It’s been a while since I mentioned my friend Radicchio R. Peggio, Jr., known as Raddy, but we’ve been in touch and in fact, it was his SuperBowl party Guido and I attended yesterday at Bingo Arms, his Wilton Manors luxury condo.
Raddy is an ethnic Eye-Tie and a British national who doesn’t care about football, so I am a bit surprised, especially when he tells me to arrive early. “Don’t worry about losing time in the sun,” he tells me, reading my mind. “I have it set up for outdoors as well as in.”
So Guido and I get there at 3. In the rain, by the way. So much for the sun.
Raddy is a charming host and he’s delighted to see us because (a) “your beautiful wife transforms my dreary dwelling into a glamorous ballroom,” and (b) “you need to help me select the right tequila for the drinks I will mix this evening.”
Raddy – it’s 3:00. If I start on tequila now, I’ll be as shitfaced and incoherent as Charlie Sheen at his press conference, and not nearly as good looking.
“Nonsense,” he dismisses me. “Just taste, a sip of each.” He takes me by the arm and leads me to the bar where he has set up, no lie, 2 dozen bottles of Blue Agave Nectar, including Partida and Revolucion, my favorites. Also – and this is from very unreliable memory – Patron, Casta, Don Julio, Cabo Wabo, Los Valores, Ora de Alisco, Heradura, Tres Mujeres, and Voodoo Tiki Tequila.
“See you tomorrow,” says Guido.
I have a will of iron and a strong set of principles. I do not drink tequila during the week at all, or before 5:00 on weekends and holidays. But we know the answer to the 5:00 issue, and my iron will has some serious rusting in the tequila department.
So off we go. I tell him straight off that most of the brands are marvelous for sipping, and that mixing them with anything at all is a waste. (That doesn’t stop me from sampling.) We settle on Cabo Wabo Reposado; it’s 100% agave (as are they all) but its flavor and texture are less apparent when combined, and will allow the mixed drink’s flavor to prevail, which is what he’s after. “It will be for my younger friends,” he explains, “who like sweeter drinks.”
“Bimbos,” Guido deduces. Accurately. Two hours later, when guests begin to arrive, exchange greetings, then wander out to the pool and strip down, I see that Raddy is indeed his father’s lecherous son – one of alleged many scattered all over northern Europe but the only one the old philanderer ever owned up to.
Raddy’s a star, happily mixing and serving and ever-so-subtly grabbing asses while I groggily retreat to a table, nursing a shot of something, I forget. In no time at all, the sun goes down, the game begins………and the next thing I remember Guido is driving us home.
Did I have a good time?
“Sure,” says Guido. “You love late afternoon naps, remember?”
Who won the game?
“The one in the pool, or the one on the field?” she asks. “Wait ‘til tomorrow. If I tell you now you won’t remember anyway. You probably don’t remember the nude dancing during the Black Eyed Peas concert, either.”
Holy shit. No. Dammit. Did you dance with ‘em?
Guido just smiles. “Great tequila, wasn’t it?”