The history of social drinking is full of dare drinks, glasses you drain to prove your mettle, knowing full well that you may end up wincing or even ill. Most of the layered shots that came out of the 1980s and ‘90s were basically dare drinks. Mezcal, now widely revered, was a dare drink back in the days when the entire category was represented in the United States by a single dusty bottle with a worm in it. Malort, the exceedingly bitter wormwood liqueur that is popular in Chicago, continues today its decades-long reign as a dare drink.
And then there are those drinks that are dares only by virtue of their context. Among these we can number the airport cocktail. Airports live in a sort of moral limbo. You are in a temporal middle ground, off the leash of polite society, and all bets are off in terms of drinking. You can drink whatever you want, whenever you want.
But, of course, one uses common sense. Most frequent flyers order beer and wine or straight spirits, finished products that need only be poured into a glass. If one desires a mixed drink, there are a few relatively safe bets, including the Bloody Mary and Gin & Tonic, which are relatively easy builds. Beyond that, it’s best not to venture.
I know this, because venture I have. For years now, I have taken my life into my own hands by regularly ordering what I call an Airport Martini before nearly
