Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about the lost weekend of John Lennon), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 96 Notes: Brandy Alexander Recipe and The Lost Weekend
Today we’re talking about the lost weekend of John Lennon and the history behind the Brandy Alexander, the drink John took down on that fateful night at the Troubadour Cafe in March of 1972.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
The Dutch Princess Alexander
The cream of her skin was a gift that women envied. She wasn’t hated though, like any other in her position. She found admiration. Honored for the loyalty she kept to a man who spent their entire marriage cheating on her. Grace in her modern, elegant dresses with plunging necklines and sparkling ruby necklaces. Respect for her humble roots, one of six children born to modest royalty. So modest that Alix shared a room with her sister growing up and waited tables at home, like any respectable woman of this generation.
Yes, Alix came to Wales from across the water, from the Netherlands, seeking love, and finding hardship, heartbreak, and hurt, everywhere she went. Even that didn’t stop Alix from remaining a woman of grace and elegance, though. It was these qualities that described a drink Alix resembled.
This smooth, elegant drink was soft on the pallet but hard on the drinker, as John found out almost a hundred years later.
John Lennon
Coincidentally, John was born in the same part of the world Alix immigrated to. They both moved for love too. But, very different types of love. The status they sought was the same, though, and both received what they were looking for in… revolutionary ways. They both taught the world something important too, ushering in moments that would change perception and culture.
John was in California. It was March of 1974. John wasn’t much of a drinker, but the last 8 months had been hard on John. As if the crushing burden of fame wasn’t enough, John endured many separations. One of the band. One with his love. The road that got him here was not smooth and graceful, not at all. Which, probably was why he turned an elegant drink into something gritty and nasty. It was mixed with drugs. Heavy partying. Despair manifested in ways that are obvious to everyone but the depressed in the moment.
And so when John saddled up at this famous California bar, back when California was cool, with Harry, he slammed down several of these drinks.
How did we get here?
Let’s go way back. Back before John. Back before he came to the United States. Back to Wales in 1868.
As is usually the case, life peaks and suffers with women. It should be no surprise to us, then that the drink which came to be synonymous with the grace and poise of Alix in the late 1890’s would also become something dirty and sloppy under the direction of a man.
Still, neither are praised or condemned, for there were other factors here too. They were products of their times, which, like everyone that has ever existed makes them excusable, to some degree.
Alix married royalty. She was royalty too. But, minor royalty. Which might be what made her so grounded. It contributed to the social causes she became involved in.
At first she tried to get involved in politics. But, she was denied. Then she tried to get the King to support the Netherlands, her home country, and Greece, her brother was a king there. Those efforts too got denied.
It became clear to Alix that if she was to contribute something to the world, she would need to take a different path. So, she moved outside herself.
Instead of trying to influence things that affected her directly, she sought to fill a need greater than her own.
And this was when she did her greatest work. Which is also when she shined the brightest and became immortalized in that drink which bears her name today. She turned into a symbol of elegance, grace, love, and kindness.
In contrast, for a moment, when John stopped contributing to the world with his creative gifts, when he went inward, when he focused on drugs, and fun, and alcohol, he hit the lowest point in his life.
He sought to serve the master of himself and became slave to his own decline. This period of his life was certainly one of the darkest, punctuated by that famous night everything collapsed.
Is there a lesson here?
Maybe.
It’s harder for the world to be a darker place when others are counting on you. I know that.
Just like it’s easier to go into darkness when you’re fixated only on yourself.
Alix spread her gifts outward. She founded a charity that seeks to help the poor of London. Over a hundred years later it’s still going strong. She lost one of her sons. This made her champion nursing reform and hospital visits.
At this point she was Queen. After serving as the longest Princess of Wales in history, she served as queen for almost a decade, until her husband’s death. During this time, her legacy had been cemented.
Across the pond, in America, in New York, people even knew her by reputation alone. And it was this reputation that inspired bartenders to name a drink after her. It was a drink favored by elites like the ones she mingled with. It was creamy and decadent, matching her refined image. Duty and charm. And the drink became glamour and escapism.
It was the latter, escapism, that John clung to while in California.
The Lost Weekend
Now, John was never much of a drinker. He preferred other things. Hard drugs. This was the rock and roll lifestyle, after all.
It was Harry that introduced him to the drink, and he couldn’t get enough. John was out that night with Harry and May. They were listening to music. John was too drunkj to be of any use to anyone. It was one of those nights he just needed to go home and go to bed. Restart the day tomorrow. Try to do better. But, he didn’t.
He became belligerent. He wore a tampon on his head. He eventually got kicked out for heckling. Oh, so not the image of grace and charm, in this one.
But, it marked an interesting moment in history, and shaped the future of stardom.
This period changed the way tabloids were written moving forward. But, it also pulled back the veil into the raw side of rock. The cost of fame. The price of creativity. The fine line between addiction and destruction and brilliance.
Creative geniuses always flirt with this line. They need to enter the scum of the world, sink down into the depths of the worst things about being human so that they can write, sing, paint works that touch our souls. The best art has at least some hint of darkness in it, or understands darkness enough to avoid it.
And along with this lesson on creativity and rock, was also the lesson of being a celebrity. For one of the first times we saw a meltdown of epic proportions by someone we believed was larger than life. Our idol had fallen.
