Plantation, Makati, Monday night, and we were trying to decide on a drink other than beer. "Try the Angel's Breath," said the aging waitress, as she shifted from foot to stockinged foot. We stared down at the drinks list. It wasn't there. She disappears for a bit and returns, happier. "Sorry, I meant the Dragon's Breath." That sounded a little more promising, until she widened her eyes at us and whispered conspiratorially, "We set it on fire."
Now I've had flaming shots before, the most memorable of which was the Burn Bugsy's Burn from, well, Bugsy's. Distracted by the overwhelming fireball that appeared when the shot was dusted with cinnamon, I missed out inhaling the fumes given off by the lit sambuca, disappointing the waiter who took the trouble of trapping them for me. There was also the catastrophic merriment in Boracay, where I left the straw in the shot glass for too long, and failed miserably to finish my drink of melted plastic.
"We pour the liquor into the glass," our Plantation waitress was saying, "and set it on fire as it falls." My companion was listening intently but asking me silently with his eyes if we were down for this. "Whoosh," whispered our waitress, her fingers blooming in front of her like the fireball we were promised. I looked back down at the drinks list and considered the pain level I was ready to handle.
I knew that if I said yes to Dragon's Breath, my drinking buddy would order one too, because that's what drinking buddies are for. Other than swatting at your burning bangs, drinking buddies mark your pace, and ordering the same drink, especially if its a fire hazard, is the truest sign of solidarity.
Yet what you order together also says something about the both of you. Beer is the easiest, because it's so damn chill. A shared bottle of whiskey says we're going to talk a little but drink lots more. Shots say, "fuck the party; let's get each other drunk and home." Flaming shots say something else entirely. Look at us, playing with fire.
You see, flaming shots are the favorite of the show-off, the party animal, the table that wants everyone to turn and look. It's not just the spectacle of a sudden blaze in a dark bar; it's an obvious metaphor for a quick and flashy performance that ends too damn quickly.
"Try niyo," said the waitress again. It was obviously a bar favorite. I looked over at him. He was humming thoughtfully, looking at me, ready to be burned. But I wasn't. I handed the waitress the bar list and ordered two green apple martinis, which turned out to be absolutely delicious.
Then again, if you were expecting ashes in the first place, you can hardly be disappointed by whatever else is served.
