark rum’s thickness.
I returned from my pout before dinner and made my own Dark and Stormy. Or two. Actually, four. I was plastered from the rum and bursting at the seams from all the ginger beer when Dan stomped in. “It’s my house, too,” he said without glancing in my direction and headed for the unoccupied guestroom off the kitchen. We call it the ABD – short for the Ann B. Davis Suite, in honor of Alice from “The Brady Bunch,” who lived in a similar place. (Question: If the man named Brady was an architect, why did all six kids have to share one bathroom?) He threw his briefcase and backpack on the ABD’s single bed and slammed the door.
Craig made dinner that night – fettucine Alfredo, two loaves of garlic bread, no vegetables and a giant-size bag of Oreos. Paolo and Chipper both gasped at the carbs-‘n’-fat menu but ate their share anyway. Dan was so theatrically wrathful that nobody dared talk. Just as Craig ripped open the Oreos, the sky opened too, and we were pounded by a frighteningly intense shoreline thunderstorm. You know you’re in big trouble when nature itself turns against you in a rage.
The Dark and Stormy
Lime wedge for garnish (optional)
Pour as much chilled ginger beer as you like into a glass with some ice cubes in it, then float the dark rum on top. Or, if you’re on the outs with your boyfriend, pour a large quantity of dark rum over ice and add a splash of ginger beer to the top.