Like any liquor, good craft stands alone. With that statement I guess I could stop posting drink recipes.
Drop me in a muggy, salt-stenched, no name town in the islands, please and thank you. Where the latin beat is so loud it’s all you can do to not gravitate towards it; like an earthquake opening a sinkhole of lust and mystique. Those dark skin women keeping the beat like its riding a bike. Sweat pours out of you in those places, especially when you find yourself on the dance floor. You smell and sense the heat before you feel it. It encompasses you on a manic Saturday night and there’s not enough rum to quench my thirst. That’s true rum.