Today, it’s so common place, we don’t think twice about it. The stars seem to fall as fast as they rise, these days. But, back then, they were falling in private. They were a front page obituary noting Elvis was dead. They were a fading into obscurity, a page three, one hundred word blotter.
But, this publicity, shocking.
Although none of us blamed him for it.
We just felt a little bit different about him.
He was humanized.
He was no longer a God.
He made mistakes.
He battled depression and loss.
He struggled with his identity.
He was one of us.
He was lost.
When John finally pulled himself out of his drug and alcohol induced stupor he found that 18 months had passed.
He returned to New York.
He reconnected with Yoko Ono.
He had another child less than a year later.
And, until his death, he found a new place in the spotlight and history, one away from the Beatles, one where he was able to imagine the world, once and for all, filled with all the people living for today.
No hell below us.
Above us only sky.
John was a dreamer.
So too was Alix. In fact, I think it was probably one of the few things that kept her so full of grace.
She had battled sickness, a cheating husband, death of a child, sexism… and faced it all with enduring grace.
So much grace that bartenders in New York took it upon themselves to name a new drink after her.
A drink that went down smooth. That made you smile. That felt like joy.
A drink that John Lennon fell in love with.
The drink named after Alix, also known as Princess Alexandra of Denmark.
Brandy Alexander Recipe
1 ounce (30 ml) brandy or cognac
1 ounce (30 ml) dark crème de cacao
1 ounce (30 ml) heavy cream
Freshly grated nutmeg for garnish
Grace, vulnerability, royalty and fame. The stuff of two people separated by almost a hundred years, and connected by a drink – a brandy alexander recipe- that they both used in different ways. One to exude her grace. The other to explore the underbelly of Rock and Roll at the Troubadour Club in California in 1972.
Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about the Caipirinha drink), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 90 Notes: Caipirinha and 1850’s Rio de Janeiro
Step into the steamy, sugarcane-soaked plains of 1850s Rio de Janeiro, where a boy-king, Dom Pedro II, wears a crown haunted by his father’s sudden death. At 25, he faces a deadly outbreak threatening his empire and his beloved Empress Teresa.
A folk remedy crafted by an enslaved healer wielding Africa’s ancient secrets and a freedman with a dark past might be the answer to their problems.
Will Maria’s forbidden knowledge save Teresa, or will Dom’s grief burn them all? Uncover a tale of betrayal, forbidden medicine, and a drink born from loss—cachaça’s legacy, the caipirinha. Tune in to explore how a child king’s pain reshaped Brazil, forging progress from the ashes of smallpox and slavery’s end, and set the stage for a global cocktail.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
The Rise of a Boy King In Rio
Dom’s rise to power was sudden and violent, not at all the way he wanted or expected to gain power. Because, after all, what 6 year old would wish for his father’s death so he could become king?
No, at that age, a child cares about toys and boy things, back when boys were boys. He wanted to run and play. All children deserve that bubble of innocence that comes with youth. What Dom did not want was to become the king of a country. What does a child need with secretaries, military generals, treasurers, or councils?
It’s easy to look at the world today and think that our upbringing and the way we raise kids now set the standard. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. For most of human history, situations like Dom’s were more common than not. Many kids had few memories of their parents. Life was harder, and by harder I mean the threat of death was greater than it is now. Today, life might be harder in certain ways, but at least you’re alive longer.
Which is why the death of his father at a young age didn’t make Dom exceptional.
But he was a polymath. And fluent in many languages. Both of which today are a bit more rare. These things, plus his love of the arts, of science and medicine, and progress, made him capable of handling things like the smallpox rise of the 1850s with more competency than others.
Smallpox Attack
It wasn’t exactly an epidemic that struck Rio de Janeiro in the 1850s. During this time, young Dom ruled the Brazilian Empire in his mid-twenties. He was still young and inexperienced. And the severity of the small pox outbreak made Dom wake often in a cold sweat, reliving the horrors of his youth.
The tragedies of the father weigh heavy, and the death of Dom’s father from smallpox fifteen years before, brought up all those old, familiar feelings of loss and sadness.
How many more would lose their fathers and mothers due to small pox, and had he worked hard enough to create the right conditions to stop the spread of the disease?
Dom had his doubts.
He’d tried. But what could a 25 year old do? What can any of us do against human nature?
You see, it was only a year prior, in 1850, when slavery in Brazil came to an end. African Americans had sold their own people to more of their people and to Europeans in Brazil. Someone needed to work the fields of sugar cane and coffee plantations. They needed house servants. Dock workers and street vendors, too.
People often feel overwhelmed by the culture and situations of their times. They’ve wondered how they could make a difference in this vast system. Or how they can change things for the better. They want to make a difference and live out their motivations for a better world. Such is the energy and purity of youth, unsullied by the realities of time and age.
It was this youth that led Dom to push for the end of slavery, which happened. But the end of slavery didn’t mean an immediate end to slavery-like conditions. And many still lived in cramped conditions, struggling with poverty and rampant disease.
African American Witch Doctors
Diseases like smallpox, which women like Maria were fighting in their own way. Maria’s way, as a witch doctor, with a drink that boosted immunity.
The conviction of the woman was the only reason Dom had allowed Domingo to undertake the journey. He would try anything to save Teresa. She was a saint. She caught smallpox while working in the crowded slums of Rio de Janeiro. There, she fed and cared for the poor.
