every week,” I said, walking toward the door.
“You already knew your girlfriend was a lowlife,
verdad
?”
“No. But if you want to fill me in on the local gossip, just pass the soap and let’s do some dirty laundry,” I answered, turning around.
“That blonde lady has been telling everyone she knows all about drugs. That she’s spent up to three weeks smoking opium. That she’s traveled the world in search of new experiences.
Una especialista
: a real gourmet on the subject.”
“People can do whatever they want with their lives. I left mine behind in a bottle of tequila.”
“The young lady has already been booked. Her boss, the child actress, is the one who’s made sure she doesn’t end up in Guadalajara with the
judiciales
.”
“Don’t tell me that just because Sue Lyon talked pretty you sat up and listened?”
“A donation always helps, compadre.”
I looked down on that little bugger Quintero. I felt even more like squashing him when he smiled up at me.
2 OUNCES GIN
1 OUNCE LEMON JUICE
1 TEASPOON REFINED SUGAR
3 OUNCES CLUB SODA
1 MARASCHINO CHERRY
1 ORANGE SLICE
C ombine the gin, lemon juice, and sugar in a shaker half filled with ice cubes. Strain into a tall glass of ice and add the club soda. Garnish with the cherry and orange slice to the smoky sounds of Julie London.
Some say the name comes from Old Tom, a brand of gin from the turn of the twentieth century that was much sweeter than today’s offerings. Others claim the drink was named after its inventor, an Irish immigrant who worked as a bartender in New Jersey. Collins apparently concocted it for his friends to enjoy after a long, hot day of work, something refreshing to raisetheir spirits. The drink became so famous that even the long, tall glass it’s traditionally served in is known as a Collins glass.
__________________
Less than a week later,
Siempre!
published a detailed feature article entitled “Infamous House of Vice,” focusing on the depraved lushes filming
The Night of the Iguana
. Something had unleashed the wrath of that rag. Perhaps our mere existence was enough to provoke vitriol. In Mexico you can be despised for less. “Our innocent children, ten to fifteen years old, are being introduced to sex, drinking, drugs, vices, and carnal bestiality by this group of Americans: gangsters, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, and heroin-addicted blondes…” the article stated. The magazine even beseeched the government to expel John Huston and his group. “It’s not too late. Responsible, patriotic Mexicans can still save the beauty of Puerto Vallarta,”
Siempre!
intoned.
“A long time ago, I stopped caring about attacks in the press. Besides, I’m too busy shooting a film to waste time on ‘carnal bestiality,’” Huston amusingly replied to an American journalist regarding the accusations. And with that pronouncement the interview was over. The entire crew laughed and applauded. I did the same from my security post at the bar. We had to live up to our fame as lushes after all. And besides, I was treating the pain from the head wound Mr. Antsy Underpants had given me with a cold Tom Collins.
John Huston was no good at interviews, and this type of attention was a nuisance for him. Turning his back on the pesky reporters, he crossed in three long strides to the other side of the set, where his friend Guillermo Wolf, the engineer, was waiting for him. He was a chubby man. Robust but agile. The kind who’d run you over before you even got a look at the license plate. It was Wolf who’d convinced the great director to film a movie someplace as out of the way as Mismaloya in the first place.
Now Wolf looked upset. He talked in rapid English peppered with dirty Spanish. Huston just quietly nodded his head. Both men were chain smokers, nervously lighting the next cigarette before finishing the previous one. Wolf’s diatribe had ended and Huston punctuated it with an expletive before returning to the group of
“You already knew your girlfriend was a lowlife,
verdad
?”
“No. But if you want to fill me in on the local gossip, just pass the soap and let’s do some dirty laundry,” I answered, turning around.
“That blonde lady has been telling everyone she knows all about drugs. That she’s spent up to three weeks smoking opium. That she’s traveled the world in search of new experiences.
Una especialista
: a real gourmet on the subject.”
“People can do whatever they want with their lives. I left mine behind in a bottle of tequila.”
“The young lady has already been booked. Her boss, the child actress, is the one who’s made sure she doesn’t end up in Guadalajara with the
judiciales
.”
“Don’t tell me that just because Sue Lyon talked pretty you sat up and listened?”
“A donation always helps, compadre.”
I looked down on that little bugger Quintero. I felt even more like squashing him when he smiled up at me.
2 OUNCES GIN
1 OUNCE LEMON JUICE
1 TEASPOON REFINED SUGAR
3 OUNCES CLUB SODA
1 MARASCHINO CHERRY
1 ORANGE SLICE
C ombine the gin, lemon juice, and sugar in a shaker half filled with ice cubes. Strain into a tall glass of ice and add the club soda. Garnish with the cherry and orange slice to the smoky sounds of Julie London.
Some say the name comes from Old Tom, a brand of gin from the turn of the twentieth century that was much sweeter than today’s offerings. Others claim the drink was named after its inventor, an Irish immigrant who worked as a bartender in New Jersey. Collins apparently concocted it for his friends to enjoy after a long, hot day of work, something refreshing to raisetheir spirits. The drink became so famous that even the long, tall glass it’s traditionally served in is known as a Collins glass.
__________________
Less than a week later,
Siempre!
published a detailed feature article entitled “Infamous House of Vice,” focusing on the depraved lushes filming
The Night of the Iguana
. Something had unleashed the wrath of that rag. Perhaps our mere existence was enough to provoke vitriol. In Mexico you can be despised for less. “Our innocent children, ten to fifteen years old, are being introduced to sex, drinking, drugs, vices, and carnal bestiality by this group of Americans: gangsters, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, and heroin-addicted blondes…” the article stated. The magazine even beseeched the government to expel John Huston and his group. “It’s not too late. Responsible, patriotic Mexicans can still save the beauty of Puerto Vallarta,”
Siempre!
intoned.
“A long time ago, I stopped caring about attacks in the press. Besides, I’m too busy shooting a film to waste time on ‘carnal bestiality,’” Huston amusingly replied to an American journalist regarding the accusations. And with that pronouncement the interview was over. The entire crew laughed and applauded. I did the same from my security post at the bar. We had to live up to our fame as lushes after all. And besides, I was treating the pain from the head wound Mr. Antsy Underpants had given me with a cold Tom Collins.
John Huston was no good at interviews, and this type of attention was a nuisance for him. Turning his back on the pesky reporters, he crossed in three long strides to the other side of the set, where his friend Guillermo Wolf, the engineer, was waiting for him. He was a chubby man. Robust but agile. The kind who’d run you over before you even got a look at the license plate. It was Wolf who’d convinced the great director to film a movie someplace as out of the way as Mismaloya in the first place.
Now Wolf looked upset. He talked in rapid English peppered with dirty Spanish. Huston just quietly nodded his head. Both men were chain smokers, nervously lighting the next cigarette before finishing the previous one. Wolf’s diatribe had ended and Huston punctuated it with an expletive before returning to the group of
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