From the Archives: Seven and Seven's Last Call

In light of Ben's recent weekly "New Year's style" resolutions, I figured I'd pull this one out of the archives, if only because I failed miserably at it...who knows, if I can survive Coachella without any 7 & 7s thanks to Passover, maybe I'll be able to finally break the habit...

Seven and Seven's Last Call

If left to my own devices, I’d rather order a tall glass of chocolate milk than just about any other mixed drink. But, unfortunately, chocolate milk stopped being socially acceptable sometime around the second grade and for the past eighteen years I’ve been forced to hide my lingering childhood addiction like a premature bald spot on a teenager’s scalp (a Band-Aid which usually comes off as natural as a bad comb over). Back in the heady days of yore, aka college, I managed to squeak by living on a steady diet of Magic Hat and Stella. But, as my taste buds have evolved past kegs and my metabolism has slowed to the speed of a stoned snail, beer has crushed my six pack into a pile of hairy mash potatoes.

Fortunately, the summer after I graduated college I found a new signature drink, the Seven and Seven. As far as I can tell, I stole it from my friend Jon who stole it from our friend Dyer who is actually so retro he manages to be one of my most forward thinking friends. I fell hard for the Seven and Seven for several reasons (besides the fact that it making for good alliteration): First, it’s a somewhat mysterious drink which always starts conversation. Second, it has a girly taste, but macho ingredients, which immediately makes its cooler than your average vodka cranberry. Third, it contains whisky which automatically squashes any comparisons to its sophomoric younger sibling, the Rum and Coke. From August 2003 through February 2007 I ordered a Seven and Seven on almost every occasion I could, to the point that both my parents and my employer immediately placed it on my tab at all family/phamily functions. Its name served as more than a few conversation starters at bars and its alcohol content served as the catalyst for even more unnecessarily feuds with members of the opposite sex. But, now, after all this time together, I’m forced to retire my whisky to the cabinet and search for a new drink at my favorite watering holes.

Why you might ask? Well, for one thing, as the collegiate cycle has rolled on a new crop of alcoholic freshmen have claimed the drink as their own, rendering it the new Rum and Coke and, therefore, just about as socially acceptable as freshman Fridays in the dorms (or, more accurately, Falstaffs for those of you from Saratoga Springs). I’ve also noticed that it does wonders to my breath and as I’ve gained confidence in club-like environments that has posed quite the problem. And, in an effort to smooth out all my unconscious nervous habits, I’m trying to stop myself from chewing ice in public (we’ll deal with paper crumbling and blogging in future entries on the subject). So, for now, I am officially retiring the Seven and Seven as a dietary staple. Perhaps it will pop up again at a party or two, but, as of now, I’m searching for a new signature drink. That is, of course, until chocolate milk becomes so retro is its once again cool.