Dom felt hit hard by her illness. It stirred up old emotions from his father’s death. Many of those feelings had never seen the light of day. They were buried deep within the husk of the little boy still living inside Dom.
He had his own doctors working. But, he also needed the drink. They were taking the spirit and using that already, applying it to clean her sores. They said that the chance of permanent scarring was less if they kept the affected areas clean.
Teresa said it burned when they applied it. It must have, because she squeezed his hand hard any time they dabbed the spirit on her open sores. They turned fire red and swollen, but seemed to subside in the days that followed.
Dom, at this point, had departed the city of Rio with his wife. They had no kids, and she was all he had. He couldn’t lose her too.
Which is why Dom was determined to try everything. Including asking Maria for help. Especially when her condition worsened.
Maria was a second-generation slave. She was born into the trade. A house servant. Working for a wealthy Portuguese shipping merchant. Her life, by many standards, had been good so far. Sure, she wasn’t free. But, the merchant took care of her decently well. Better than most. She was spared the cramped quarters that many others were forced to endure.
Her perspective on medicine changed when they vaccinated her with a cowpox vaccine. She got sick and threw up for days. Her arm swelled up, turning tender and bright red.
When she recovered, she began sneaking into the library at night and reading books. Knowledge posed a danger for a slave, and she had never acquired the ability to read. Which is why she looked at the pictures more than red. But, it was that way of learning that helped her identify plants. From there, she began listening to the old men, her father’s uncles. Her father was killed several years prior.
They taught her the old ways of Africa. Of ancient medicines from plants. Herbs that could save. Herbs that could kill. And within the leaves and flowers of nature, Maria developed the only power she ever had in the world: the power to heal or hurt.
This power gave Maria an identity that slavery could not take away. Whatever she might be within the house of her master, she was something different outside the house. After they abolished slavery, Maria could finally use her power for more than just healing the sick and injured in her community.
But, to her sadness, she discovered that the end of slavery was only the beginning of freedom. The beginning, as one often learns, is only the first steps on a very long journey. That was a hard lesson Maria learned. The plants couldn’t teach her about human nature and life.
King Dom summoned her without warning. But she rushed to his aid, feeling it was a great honor. Perhaps, times were finally changing, she thought, as she let the royal guards escort her back to the vacation home of Dom Pedro II.
She had never met the king in person, not even seen his face before. But he was younger than she was. She marveled that a boy should have so much influence on the world because, to her, Brazil was the world.
He took her to his wife, who lay in a bed, covered in sores. “Smallpox,” he said, tears brimming in his eyes. “Can you help?” he asked.
Help, she thought. Stunned by the request. What could a simple girl like her do to help a great king and his queen? She said she would try, but she needed some ingredients. With the snap of his fingers, Dom demanded the vendor.
He arrived in chains that clanked with every step.
Domingo, the thief, King Dom said, “It’s time for you to earn your freedom.” Dom held out a tiny ruby. “My guards will be going with you.”
Domingo looked from María to the king to the woman in bed. He nodded and held out his shackled hands to the guard, who unlocked them.
Hours later, Domingo was walking through small farms in Campos, searching for what he needed. Two guards with swords and leather armor were following him. For a second, he contemplated running. He had the small ruby. He could live a good life with the money he made from selling it.
But also one ingredient for his freedom. It was an ingredient so rare that he considered, as he walked, whether the punishment fit the crime. After all, all he’d done was try to sell things on the street.
The Hunt For A Rare Lime
The fruit he sought was rare: Citrus Limonia. The rangpur lime. The mandarin lime. The Cravo lime. It had many names.
It was rare and expensive. Which is why the elites were the only ones who used it, consuming it as a delicacy or for medicinal purposes. In this case, the medicine woman had requested it to save the woman dying in the bed. He didn’t know who she was, and it didn’t matter. She was his ticket to freedom.
Domingo grew up as a free man. Being African American in 1820s Brazil was like being a slave. The only distinction was the master. Instead of another owning him, poverty enslaved him. Destitution forced him to make a living any way that he could. Generally, that meant being a street vendor selling things to the wealthy. One of the things he sometimes sold was the mandarin lime.
When he could find it, of course. Because it was as rare as it was tasty. It’s a unique blend of sweet and tart, and usually only grown in private gardens.
The one time Domingo got his hands on some, he had to sneak into a back garden and steal them. He had cut open his leg when escaping, the wound getting infected. He still felt the weight of his sin. Today, he walked with a limp. They had to scoop out a piece of flesh from his leg to save it.
Campos was soggy, poorly draining farmland that spread flat for as far as the eye could see. The sea of mud was a fitting name for the area. It was so flat you could see the Earth curve at the other side of the horizon. It was impossible to lose the two guards trailing him on this land. But the marsh would be another story.
As a boy, there had been more trees in this area. They cleared them for sugarcane. The low-growing plants, marshes, and mud gave the land an apocalyptic feel. Which felt fitting. More smallpox, Domingo thought. Other diseases too. The end of slavery but the start of oppression by money instead of masters.
We’re all slaves to something, he mused; all we can do is hope to pick our master.
He walked for so long that his shin started to throb with every step. He knew then that he was near. The bugs were intensifying too. Another sign that the marsh was close. Now was not the time to give in to pain.
The marsh had few paths that provided a safe passage through it. Many died here, confused by the thick brush. The ground was soft in places. You could step right through it and get stuck below the surface, like breaking through ice on a pond in winter.
