“What the hell is this?” asks my brother-in-law, Zeb, as he fishes another bottle from the back of the refrigerator. “No idea where that came from.”
Famous words from an epic day after Christmas.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
December twenty-sixth, about five years ago.
We go over to my wife’s sister’s around eleven in the morning.
The family’s there and a few long-time friends.
We’re doing a day-after-Christmas brunch.
I’m down with that.
Zeb’s just finished the bar in his basement.
And it’s a far cry from your typical, DIY job.
See, Zeb’s one of these annoying guys who knows how to build and fix stuff.
The centerpiece is the high-polish, sturdy-as-a-tank, chest-high bar he’s constructed out of reclaimed mahogany. Or cherry. Or oak. I have no frickin’ idea.
Anyway, the thing is absolutely gorgeous. Looks like it came straight from The Raffles Hotel in Singapore.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I think it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.
Zeb’s behind the bar, and I’m on one of the stools. The Poulan Weed-Eater Independence Bowl, or some shit like that, is playing on the TV mounted to the adjacent wall.
“Look what I got,” Zeb says as he puts a brand-new bottle of Bombay Sapphire in front of me.
He knows I’m a martini guy, and he’s very generously stocked the bar accordingly.
He sets a jar of olives, a bottle of dry vermouth, and a shaker full of ice next to the gin.
“I know you’re picky,” he says. “So I thought you could make your own.”
Good man.
It’s about eleven thirty now. Which is a terrific time for a martini.
And why stop at one? Or two?
You can see where this is going.
Pretty soon it’s night, and we’ve been drinking all day.
The girls join in at some point.
Beneath the mahogany-cherry-oak bar, Zeb’s installed one of those beneath-the-counter, commercial refrigerators. It’s exactly what you’d find at a proper club or restaurant.
Zeb gets the idea to go rooting around inside the refrigerator. He’s recently transferred the contents of his old basement refrigerator into this one.
That includes all the random booze people have brought over in the previous decade.
“What the . . . ? Look at this,” he says, holding a bottle of pineapple-citrus Zima.
Just the sight of it gives me the dry heaves.
“You know what we have to do, right?” Zeb continues.
Uh-oh.
“Drink it,” he says. “All of it.”
And he’s not just talking about the Zima.
He pours shots of Zima into four glasses he’s pulled from the shelf behind the bar and hands them out to the girls and me.
“Mazel tov!” he says.
The Zima is awful. The girls barely let it touch their lips.
But I power through the entire thing.
After a full day of drinking, I somehow love this idea of cleaning everything out of Zeb’s fridge.
And, in doing so, breaking every drinking rule I’ve learned since high school.
“What’s next?” I ask.
He pulls out a bottle of Woodchuck Pumpkin Apple Cider.
It’s even worse than the Zima.
And it goes on like this for another two hours, until there’s nothing left in the fridge.
I’m definitely feeling it at this point.
Now, my memory of what happens next is a little blurry.
All I know is, we’re getting ready to walk upstairs to leave, and I lose my balance.
My wife reaches out to grab me.
She claims she tried to catch me. But I’m pretty sure she shoved me – right onto some giant plastic toy, which I then broke into a thousand pieces.
Everyone was pissed. Except Zeb. He was in as bad a shape as I was.
Somehow, I have the wits to pull out my phone and order a new one from Amazon right on the spot.
The next morning is about as pleasant as you’d expect.
It’s one of my top-five hangovers of all time. Easily.
I’m so hungover, I can barely sit up.
It’s nearly dinner time before I manage to get a shower.
And, of course, the Zima and Woodchuck don’t seem nearly as good an idea as they’d been the night before.
But, looking back, you know what?
That Christmas Zeb and I cleaned out his refrigerator?
One of the best I’ve ever had.
Hope you and yours have a wonderful holiday.
And consider cleaning out that basement refrigerator.
You’ll remember it for years to come.
Well, some of it.