There are many ways to open a
quarter. There is only way, however, to do it right. Upon receiving your
quarter from the barman, you don’t go at it like a horny teenager. First, you
place it on the makeshift 6-inch-wide shelf that extends across three walls of
the bar you are in, admiring its imposing miniature beauty in the dense miasma
of cigarette smoke and McDowell’s brandy fumes. Pay attention to the label that
extends over the side of neck and over the tin cap. It must be removed slowly,
without leaving a trace of clingy, sticky, gluey paper. The labels may be
collected for purposes of documentation and general recreational purposes.
Grab the neck like you would a stick or a tennis racket, curling all your fingers over and around the top of the quart. Then in a quick motion, position it such that the base of the quart is pointing upward in a slight slant away from you. Bring up your elbow from the other hand and thrust the bottom of the quart towards your elbow in an upward motion. The proceeding ‘thwack’ of the base of the quart hitting your elbow must resound across the room. This can be done just once, no more, no less. Return to the original tennis racket position and grip the bottom of the quart with your other hand. It is time for the twist and release. Reposition your fingers on the top of the quart to ensure maximum twist capability with one quick motion. Remember, all tin caps on quarts and pet bottles have a serious design flaw. They can never be removed by just twisting for the groves on the bottle don’t grip the cap at all. They have to be twisted, yanked and pulled at the same time. You have only one chance to do this right, so be ready. In one quick motion, tighten your grip around the cap, twist your wrist and pull at the same time. The cap should give with a satisfying “ccrrr!”, the sound of the cap getting ripped off its tethers. If you’ve done this right, your quart is ready for pouring. If you’ve done this wrong, you’re going to have to do it again, but you’ve already ruined the moment. Ruin it more by daintily trying to unscrew the cap with the tips of your fingers like the ball-less idiot that you are.
Pouring a quart is an art. It must not be poured, like a bubble-free stream, more like glugged, like a raging waterfall. Collapsing and tumultuously crashing against the side of your glass until an arithmetically perfect volume of 60 ml has been poured. Allow it to settle, its glacial viscosity sliding back slowly into an amber sea, a Nat Geo moment if there ever was one. Ice is for wankers, destroying the moment with constant clinking and making for an unnecessary oral obstacle. Your soda, that should be chilled and your water, room temperature to push back the initial gag from the spirit distilled somewhere near Bellary, a dubious whiskey that has never known the love of grain, only the jizz of molasses shovelled into a large pit, bubbling like tar that killed the dinosaurs, and you, want to respect this with ice and a crystal bowl of candied pecan nuts, you must be fucking crazy.
The first sip is critical. “It has to hit the throat, bob!”. A large swig, preferably 3 quarters of the glass. Allow the throat to constrict around the oesophagus, it shall not escape despite its nastiness. You may lift up your clenched fist to your mouth to block the oral cavity until it clears the passage. You’re done. Savour the moment. Blow out a victorious “Whooo!” allowing the fumes to meander out through your nostrils. The warmth of a thousand puppies and the taste of a pickled dog’s ass. You are alive.
A quarter can always be shared. But there is nothing better than a quarter that is your own. Kept on the side or in your pocket or in your bike glove compartment for that perfect moment. And there are many. Perfect moments. Moments that deserve a quart.
Grab the neck like you would a stick or a tennis racket, curling all your fingers over and around the top of the quart. Then in a quick motion, position it such that the base of the quart is pointing upward in a slight slant away from you. Bring up your elbow from the other hand and thrust the bottom of the quart towards your elbow in an upward motion. The proceeding ‘thwack’ of the base of the quart hitting your elbow must resound across the room. This can be done just once, no more, no less. Return to the original tennis racket position and grip the bottom of the quart with your other hand. It is time for the twist and release. Reposition your fingers on the top of the quart to ensure maximum twist capability with one quick motion. Remember, all tin caps on quarts and pet bottles have a serious design flaw. They can never be removed by just twisting for the groves on the bottle don’t grip the cap at all. They have to be twisted, yanked and pulled at the same time. You have only one chance to do this right, so be ready. In one quick motion, tighten your grip around the cap, twist your wrist and pull at the same time. The cap should give with a satisfying “ccrrr!”, the sound of the cap getting ripped off its tethers. If you’ve done this right, your quart is ready for pouring. If you’ve done this wrong, you’re going to have to do it again, but you’ve already ruined the moment. Ruin it more by daintily trying to unscrew the cap with the tips of your fingers like the ball-less idiot that you are.
Pouring a quart is an art. It must not be poured, like a bubble-free stream, more like glugged, like a raging waterfall. Collapsing and tumultuously crashing against the side of your glass until an arithmetically perfect volume of 60 ml has been poured. Allow it to settle, its glacial viscosity sliding back slowly into an amber sea, a Nat Geo moment if there ever was one. Ice is for wankers, destroying the moment with constant clinking and making for an unnecessary oral obstacle. Your soda, that should be chilled and your water, room temperature to push back the initial gag from the spirit distilled somewhere near Bellary, a dubious whiskey that has never known the love of grain, only the jizz of molasses shovelled into a large pit, bubbling like tar that killed the dinosaurs, and you, want to respect this with ice and a crystal bowl of candied pecan nuts, you must be fucking crazy.
The first sip is critical. “It has to hit the throat, bob!”. A large swig, preferably 3 quarters of the glass. Allow the throat to constrict around the oesophagus, it shall not escape despite its nastiness. You may lift up your clenched fist to your mouth to block the oral cavity until it clears the passage. You’re done. Savour the moment. Blow out a victorious “Whooo!” allowing the fumes to meander out through your nostrils. The warmth of a thousand puppies and the taste of a pickled dog’s ass. You are alive.
A quarter can always be shared. But there is nothing better than a quarter that is your own. Kept on the side or in your pocket or in your bike glove compartment for that perfect moment. And there are many. Perfect moments. Moments that deserve a quart.
Or is it a quart that deserves
a moment. I guess we’ll never know.
P.S.: There was one-taraa special rain in Bangalore this Saturday that deserved a tasty quart. And none of that tetra-pack crap, for god's sake. What's this world coming to!
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