As we wandered towards the Chamonix main drag, searching for sustenance and cheap alcohol, we passed a black door in a graffiti-scarred wall. Above the door was a small, unlit neon sign that you wouldn’t notice until you happened to be the Cadillac of Mikes. Fortunately, we had one of those with us.
“L’Amnesia!” Michael noted triumphantly, reading the sign. “Definitely going there later.”
We scoffed collectively, like a trio of hamsters sneezing. L’Amnesia looked like the kind of place where you get murdered and then raped. Definitely not the ideal destination for a quartet of adventurers with almost two full weeks of Europe yet to experience. It seemed prudent to wait until at least Barcelona before stumbling into some dank sex dungeon where old men in tight leather would whip us with dead cats and their wrinkled dicks.
Besides, why imagine our future in a Hostel-style torture cave when there was dinner to consider? France is known for like, food, I guess, and we weren’t let down by our intensely dense meal. You haven’t had french onion soup until you’ve had it in France, which makes sense, I suppose, considering the name and all. They probably just call it onion soup. Not that I would know, though – I simply plopped a thick finger on the menu and grunted “Oui” at the meal steward. Regardless, french onion soup is a good way to gain ten pounds in a sitting. We returned to our hotel room impressively thickened. And with a newfound drink – Gordon’s Titanium.
I’d describe the appearance of the can, but it can probably speak for itself:
The taste, however, I must at least attempt to describe. Imagine draining a car battery of its corrosive fluids, then mixing in a dozen freshly squeezed limes. Just the limp, juiceless peels, mind you, not the actual sour juice. Add a dash of pepper, a handful of coffee grounds pulled from the trash, some of the the trash, and the blood of a virgin orphan. Mix it all together in the boot of a World War I soldier with trench foot and serve it in, well, you saw the can. That about sums it up. It’s like choking down a gasoline-soaked sock.
And holy hell does it get you fucked up.
Midnight was nearing and L’Amnesia was all too suddenly back on the menu. In fact, it was the only thing on the menu. Maybe there wasn’t even a menu. I don’t know. I was blotto.