A regression only if we are speaking alphabetically

Significant news, chaps. Steel yourselves. Faced with this beastly tropical heat, I have been finding myself disinclined to drink martinis. In fact, to lay it bare, gin without tonic and loads of ice is a bit much for me to handle in this dashed climate. I’ve ordered a couple of martinis along the way but they have all turned tepid far too quickly. As we all know, apart from a hefty dose of alcohol, there is very little to recommend a warm martini of any variety. With or without an olive, shaken or stirred, wet or dry, clean or dirty, no matter how you mix them, martinis should not be served at room temperature, nor should they be consumed at blood temperature.

I have instead developed quite a taste for the margarita, a drink far more suited to the climate. Until not so long ago, being a little suspicious of tequila, I had characterised margaritas as a drink most suitable for squeal-ridden hen’s nights and had openly scoffed at the concept of the pre-made margarita slushy as – forgive me – a plebeian drink. In my ignorance, I equated margaritas with shonky Tex-Mex paraphernalia and its symptoms: stodgy nachos, sombreros, cacti, paunchy blokes, gluey burritos, bad Mexican accents, the shedding of inhibitions better kept intact, frosted blondes, regrettable dance floor scenes induced by even more regrettable tequila slammers and so on. You all know what I’m talking about.

In spite of all this, at some point during 2006, I became interested in both tequila and margaritas; I found myself suddenly able to appreciate the glorious synergy of tequila, lemon, and salt. Wise and wizened as I am now, living the starspangled dream of my new Twenties, I find the margarita to be an excellent cocktail for the tropics. Gin Fizz, Gin Schmizz; Mai Tai, Schmai Tai. Tequila is tremendously enlivening; lemon girds the immune system and protects against scurvy; salt replenishes electrolytes shed all too easily in the heat.

I arrived in Vientiane after a mighty long bus trip and was overcome with the desire for a margarita, so much so that I darkened the doors of an establishment called, wait for it, Tex-Mex Alexia, in order to satisfy my craving. The proprietors were no doubt laughing on the inside when they named their bar after a CNS disorder that causes the loss of ability to read. Hmmm, I wondered, is that a cactus I see struggling to maintain its dignity on the bar, or is it some straggly indigenous succulent previously unknown to me? The exposed clay detail on the bar, no doubt designed to take me back to my adobe hacienda, was pasted on, not entirely successfully. Kenny and Dolly were singing to each other overhead. These, my friends, are the perils of being a single woman fixated on a single drink. You find yourself alone in very dodgy bars in cities like Vientiane where there is no-one to call for company. It wasn’t till after I’d ordered my drink that I realised that I was in what seemed to be a girly bar. By that, I mean that I was the only girl paying for her own drink, and indeed the only girl not getting paid. Sigh.

What I’m discovering, however, is that the margarita is a very forgiving drink. By that I mean when I drink them, I can forgive a scene as sketchy as Kellett Lane at four on a Sunday morning, I can forgive décor as appealing as the Broadway carpark, and I can forgive a barman even klutzier than I am. Unlike many cocktails, provided all the basic ingredients make their way into or onto the glass, margaritas are hard to mess up. If your margarita is a bit warm, the lemon and salt cool things down. If it comes with ice, the tequila can soak up the melt. If it’s too strong, balancing the glass is a nice distraction. If one ingredient is poured with a heavy hand, it’s no problem as both tequila and triple sec (or cointreau or blue curacao or whatever) are palatable enough straight. Even the dodgiest bars just fade into the backdrop as you consider the niceties of the margarita in the abstract and the niceness of the margarita in your hand. Once I find myself in a cooler climate possessed of more powerful refrigeration systems it is likely that I’ll return to the chilly embrace of the martini but for now, amigos guapitos, cansámos juntos, Viva! Viva La Margarita!