Tales of Debauchery: the origin of "salt side down"

When I was living out in Moab, I would traditionally leave Bandito's Grill a little buzzed already, having drunk margarita run-off, a celebratory free beer at the end of shift and, if business was extra good that day, a shot of Hornito's with Darren the owner. One night, I was there late, since it had been a day of tremendous tourism boom, hordes of Norwegians and Japanese clamoring for tex-mex after sunny photo-filled excursions in Arches and Canyonlands. Foolhardy Americans limped their way in from getting maimed on the practice loop at Slickrock Trail, hoping enchiladas and a Pacifico would remedy the pain and bleeding ankles. An added bonus in those days was that we were allowed to add gratuity to any non-English speaking tables, and since the place was turn-n-burn, often we'd get double-tipped on top of the gratuity, the diners long since left before we'd had the opportunity to return their mistake.

With lots of cash, and a bit of a buzz fostered, I tiredly tucked myself into the Rio for a last drink before closing. Zeke, whom some of the locals nicknamed Pirate Spice because of his eyepatch, was drunken and slobbering, greeting me like we were the best of pals. Strong drink creates this kind of camarederie, Everests of laughter climbed, stories constructed of mostly bullshit with a few mushrooms of truth butting out here and there. I obliged him out of exhaustion, to accompany him to the bar and do a couple of shots.

His vodka-addled brain was stuck on the idea that he wanted to do a shot of something flammable, and what he meant by a "couple of shots" was two for him, two for me. The barkeep poured, at Zeke's command, four shots of Wild Turkey, assuming it had sufficient high alcohol content to set ablaze. Zeke proceeded to put match after match out into these helpless shotglasses. I couldn't help but wonder if they were going to taste like a grilled steak if we actually did them. Zeke grew agitated. "This isn't working! We need something....else!"

The baretender suggested Sambuca. So the four shots of Wild Turkey were placed in the barwell, the four shots of Sambuca replacing them. They lit beautifully, a blue unearthly flame wavering in the fanspeed. We were both transfixed and let them burn a little too long before cupping the tops and shooting them. First one, then the other. The hot glass burned my lips and the licorice torrent filled my chest until it was a warm oven, cascading up and down my throat and leaking heat through my nostrils.

Immediately the bartender bellowed "Last call!" and brought up the house lights, which is disorienting and sad, the magic of the bar chased out with a broom and shriek. Zeke, the stupid bastard pointed at the four shots of Wild Turkey and asked what's to be done with them. The barguy stared at them for a second then shrugged and passed them to us, "Here you go gentlemen."

We clinked and shot, one then the other. I looked up at the clock. Oh shit. I had just pounded four shots of liquor in under three minutes. Nothing good could come of this. I clapped Zeke on the back, thanked him for the libation and walked the two blocks home. The first block was fine, then the second block things turned weird. I blinked away streetlamps that seemed to zigzag and slice big capital U's in the sky. I'd step off the curb, overcorrect into a bush, shake my head out, which sloshed my brain around like a vinegar sponge. I collided with the wall out front of my apartment and ascended the staircase up to the door.

I crashed through the living room, Brandy was in the kitchen cooking Pizza Rolls or something. The rest of the story she related to me the next morning. Apparently I tried telling her a story in the kitchen but couldn't quite finish it, nor start it, and got frustrated at myself, laughed it off. I started taking off my clothes, but as I was leaning against the wall, when I lifted a foot to remove a shoe, I would slide down and evntually ended up sitting on the floor. I called for Brandy to feed me crackers and then yelled at her for not putting them "salt side down" in my mouth.

Zeke left Moab shortly after this night and has not been heard from since. If you see this burly bastard in a bar, avoid his offer of flammable shots. They stab.

one martini to the wind,

yours the honorable Chutney McDeviltoast
king of giraffes and porridge

P.S. This phrase would work its way into my song "Sober Me Up":

"can't someone take me home and put me to bed/ feed me crackers salt side down and recall what is said."