Damien Galeone

Sunday Waitress offers me a reverse nod on my way into the local pub for a post-writing beer. Before my rump is in the chair I am greeted with a beer and a Becherovka, proving why this local is a great post-writing locale.

I take down the Becherovka like place your favorite wildlife simile here and recline into the chair with a book of Ambrose Bierce stories.

The first Becherovka always tastes like 1.5 ounces of Christmas. Its flavor of herbs, cloves and cinnamon pierces like a tasty dart and spreads warmth throughout my chest and sternum. This warmth travels down my spine and nuzzles into my stomach like a well-fed kitten sleeping in the sun.

Sunday Waitress comes by and suggests a second Becherovka, and quite frankly it would be rude not to have one. The second one travels down the esophagus and joins the first in a liquid rendition of the tarantella. The second and first Becherovkas then work together to create a pleasing lightness in the stomach. This occasionally has a subsidiary zapping effect on the bowels.

I get into my book and listen to the rain hit the windows. Sunday Waitress comes back and as I nod assent to the third, I realize that she is somewhat cute in an ‘I have no major deformities’ kind of way.

And so, it has begun.

If absinthe’s spokesperson is a delicate and beautiful green fairy, then Becherovka’s is a one-eyed, peg-legged imp. The Absinthe fairy will lead you to realms of emotion and pleasure explored by Aldous Huxley, Van Gogh and the guys in Moulin Rouge. She incites creativity and passion.

The Becherovka Imp has mastered a cruel trade. He reawakens dormant Czech words and phrases and then tricks you into putting them to use. He is the instigator of silly conquests, condemned conversations and idiotic comments.

Sunday Waitress comes back and I order the fourth Becherovka, or as it is known in scientific circles, “the mistake Becherovka.”

After this one, the Becherovkas all begin circling my brain like angry dwarves in a Fellini film. They awake within me a spark of moronic inspiration and when Sunday Waitress returns I embark on a one-sided, lexically-advanced, grammatically-defunct discussion on the glories of a large-nosed woman. She squints at me in confusion for a while, but evidently gets the point and begins prodding her nose while barking an aggravated series of turkey-like squabbling. The extreme velocity of angry Czech being what it is, I can’t catch much except the occasional “Sakra” and “Ježíš Maria.”

Sunday Waitress then retreats into the back room amid a cloud of language best described as rhino-rage. Her co-worker presents my check when I pay an hour later. On my way out the door I remember why I only come to the pub once a week and why I often employ the apology tip.