The greenish color and the smell of hay bring to mind the kind of herbal infusions you’d get at a spa, and the taste is so sharp and bracing that it feels like an energy drink. Yes, an energy drink! You feel strong and vigorous as you down one shot after another. You’re delighted with everyone, but most of all with yourself, your witty, charming, quirky self, and you believe that everyone else is just as impressed by you as you are, until you suddenly realize that you’re so drunk you can’t fully control yourself—your movements, or your words, or that crazy laughter that makes your mouth twist and your eyes water—and your whole body convulses and you splash the drink all over your plate, your knees, and your chest. And then you realize that this isn’t that big a party, that there are only five seemingly respectable middle-aged adults at the table in this neat Upper West Side apartment, that your husband, Mark, is staring at you in horror, and that his friend Sergey is red in the face, because your charming, witty self has been mocking and abusing him for the past two hours. The hosts are trying their best to look away, even though they are almost as drunk as you are.
The only remedy for this is, of course, more horseradish vodka, but God help you if you find that the bottle is empty.
“Are we all out?” Helena asked, taking the empty bottle from me and shaking it with great force, as if shaking could magically refill it.
This story is from the September 11, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the September 11, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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