Domingo picked up his pace, fighting against the barking in his shin.
As expected, the guards started moving faster. But they were laden down with swords and armor. They couldn’t keep up, and he lost them in the twisting, winding ways of the marsh.
Best of all for Domingo, he had the ruby.
Worst of all for Dom, he still didn’t have the lime he needed.
Worst yet for Maria was that she couldn’t make the drink she needed to make without those limes.
So, when Dom’s wife Teresa died, he felt compelled to punish those who had let him down. That included Maria.
Sure, it wasn’t fair. But hurting people hurt people. Especially when those hurt people haven’t dealt with their past hurts. They keep burning the world. They spread anger and hate. Their presence makes everything worse.
Maria survived less than 24 hours longer than Teresa. The old ways of medicine were denounced by Dom, and he had her burned at the stake for being a witch.
What came from this time was the rise of medicine and sanitation standards in Brazil. It ushered in a new age of advancement. One that Teresa or Maria would never see. Domingo either.
Because he tried to sell the ruby to the wrong people and met his own tragic end at their hands.
And in the end, the home drink remedy that could have changed it all by saving Teresa cost them all.
The struggle for survival continued.
Dom never learned the most important lesson. Which was that in life you always meet twice, and it’s never good to burn the bridges you might have to walk later in life. Ruling over a system of slavery and submission meant that no one trusted him. Their loyalty went as far as his strangling grip.
But humans will always search for a way to fuck over the master, if only for a chance to regain self-respect.
And the drink that Teresa never drank, because she never got her limes…well, that’s still around today.
The Caipirinha
The drink was a folk remedy made from limes, sugar, and a Brazilian spirit. This spirit comes from fermented sugarcane juice.
Cachaça (pronounced ka-SHAH-sa)
It was drunk as a way to boost immunity, although it never held such power in reality.
And ka-SHAH-sa became the Caipirinha (Kai-PUR-Eeen-Ya)
A modern Brazilian cocktail with ka-SHAH-sa, lime and sugar.
These days there is less backstabbing and smallpox as part of the drink and more fun.
Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about Cafe Tinto), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 87 Notes: Juan Valdez’s Redemption: The Rise of Cafe Tinto in Colombia
Today we’re talking about sin and success, how the punishments we endure ultimately lead to the successes we find in life. We all make mistakes but it’s how we handle these screw ups that determines the course of our lives. In our story today, Juan knows this better than anyone else.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
The Struggles of Farming in 1807 Colombia
In the rugged Andes Mountains of Colombia in 1807, Juan Valdez knelt in a cramped wooden confessional, his bushy mustache tickling his nose. The tight space felt like a coffin, a dead space where he confronted his burdens. Life in the high-altitude grasslands and lush valleys was unforgiving, and Juan, a farmer, struggled to coax life from the rocky, inherited land that had failed his family for generations.
Cafe Tinto’s Origins: A Farmer’s Desperation
Juan wasn’t a miner chasing wealth in the dangerous mines carving into the mountains. He was a farmer, but the barren soil refused to yield enough to feed his wife and two children. Starvation haunted their home, his wife’s ribs starkly visible as they lay together at night. Desperate, Juan turned to theft—stealing chickens to keep his family alive. The world might call it a crime, but for Juan, it was survival, a step toward the legacy of Cafe Tinto.
Confession and Penance: Planting the Seeds of Cafe Tinto
Each theft led Juan back to the confessional, where he faced Father Francisco, the town’s only Jesuit missionary, through a thin mesh grate. His shame was heavy, but necessity left him no choice. After confessing, Francisco’s penance was always the same: plant trees. For two stolen chickens, Juan was tasked with planting five. These small bushes with glossy green leaves seemed useless—possibly toxic, with no apparent value. They took three to five years to flower, and Juan’s oldest plants, now four years old, had produced nothing. Digging into the rocky ground with his blunted shovel, Juan saw the task as a fitting punishment, unaware it would lead to the creation of Cafe Tinto.
The Hard Road to Cafe Tinto’s Prosperity
The journey home was long, along a winding dirt path that avoided the treacherous jungle filled with snakes and toxic plants. Lana, Juan’s mule, carried the stolen chickens in one saddlebag and the penance plants in the other. Juan’s sombrero and poncho shielded him from the sun, but nothing could shield him from his despair. He felt like a failure as a father, husband, and provider, the weight of shame heavier than any confession could lift.
The Backbreaking Work Behind Cafe Tinto
At home, under moonlight, Juan dug holes for the plants, his hands blistering and bleeding, his body aching with every strike of the shovel. As he planted, dark thoughts crept in—thoughts of throwing himself off the mountain to escape his hopeless existence. Yet, Juan was no coward. Too proud to die, too burdened to truly live, he pressed on, driven by duty to his family, unknowingly laying the foundation for Cafe Tinto.
The Birth of Cafe Tinto: From Penance to Coffee
This cycle of stealing, confessing, and planting felt endless. Juan feared he might one day have to sell or slaughter Lana for food. But he persisted, planting in straight lines, keeping the trees alive even as he struggled to sustain himself and his family. A year later, redemption arrived. The first trees, now five years old, sprouted small white flowers that gave way to bright red cherries. More trees followed suit. Juan harvested the cherries, soaked them to remove the red shell, and extracted the pits—each containing two small beans. He dried and roasted them, discovering the coffee beans that would become Cafe Tinto.
