My Favourite Part

36(a): tamagozake

I wouldn't really call myself a big drinker. Although, I suppose no 'big drinker' would.

I tried to be, once. Cara's dad took the three of us on a road trip to Dad's for the weekend, and he and Dad made sure to give us their sceptical eyes and strict instructions to stay away from the alcohol. Naturally, when they popped out for a late dinner, our first and only order of business was to steal Dad's key and sneak into the pub.

At 14, we all read too much and listened too little, and the misdirected wannabe artist in me was convinced that taking a couple of swigs of the bitter stuff would be the key to my awakening.

"Y'know, Sartre did some of his best stuff on amphetamines," I'd said, unlocking the door as if I had a clue what I was on about, "and Stephen King was coked out of his mind for, like, half his career."

Babe suggested we drink spritzers, because her Mum said those tasted like squash, but I couldn't find a bottle that said 'spritzers' on the front, so Caz picked up the one that said 'Smirnoff' instead, since they sounded sort of similar.

As it happened, it didn't taste much like squash at all.

Covering our mouths to muffle the sound of our hacking and gagging on the taste of sour nail polish remover, it occurred to us that spritzers and Smirnoff must have been different things entirely.

Dad figured it all out during a bottle check the next morning, and after he delivered a lengthy lecture sorely lacking in self-awareness, I asked him why alcohol tasted so bad.

He laughed; he never could stay mad with me for long. Dad was always something of a god to us, but Mum always said that Auggie and me would always be his Achilles' heel.

"People don't always drink because it tastes good, Tangerine."

"Well why else would they drink this stuff?"

"Because it makes them feel good."

Squinting now as I scan a menu of drinks I don't recognise, somehow I doubt Dad would approve, but by God I need a bit of feel-good tonight.

"Hi," I smile, "could I please get a, um, Tama- Tagam-"

I'm trying to say 'Tamagozake' if I ever get the bloody word out. I picked it because the menu says it's sugary, and the name kind of reminds me of Tamagotchi, but when I look closer, I spot 'raw eggs yolks' inconspicuously hidden in the ingredients list, and I cut myself off like I've accidentally uttered a hex.

"Sorry," I blink at the menu, "is there really raw egg yolk in that?" I must look a proper fool, because the barman laughs at me outright.

Just as I'm about to throw in the towel and ask for water, I meet his dark eyes.

"Hey!"

The 'dishy' black-eyed waiter is looking at me amusedly, towelling down the inside of a glass. Except, his eyes aren't really black - his mop-messy hair is, and under the low lights, his hazel eyes look it too. I like his hair.

He smiles back, and his not-so-dark eyes sparkle when I recognise him.

"Tamagozake. The yolks make it creamy. You a picky drinker?" His voice is richer when he's speaking in semi-full sentences; gruffer. I scrunch my nose. Being picky is one thing - admitting it is another.

"Alright," he laughs, "different question. Berry or citrus?"

"Citrus?" I say it like a question, with a brow raised, and, mocking me, he raises one too.

"Spicy or sweet?"

"Sweet..."

"And how strong?" Finally, something I'm sure of.