Hair of
the Bird

Nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. The dew still silver on the greens at PopStroke Wesley Chapel, the shadows long, the patio nearly empty except for me and a man reading the newspaper like it owed him money.

I'd played an early round alone, just me and the course. On the 3rd I'd read a long downhill putt all wrong, aimed a full cup right of where it needed to be, and somehow it curled in anyway. The universe, occasionally, forgives. I walked to the patio and ordered breakfast in a glass.

Hair of the Bird. New Amsterdam vodka, clean and cold. Finest Call loaded bloody mary mix, thick and red as a fire engine on parade. Worcestershire sauce, dark and savory. Horseradish, the kind that clears your sinuses and your conscience. A splash of olive juice. Hot sauce, enough to make the morning take you seriously.

And then, balanced on top like a hat on a gentleman: a crispy chicken slider.

A slider. On a cocktail. I looked at it for a long time. The man with the newspaper looked at it too.

I took a bite. Golden and crunchy. Then a long sip, savory and spicy and bracing as a cold lake in June. The best Bloody Mary I have ever eaten.

The man folded his newspaper. "I'll have what he's having," he said to no one in particular, and I have never felt so understood.