Cafe Tinto’s Impact: Transforming a Region
Those beans transformed Juan’s life. His farm, once a barren failure, became a thriving coffee plantation. His family no longer went hungry. Juan’s hands, once bloodied, were now calloused from leading Lana through Colombian cities, her saddlebags filled with sacks stamped “100% Colombian Coffee.” He became Juan Valdez, an ambassador of Cafe Tinto, the iconic coffee drink that defined Colombia’s prosperity.
Why Cafe Tinto Matters Today
Juan’s story mirrors the struggles of many who feel trapped between survival and shame, too afraid to live fully yet too determined to give up. Like others who faced their own trials, Juan’s life could have been a tragedy. But he answered the call to become a better version of himself. Through perseverance and an unlikely penance, Juan turned punishment into prosperity, proving that even in the darkest moments, redemption is possible with Cafe Tinto as its legacy.
Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about Hunter S. Thompson and Key Lime Pie), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 85 Notes: The Best Breakfast In the World
Today we’re talking about sin and success, how the punishments we endure ultimately lead to the successes we find in life. We all make mistakes but it’s how we handle these screw ups that determines the course of our lives. In our story today, Juan knows this better than anyone else.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
A Morning of Indulgence on a Puerto Rican Beach
On a pristine, untouched white sand beach in San Juan, Puerto Rico, before the age of sprawling hotels and bustling tourism, Hunter S. Thompson began his day with a breakfast that was anything but ordinary. Alone under the blazing Caribbean sun, he carefully prepared six perfect lines of cocaine, a ritual requiring precision to avoid the warm breeze scattering his indulgence. This wasn’t just a random act—it was a calculated moment, planned with the meticulous care Thompson applied to every detail of his life. For him, this breakfast, featuring key lime pie as its crown jewel, was an anchor for his chaotic existence.
Key Lime Pie and Cocaine: The Ultimate Breakfast Combo
Thompson’s breakfast wasn’t about sustenance—it was about excess. On a weathered wooden table, faded by salt spray and ringed with water stains, sat a feast that defied restraint. A Spanish omelette, thick as a frisbee and stuffed with golden potatoes and thinly sliced onions, claimed one chipped plastic plate. Beside it, another plate held a half-pound of wavy, crispy bacon, pushed to the edges to make room for three homemade flour tortillas—crepes tied with green onion stems in a childlike knot. These were filled with a decadent mix of green onions, red peppers, crab meat, cream cheese, and a touch of salt and pepper, baked until the filling oozed out.
Two plump grapefruits, glistening like polished gems, sat prominently on the table, their bright yellow skins catching the sun. In the shade, to preserve their chill, were two margaritas, salted and brimming with tequila, triple sec, lime, and simple syrup. A pitcher of Bloody Marys—spiked with vodka, tomato juice, celery, and seasonings—promised four glasses of boozy refreshment. A pot of coffee, a quart of sweating milk, and a coffee mug sat within easy reach, reserved for later when Thompson would dive into his stack of newspapers, notebook, and mail.
But the true star was the dessert: a wide slice of key lime pie, sharing a plate with half a lemon used for seasoning the meal. The pie, paired with the four remaining lines of cocaine, was Thompson’s ultimate indulgence—a perfect cap to a breakfast that started after noon.
The Setting: A Pre-Tourism Caribbean Paradise
This was Puerto Rico before the developers arrived, before the beaches were dotted with tourists like dimples on a golf ball. The white sand stretched endlessly, broken only by the rare footprints of a local. The rhythmic crash of waves, a low whistle followed by a whoosh, carried away the world’s worries, leaving Thompson to bask in the solitude of his two-room wooden shack. Tilted slightly as if sinking into the sand, the shack was his haven, a place where he could escape the chaos of his life and embrace the excess of this moment.
Key Lime Pie as a Symbol of Excess
For Thompson, known as Paul Kemp in his novel inspired by this period, this breakfast was more than a meal—it was a ritual of grand excess. The hot Puerto Rican sun, the empty beach, the steady rhythm of the Atlantic Ocean—all contributed to a moment that felt too perfect, too indulgent. The key lime pie, paired with cocaine and washed down with coffee, epitomized this decadence. It wasn’t just dessert; it was a statement, a way to ground his frayed life in something tangible, something extraordinary.
Planning the Perfect Key Lime Pie Moment
Thompson’s indulgence wasn’t haphazard. The two lines of cocaine he snorted to kickstart the morning—after a night of heavy drinking—were an exception to his rule of saving the drug for dessert. The remaining four lines waited in a tiny bag, reserved for after the key lime pie. Every element of this breakfast, from the placement of the coffee mug to the shaded margaritas, was deliberate. Even the stack of newspapers, notebook, and pen—tools of his trade as a journalist working at a local bowling alley—were part of the ritual, waiting for the moment when planning would begin.
Why Key Lime Pie Defined Thompson’s Puerto Rican Days
This breakfast wasn’t just about food or drugs; it was about creating an experience that transcended the ordinary. The key lime pie, with its tart sweetness, was the culmination of a meal designed to anchor Thompson’s chaotic life. Naked under the Puerto Rican sun, sweating out the sins of yesterday, he savored every bite and sip, letting the excesses of this moment ground him. It was a ritual he observed whenever possible, a way to find meaning in the indulgence.
