Eleven o'clock on a Friday night, and I had just lost a ping pong rematch to my sister-in-law. Twenty-one to nineteen. She celebrated like she'd won a war of independence.
I was not tired. I want that on the record. But my eyelids had begun negotiating terms.
Earlier we had played all 18 holes at PopStroke Myrtle Beach, and I'd drained a downhill slider on the 12th that broke two full cups left, a putt I will be describing to strangers for years. Now I needed something to carry that feeling across the finish line.
At the bar, the bartender pulled a shot of freshly brewed espresso, dark as a confessional, and the whole room seemed to lean toward the smell.
Into the shaker: 1800 Coconut tequila, a pour of coconut syrup, that hot espresso. A hard, rattling shake, the sound of maracas in a thunderstorm. Strained into the glass with a crown of foam the color of a camel coat. On top, three espresso beans arranged like a little constellation, and a scatter of toasted coconut that smelled like a beach bonfire somebody lit in a coffee shop.
Cold. Silky. Sweet, then bitter, then sweet again, like a good argument with an old friend. The best espresso martini of my life.
I raised it toward my sister-in-law. "Best of five," I said. She was already picking up her paddle.
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