My curriculum for alcoholic enrichment turned to beer recently, specifically how to chug down the foul grog while appearing to enjoy it, and I have findings for you, dear reader, deep insights borne from a need to imbibe, rather than a desire to do so. Lesson One of my education delved into the world of cocktails, and I’ve emerged with a basic vocabulary: mojitos are the reliable standby, with Vodka Red Bulls on backup for barkeeps who refuse to stock their wares with frickin’ mint leaves.
Certainly I could expand my portfolio further, but I think I’m in a good place. Sangria? Gross. Jack and Coke? Hold the Jack. Bloody Mary? But I don’t even know her. No, I’m content with the Mo-Vo setup, and I must now turn to more bitter beverages. There are times, I believe, when ordering a mojito makes me seem like a little bitch. This is what I’m trying to remedy. You may interject at this point about sticking to my guns and disregarding what other people think, but we’re talking about alcohol here. Social lubricants, as it were. And when we’re talking about society, people–and what people think–are at the very heart of the matter.
Beer has always struck me as a soda gone bad, though this doesn’t change its status as the everyman’s drink. Whereas a mojito is comparatively high-maintenance, like a cat, beer is like a dog you never have to feed or take on walks. Mainly because it poos on the carpet, then eats the poo, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve found that by spinning the beer-as-rotted-soda thought into a full-fledged narrative, I’m able to trick myself into consuming bottles of the vile brew. Tonight, for instance, a whole Bud Light went down the hatch when I told myself the earth’s supply of Sprite had magically fermented. This packaged swill was the only thing left in the whole wide world. And for 12 grim ounces, this was exactly what came to pass.
The depths to which my culinary abilities are capable of sinking have been well documented, to be sure, but tonight I submit to the jury that redemption is possible, even now. My newfound resolve stems more from boredom than anything else, because pasta can only satisfy for so long until you wish to transcend it. Here’s my plan of escape, starting with some stipulations.
I will only use the kitchen equipment I currently possess: oven, stovetop, pot, pan, and a tomato knife. The prospect of purchasing a blender, toaster, measuring spoons, baking trays, mixing bowls, and all that other shit isn’t remotely appealing. The initial focus will be solely on sandwiches, and I assure you it will be a narrow reading on the subject. That means no wraps and unequivocally no panini, but more on this later. We’re talking good old-fashioned bread, hot or cold. So it is written, so shall it be done, and if the Earl is somehow reading this, know that whether you actually invented the sandwich matters not. You’re about to get served.
Certainly taste will be a key criterion. Texture, though, will be equally important. It’s the feel of the sandwich–its heft, how its ingredients are layered, the full sensorial experience. And it’s got to be honest as well. Allow me to illustrate. I saw someone walk out of the supermarket the other day, carton of soy milk in hand, and I marveled over why I never asked myself one simple question: How exactly do you milk a soybean? Precisely. You can’t. It’s unnatural. Suspect. Panini, much along the same lines, just seem untrustworthy. They’re slight. Unctuous. In the wide world of food, I imagine they sport handlebar mustaches, wear frilly button-down shirts, and need to be punched in their faces.
Taste and texture won’t be enough, however. I’ll need sage guidance, and to this end I’m looking to Martha Stewart and her trove of recipes. It’s the persona. You just know she could simultaneously design a fantastic meal and architect your grisly demise in some darkened alleyway before the crème’s even been brûlèe’d, all the while wearing that inscrutable demeanor. The stint in prison merely seals the deal. I bet she knows how to make a shiv! Like, a really nice-looking one. It’s that rare quadrant where homemade edged weaponry intersects with macramé, and the world may be better for it.
In what appears to be a living reenactment of M.C. Escher’s greatest works, I’ve been wracking my noggin recently for the ultimate brain teaser to deploy on job applicants. It’s a need that sprung out of an interview last week, when I endorsed a candidate in lavish, glowing terms, only to garner looks from both the Chief and Boss G normally reserved for adults who dribble all over themselves in a jungle gym connected to a McDonald’s. At, like, a Walmart.
Perhaps you’ve experienced this species of question firsthand: how many quarters would you need to stack to reach the height of the Empire State Building? How much did the Titanic weigh? How do you make funeral arrangements for a dozen mimes? All three are ridiculous, really, but let them simmer for a bit as you formulate your solutions. Okay! Time’s up. The answers, respectively:
“I don’t know, but if I had that many quarters, I wouldn’t be sitting in this goddamn interview.”
“Doesn’t make a shit of a difference because–guess what?–it sunk.”
“They’ve already locked themselves in invisible boxes. Just drape a tarp over them.”
You may have gathered, at this point, how much I loathe these types of questions. They’re insipid. Not because the topics themselves are boring, by any means, but because they seem irrelevant, possibly even a little irreverent, given the context. How many pins could you fit, say, into the head of an angel? Who knows? Who cares? Enough pins to attempt an answer compelling enough to earn a paycheck.
Understand, though, the inherent value of these questions–the ability to suss out how a candidate thinks–is what was revelatory lately. Whereas previously even the mere mention of such inquiries would’ve met a raised brow from me, along with an upturned nose, elevated pinky, and a hired chauffeur with his very own jar of Grey Poupon, I now realize why they exist.
There’s got to be another way to coax out a candidate’s thought process, however, and this brings us back to the task at hand: constructing a question both devious and classy. The contingencies will have to be considered, of course. What if I raised the mime issue and got the very answer we discussed earlier, word for word? I suppose I’d ask a follow-up question.
“Let’s pretend your interviewer had a blog you weren’t supposed to read or, even worse, quote in public. How would you make the situation less awkward?”
The best possible answer would be sitting in utter silence for the remaining 45 minutes.