The Legacy of Thompson’s Key Lime Pie Breakfast
Hunter S. Thompson’s breakfast on that Puerto Rican beach, with key lime pie as its centerpiece, remains a vivid snapshot of his larger-than-life persona. In a time before tourism transformed San Juan, he crafted a moment of pure, unapologetic excess—a testament to his ability to find beauty and purpose in the chaos. For Thompson, the key lime pie wasn’t just dessert; it was a symbol of a life lived on his own terms, under the hot sun, with the waves crashing and the world far away.
Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about sunrise), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 76 Notes: A Global Odyssey Through Light & Life
Today we’re talking about sin and success, how the punishments we endure ultimately lead to the successes we find in life. We all make mistakes but it’s how we handle these screw ups that determines the course of our lives. In our story today, Juan knows this better than anyone else.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
The Lost Art of Watching Sunrises
In our fast-paced world, who pauses to watch a sunrise anymore? The moment the sun cranks itself into the sky, painting the world with light, or slips behind the horizon in a prism of color, is often ignored. Yet, sunrises hold a timeless beauty, each one unique, offering lessons in resilience, wonder, and perspective. From Israel to Colorado, I’ve witnessed sunrises and sunsets across the globe, each revealing something new about life and ourselves.
Sunrise in Israel: Embracing the Unexpected
Hiking Mt. Sinai in Nazareth, I crossed a highway that now splits the ancient mountain. Weaving a drunken path upward in wide half-circles, the sunrise broke the brittle chill of night, warming patches of wild green grass and clay earth. At the summit, a partly cloudy sky obscured the view we’d toiled for. Was the climb wasted? No. The sunrise taught me that the journey—moving, striving, living—is the true reward, not the view at the top. Golden rays pierced the clouds, reminding us to be grateful for the strength to climb and the chance to witness a divine moment beyond our control.
Sunset in Greece: Nostalgia and the Fleeting Beauty of the Sun
On Paros, Greece, a fisherman leaned against a metal railing, his body forming a triangle with the pier as he gazed at the sunset. The sky wept from the heat, and Helios, the mythical sun god, rode his golden chariot across the horizon. The fisherman didn’t fish—he basked in the fleeting beauty, letting it fill his heart before letting it go. This is nostos and algia—nostalgia—a bittersweet longing for something ephemeral, like a sunset. It’s an ache for a lost home, a greatness we once knew, felt deeply in the chest as the sun slips away.
Morocco’s Sunrise: The Sun as Life’s Guide
In Tangier, Morocco, blackout grates blocked the sunrise, leaving me disoriented in darkness. Without the sun, time felt elusive. For the Berber people, the sun, named Ashaman, is the god of fire, fertility, and life itself. They mark its cycles to nurture crops and survive the desert, calling it a “traveling” force. The sunrise is both essential and fleeting, a reminder of life’s unearned grace. Even when we resist rising, the sun greets us, shining through our reluctance, a gift we can never repay.
France’s Sunrise: Balancing Joy and World Pain
At Pointe du Hoc, France, the sunrise broke through cold air, illuminating barbed wire and crumbling Nazi bunkers. This same blood-red sky once ushered in the D-Day invasion, a day of destruction. The German term Weltschmerz—world pain—captures this duality: a sunrise can herald joy or tragedy. We can’t ignore the sorrow, but we can choose to wield the sun’s light for good, creating beauty amidst pain, hoping for days when scarred souls wake to coffee and gardens under the sunrise’s warmth.
Colorado’s Sun Dog: A New Perspective on Sunrises
In Colorado, a winter sunrise revealed a rare sun dog—a 22-degree halo with twin light spots caused by ice crystals refracting sunlight. Riding a ski lift through snow-laden trees, I wondered: had the sun changed, or had I? The concept of Anthropic Refraction explains this: just as light shifts through a prism, the world refracts through our evolving consciousness, revealing new meanings. Each sunrise, seen through fresh eyes, becomes a new experience, never growing old as long as we keep growing.
Why Sunrises Matter: A Call to Pause and Reflect
Sunrises remind us to pause, to see the world anew. They are constant yet ever-changing, shaped by location, weather, and our own perspectives. Whether it’s the golden rays of Mt. Sinai, the nostalgic ache of a Greek sunset, or the life-giving force in Morocco, the sunrise invites us to evolve, to find childlike wonder in the familiar. By embracing each sunrise, we embrace life’s impermanence and our capacity for growth.
This podcast blends tales (today about Pulque), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 49 Notes: Pulque
In a blood-drenched jungle, a priest’s faltering blade sends a bad omen into the world and seals his people’s fate. A mysterious virus ravages the land as silver-clad invaders crave gold and Maya, the goddess of Pulque. Pulque is one of the first types of Tequila. Maya’s intoxicating essence seduces priests and conquerors alike. But she has other plans beyond seduction. As empires crumble and fevers burn, Maya reveals herself – a love’s betrayal repaid in sores, death, and a divine reckoning. paired a drink (Kava root) with an anxiety inducing sport (bungee jumping.) Both would go on to become popular in the rest of the world. Kava root would ease the minds of the constantly anxious. Bungee Jumping would let daredevils get the rush they needed.
