Drink - Victoria Moore gets shot at Claridges
The first ones had us cooing with pleasure. The second took us out with the unexpectedly acute aim of a sniper's bullet. One moment, we were perching at the bar in Claridge's discussing life essentials: for example, the current vogue for fishnet stockings; why women change their hairdresser not when he cuts their hair badly, but when he suddenly seems to know more about their private life than they do; and whether all girls in New York have their bikini line lasered.
The next moment, we were slumped at a table trying to work out which of the extortionately expensive bar snacks would soak up alcohol most quickly, and which we might be capable of eating (not sandwiches - a glob of mayonnaise or a renegade leaf always ends up on your chin). By then, conversation had hit the subject of relationships: did we believe it was possible to be in love with someone for ever and ever (no); and if a single woman bought a men's raincoat that she liked from a department store, would - by some sorcery - the man who would fill it be more likely to come along (yes, obviously).
Strawberry caipirinha: delectable but deadly. The same is true of any cocktail containing real strawberries. The fruity sweetness (or fake fruit, I should call it, because the real seed-bearing fruits are the little pippy things stuck to its sides) diverts one's attention from the hefty slug of spirit that accompanies it; and before you know it, you're gaga. Some day, I mean to try drinking strawberry cocktails with a man and see if they have the same silliness-inducing effect. I can't quite see it - they're such a girly thing.
After the Claridge's episode (my friend said she dreamt of giant balloons and Hugh Grant castigating her for spilling spices in her kitchen that night), I longed so much for the heavenly taste of soft fruit and glacier-sharp spirit that I bought several punnets of strawberries, got out the cocktail shaker and the blender and started to mix.
Generally, I don't bother attempting to make cocktails at home. It's the alcoholic equivalent of watching a really good movie on video. There is no sense of occasion, and the drink always tastes flabby and slightly fuzzy. Moreover, without the fear that you will be unable to walk unaided across the bar if you have to leave, there is really no incentive to go on drinking. But this time it worked, and it couldn't have been simpler. All I did was this: wash strawberries, blend strawberries (I have one of those brilliant hand-whizzy things, so I didn't even have to scrape strawberry pulp out of a blender barrel afterwards), add the juice of one lime, add half the amount of pale rum I had left in the bottle (mine was Havana Club, aged for three years in oak, which gives the cocktail a bit of throat, but any old white rum, such as Bacardi, also works well), shake with ice-cubes and strain into glasses.
But something wasn't quite right. The strawberries didn't taste sweet, or even of strawberries. I threw in some gomme syrup (I know most people don't have this lying around in the cupboard - invest in some for summer), then tasted and threw in a bit more. The strawberries now tasted just as they should: of warm summer days and sticky mouths. Then I sloshed in the rest of the rum. Et voila. Strawberry daiquiris. The best thing was that I had inadvertently made far too many of them, and so we had to go on drinking all night, after all.
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