Nairobi men love to preserve their masculinity even if it means that they stick to old ideas of manliness that are carved on walls of ancient caves. It doesn’t matter whether it is an attempt to grow tennis-size balls in a household where the wife has a better salary or drowning espresso in one gulp and going to wipe your tears in the cloakrooms.
It is fine to drink a cocktail.
I know it is sweet and we were all taught that sweet drinks are girlish. Also, I know that cocktails are a rip-off and they come in generous colors that are not recognized by your testosterone. I also know that cocktails are a wicked disruption to the art of drinking, and they don’t come with a belch, your favorite way to announce that you have gotten home at 3 a.m. with a full bladder, and, as we, of course, know; it’s always a blunder.
(Side note: 3 a.m. is a wrong time to get home to wife and children. By this time Mama has slept and her body has probably given up hope and the kids are pissing with their hiss sounds. It’s advisable that once it’s past midnight, the next best time is 5 a.m.).
Charlie’s is a good place to experiment with a wide variety of cocktails, from your regular bomb – Long Island – to rum concoctions that come in distinct heaviness covered with blankets of fruit to make you think you have got potential.
Charlie’s, and its cocktails taste best when you are a group. Take your best friend and that crush of his, tell him you know a curtain-raiser job is one of the worst, but someone has to do it. Probably tag along with a raconteur or a street humorist. You don’t need the intensity that comes with drinking whiskey – pouring through moral philosophy – or the stupidity that comes with beer – like debates that Mandela was a sell-out.
Cocktails come with happy hours and happy colors and happy girls, for a reason.
I don’t like rum and my brief dalliance with Captain Morgan whirled my belly, so much that throwing up felt like salvation. My friends have recommended a few options, but it was “no love lost” at first sight. That changed a few weeks ago when I found myself at Charlie’s with my friend and his girl, called T, like a television. After a long chat with the familiarity of Long Island, I asked the waitress to get me something special. She pointed straight to the list of Tikis on the menu and I felt like, if I cannot take a rum, I should at least take a rum ‘guise.
The aura at Charlie’s is sort of “no hurry” one, and you can easily ease into a woman’s heart (or intestines) without noticing.
It wasn’t as bad as I feared. I guess I went with the Caribbean Twinset and it left me wondering if the word “moderation” ever found a place in Caribbean vocabulary. It was dominant and wasteful, both on rum and the fruit layers. The first impact was similar to the one I had when I took my first bottle of Guinness; a sudden swirl of nerves that report to the master cells in your head that something alien is within your space.
The aura at Charlie’s is sort of “no hurry” one, and you can easily ease into a woman’s heart (or intestines) without noticing. It makes you feel that cocktails are actually a good idea for men, as they allow you to dissolve in the crowd without having to play pebbles with the idea of going on a dick-measuring sequel with the man next table who has a hotter girl than you, forcing you to buy Hennessy just because he’s drinking Jack Daniel’s to pass the message that you got the damn chums. The glasses and pots level things up and the prices don’t have much distance between each other.
Don’t we all desire equality?
And, also, cocktails are a good way to lie to yourself that you are not drinking on a weekday. Silly, you are.