Transcript of Podcast:
*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
Pulque – The First Tequila
The first slice across his neck didn’t kill the boy. The child gagged and choked on his own blood, the blood turning pink and foamy where the deep gash was. His eyes widened in terror, and he didn’t understand the searing pain in his throat. He looked at the priest, choking, his eyes begging for help.
The priest looked down at the boy, seeing the fear. The knife swipe had opened the child’s throat. The high priest wanted to look away, repulsed by the loose skin vibrating with each shocked breath. The priest’s and the boy’s senses were dull. That was the only good thing. Hopefully, he didn’t feel much pain. The priest plunged his knife into the sacrifice’s heart. With a final twitch, the boy stopped moving. He prayed to the woman he loved, Maya, that the boy did not feel pain, despite his foolish mistake. He smelled her sweetness on the wind and hoped that everything would be okay.
Blood drained down the altar. It dripped into the trench, which wound around the pyramid and then into the heart of it. He rose and prayed. Those below chanted in response. It was a hot day, and the boy’s blood stuck to his hand and the hilt of the blade. He tried not to think about it.
The sacrifice was an omen. They were deciding what to do about the invaders. Should they befriend them or fight? Atl wanted to fight. He beat his chest. The rocks and shells around his neck rattled as he watched the sacrifice bleed out on the altar above him. The way the blood pooled would determine what they’d do. The gods would send a message.
The high priest stood and spoke to Atl and the rest of those gathered. They would befriend the new people who wore silver on their bodies. They would load up treasure chests with gold and greet their guests as friends.
The other priests stood at the altar off to the side, behind the high priest. They saw his mistake. The ambitious would use his flaw as leverage. He could almost see the end. The gods would punish him. They were ruthless. They were also loving.
But none loved the way Maya loved. He thought of Maya everywhere he went. She surrounded him. It was an unhealthy love for a priest. It was his secret. In the hot jungle, when the air clung thick and wet to his skin, he dreamed of being in Maya’s arms. So he went to her and lay with her. He told her his secrets and whispered his heart into her ear. She listened and held him, taking away worry and pain.
Maya did this for many men. She did this for Atl, even though he was in love with someone else. Maya did this for Pedro too. Maya greeted them with open arms and wrapped her lovers up in delicate hands and a sweet, mind buzzing embrace.
Maya took them all. Each one of them. From the high priests to the Spaniards. She spread her love because long ago love had betrayed her. Love shattered her into hundreds of tiny pieces. The bits of her could never go together again. They were scattered throughout the jungle. Part of her was near the temple. Part of her was in the gardens in the village. Part of her was in wild, remote regions that no one would ever explore. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
She’d lost herself to love, which is why she gave it up so freely. It meant nothing to her anymore. Yet, love meant everything to them. So, she wielded it like a weapon.
Pedro lusted after her with such intensity that he couldn’t concentrate today. He could taste her on his lips, that sweet, mind numbing Maya. Their commander was talking about meeting the locals. He was distracted by the buzzing flies sticking to his sweating skin. It was irritating, and he yearned for Maya’s touch to help him forget. Pedro came a long way to be here. He left the place he was born, a little city on a hill. His house was sunbaked and small. He lived there with his parents and three siblings. Waking up brought freedom from that cramped space.
In the morning, he could look over the fortified walls and see the river far below. Mist rose from it. The stony landscape rolled for miles around him. Wool and leather traders pulled rickety wooden carts into the city. They brought news of the region. They spoke of wealthy cities where even the poor wore colorful, soft clothes. People did not herd their pigs through the muddy dirt streets, like they did here.
People lived in the shadows of cathedrals. Philosophers strolled the streets in front of the university, wearing open-toed leather sandals. They spoke of problems that only the wealthy could afford to think about. Such things as finding purpose in life. Making meaning. God and the role of some in society. In a city like that, it was easy to forget how the rest of the world lived, and that what was uncommon for them wasn’t the standard for all.
They extrapolated their lives as ideals for all to live by. They thought they were the apex predators of society. But having money doesn’t make your ideals better. Wealth made their hands and minds as soft as the dates they bought from Persian traders.
The Aztecs and Spaniards Meet
Well, today Pedro would get to know what it was like to be a trader. He was handpicked to meet an approaching convoy of locals. Pedro and the others walked up the beach from their boats. They left behind the tents they had pitched on the sand and met the locals at the edge of the jungle.
They were half naked and wore necklaces of rocks and shells. They spoke in a language Pedro did not understand. Mules pulled a large cart laden down with chests. Inside the chests was gold.
Alt didn’t like the arrivals. They had large, pointed things at their waists, and the silver they wore looked to be armor. The group gathered in front of them now did not wear helmets. They were here to say hello. When they brought out the gold, he saw the lust in their eyes. It was the same lust that appeared when they passed around Maya.
Alt didn’t like one of the arrivals in particular. He had an arrogant look about him, and he was always lusting after Maya. Alt shoved him in anger, and the man they called Pedro drew that piece of thin metal at his side and cut Alt’s arm.
It bled fast and clean and terrified Alt. These visitors had weapons made of things that they could not fight against. The boy Pedro was sent away for his actions. He looked over his shoulder at Alt when he left, rage burning in his eyes. They both wanted Maya. Only one could have her.
Maya reveled in the fight. She wanted them stupid and hurting each other for her sake. It brought her peace. It completed her. They had stood by when her mother mutilated her. They left the 400 bits of her where they lay, and it was her lover who gave her a second life. Had it not been for him, she never would have spread across the jungle floor. These people, the visitors and her people, would pay.
