Sitting here in Connecticut, I found myself actually emailing a certain bar proprietor down in Mérida, asking him if he had Angostura bitters. As I’ve noted before, my cocktail of choice is the Rob Roy, and the admittedly more appropriate-to-the-region margaritas are just not cutting it as a pre-dinner aperitif. I’m not a beer drinker, either. The proprietor had been advertising his cocktail menu on Facebook, so the question was not too out-of-the-blue. He replied that no, he had no bitters, but he will email me when and if he gets his hands on some. A new, very chichi bar in the tourist district promised Manhattans on the menu, and listed Angostura bitters as an ingredient. I could barely believe my eyes. But when I ordered one they admitted they had no bitters and suggested a splash of Campari instead. Not the same thing at all, but I was polite about it and drank it anyway. I hate to waste liquor.
Paul and I even seriously contemplated, just for a hot minute, packing a carton of bitters into our luggage and distributing them to our friends and favorite watering holes, just so they could make my drink. Such is my story of not adjusting to the local cuisine, at least the liquid cuisine.