Slivovitz

June 9, 2004

"What is this stuff?" I asked, as I poked around Fee’s office.

"Oh that? That's some Serbian brandy. It's like a—" he struggled for a comparison. "Like a grappa or something."

"It looks homemade."

"It is. I got it from a client. Her father makes it. Try some."

The bottle was foggy with fingerprints, but still nearly full. I figured a lot of people had handled it out of curiosity, but never actually drank it. I pulled out the cork and took a whiff. "Holy shit. That stuff is nasty."

"Oh yeah, I know. It's like fucking paint thinner."

I took a shot glass from the shelf and poured a small dose and smelled it again. I had flashbacks to being in Florence with my friend Gregor, the time he and I were sitting in an Irish Pub in Florence, flirting with the gorgeous Italian bar tenders. An English guy who'd been eavesdropping on our nonsense introduced himself and bought us a round of grappa. "Cheers," we said. And after that, it all goes blank.

I handled the shot glass full of slivovica with some hesitation. "It's been nice knowing you," I said before finally taking a hit. My instant natural reaction was one of panic. I thought maybe I hadn't been paying attention and might've taken a shot of drain cleaner by mistake. I pulled the glass away from my mouth, picked up the bottle, and checked the label -- which was nothing more than a little scrap of paper affixed with scotch tape. The contents of my stomach slowly vaporized. My face caught on fire. And if I could remember anything after that, I'd tell you.