The Wingman
Marg

Every woman needs a wingman. Mine is named Dave, and he has never once helped.

Golden hour, a Thursday in October. Dave and I were three holes into the back nine at PopStroke The Colony, and I was trying to impress a playing partner's cousin who read greens like he'd been born on one. He'd just rolled in a lag from the bottom tier on the 13th, forty feet, up the slope and over the shoulder, dead center. Dave said, "Nice putt." That was his entire contribution.

So I did what a woman does when her wingman fails her. I ordered a better one, right there on the course.

The Wingman Marg. No costume, no gimmicks, nothing to hide behind. Dobel Tequila, smooth and clean, with that soft sweetness a good tequila keeps in its back pocket. Agave nectar, golden and slow. Fresh lime juice, sharp enough to wake up your whole face. Three ingredients. That's it. A margarita with the confidence to keep it simple.

It arrived cold and bright, catching the low sun like a lantern, the best margarita I have ever ordered out of spite.

He looked at my glass. "What is that?" "The Wingman," I said. "Want one?"

Dave is still waiting for his. I've decided he can order his own.