Margarita
Flight

Four friends. Four margaritas. One unresolved question about who actually won the last time we played.

It was a bright Sunday in spring, the kind of afternoon that feels borrowed from a better year. We had just finished 18 holes at PopStroke Glendale, the scorecard creased and suspect, two of us tied and both claiming a tap-in that the other swore never happened.

We took it to the bar. Some disputes are better settled with a margarita flight. It arrived on a wooden board like a jury filing in.

First, the Skinny Coconut Marg. Light, breezy, a hammock of a drink. Then the Spicy Skinny Cucumber Marg, cool on the tongue and warm on the way down, a handshake with a little grip to it. Next, the Mango Mezgarita, smoky and golden, a campfire somebody lit on a tropical beach. And finally the traditional: The Wingman, the classic, the one that doesn't need to prove anything to anyone.

We passed them around. We argued. We tasted. We argued about the tasting.

Everyone had a favorite. Nobody had the same one. Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, the tap-in stopped mattering.

We called it a tie. We agreed to a rematch. Then we agreed it would end with another flight.