It was a week later before Alt had a fever, and by that point, he couldn’t remember who had gotten sick first. The fever turned into chills, despite the jungle heat. They brought such intense aches that he couldn’t get out of bed.
He went to the high priest, who looked on through dazed eyes, confused with what he saw. He threw prayers into the wind. Alt saw brown clay bottles in the priest’s pack and thought of Maya’s dark skin. It felt like only she could save him. He yearned for her.
The high priest was yearning too. Had he misread the omen? Would he need to make another sacrifice and see what the gods said? For the first time in a long time, the high priest didn’t know what to do. All he wanted was Maya. When times were bad she was there, his lips and her skin meeting. He needed that now more than ever.
After Alt’s fever came little red dots that swelled, filling with fluid. The pustules covered his body. They itched in an agonizing way. Others got the mysterious disease. By the time Alt’s pustules popped, his entire family had it. He vowed to survive, despite the discomfort. His love for Maya kept him going.
The city filled with the sick and dying, and Pedro didn’t want to get close. Smallpox had overwhelmed them. But they were laying siege to the city in search of more gold. All Pedro wanted during this time was Maya. It was the only thing that made life here tolerable. The city was a cesspool. People died faster than they could bury them. Their infected corpses clogged waterways and drainage systems. The visitors had brought an unknown enemy with them and benefited.
The high priest prayed for the sick and dying but it seemed to do know good. Whatever decimated them came from the gods as a curse. Had he loved Maya too much? Had he brought this on his people by failing to kill the boy with the first strike? It didn’t matter anymore. People were dying and the only one he could rely on through the horrid visions of puss popping pustules and throats seizing shut with infections, was Maya.
The Spaniards Conquer The Aztecs
Pedro finally marched into the city months later with the rest of the Spanish army. They lusted after gold. They dreamed of a life much different from the poor Spanish city on the hill they had come from. The killing was easy. Those the disease didn’t claim were demoralized. Pedro had permission to kill or enslave all. He enslaved many. He decided to kill the boy who had fought him at the first meeting. The one they called Alt. They let the priests live.
The high priest should have known that failing to kill the boy with his first strike was a bad omen. But his love for Maya clouded his judgment. When the Spaniards came in heavy silver armor, carrying sharp metal swords and slicing people apart with them, he thought of Maya. He prayed to Maya to spare him. The Spaniards spared him. Maya did not.
Maya, the unfortunate goddess who faced the wrath of her lover. She fell in love with someone her mother did not approve of. After pursuing the love in secret, her mother punished her by butchering her into 400 pieces. Distraught by her death, the lover spread her remains through the jungle so she could live again.
Maya did live again. She lived through a plant that the Aztecs lusted after. The maguey plant took 12 years to mature. When it reached that point, the Aztecs would cut it open and bleed the heart of 600 liters of sap.
Not only had humans failed to hide her when she chased after true love, but they stood by during her murder. Now they cut her heart open and bled her of her essence. But their mistake was thinking she gave the sap of her heart as a gift. They thought this liquid was gold. It fueled their priests. It built their cities and spread through all during ceremonies.
In reality, Maya gave the sap as a trap, and she had almost won.
The sap, once harvested, is fermented in vats for 7 to 14 days. It reaches an ABV of 2% to 7%. This mild intoxicant became an addiction for the Aztecs and strict rules cropped up to protect the drink and ensure an ample supply fell into the right hands. Hands like the high priest. Hands like their concubines and royalty. And hands like the hands of the Spaniards when given to them as a gift upon their arrival in this new, strange land.
What is Pulque?
The drink was called pulque and it tasted sweet on all the men’s lips. Many think the Spaniards came for gold, but there was another form of gold they sought. It was liquid gold. Pulque. And who is alive to say the addiction of Maya didn’t drive men to fight and kill for her?
After the decimation of Tenochtitlan, in search of this gold, they built bars, pulquerias throughout South America. After the conquest of his city, the high priest spent his days here, consuming Maya, consuming Pulque until it killed him. The Spanish saw that this liquid gold could make them lots of money. They saw the appeal. They saw how addicting it was.
But Maya was a cruel goddess. She wanted the Aztecs to pay. She wanted to wipe them from the planet for failing to defend the greatest thing in the world—love. In her mind, creatures incapable of protecting the best within humans didn’t deserve to live. Her gift of pulque was bound to that region only.
The sap ferments and spoils fast. It doesn’t last more than a few days. Transporting it to other parts of the world is impossible. It was a drink made by an angry goddess to enact revenge on people who gave up on love.
So, after her excruciating death at the hands of her mother, for giving in to the signs of her heart, Maya took her anger out on humans. She turned them against each other. She made them kill for her. She converted them into drunks, all while pretending to be a gift.
And isn’t that the way of things? Some of the worst curses come wrapped as beautiful gifts.
Pulquerias eventually fell out of favor. They were associated with drunkenness and criminality. The drink died with the Aztecs, replaced by a stronger, more shelf stable drink that didn’t ferment as fast.
Maya finally got her rest. Until today, anyway. Where those interested in the 2,000 year old drink make pulque in small batches. These are boutique operations. But, who knows, perhaps if the world turns far enough away from love once more, Maya will return.
