The bar is huge, circling one edge of the tent, and it’s already surrounded by thirsty customers. Blackboards dangle behind the bar staff’s heads with a different drink on each one. I can see three, called The Justin, The Vincent and The Oliver. The Vincent has been illustrated in chalk: a jam jar with a red cocktail umbrella and a violently red concoction inside. The ingredients listed below include: whiskey, chilli liqueur, blood orange juice, lime juice, and their finest hot sauce.
‘Good heavens,’ I mutter.
‘Are all of these drinks designed to give your mouth third degreeburns, Ham?’ Hennie asks.
‘Yes, babe, of course,’ Josh chimes, tapping the bar with anticipation. Owen points out another blackboard to me.
‘If you want the least hot option, the Cameron is pretty easy.’
I nod, grateful for the recommendation. ‘What’s with the boys’ names?’ I ask.
‘It’s all about the tale of Martha Jane,’ Josh explains, casting his hands out as if we were about to share a mystic tale of great significance. ‘On the outside she’s all cute and wholesome and has the cosy cafe out front going on. But every man she’s ever married disappears without a trace. So the legend goes that she killed them all in cold blood and burned them in the fireplace.’
‘So the cocktails are named after her dead husbands?’ Elliot asks.
‘Sure are. All seven of them,’ Josh confirms.
I look around for more dead husband drink options and catch the eager eyes of a man to my right, also waiting for a drink. I quickly look away.
‘So, what’ll it be?’ Owen asks us.
There is, indeed, a milder option combining cucumber, lime and syrup with tequila and just a hint of hot sauce. Probably my best bet for staying alive.
‘A Cameron, please.’
‘Solid choice,’ Owen replies.
‘In the interest of self-preservation,’ I say. ‘These are on me, by the way.’
Owen tries to protest but I wave him off. I owe everyone here for one thing or another. It’s the least I can do.
Hennie chooses The Vincent along with the rest of the group: the spiciest option.
As the dazzlingly pretty barmaid with wild golden curls disappears to make our drinks, two crewmen emerge frombehind the bar carrying a small, wooden stage between them, placing it perfectly in the centre of the tent before rushing backstage again.
The barmaid reappears with four glasses filled with fiery red liquid, and one golden one.
My delightful golden cocktail gleams in a thick, wonky glass, begging me to taste it. After I’ve paid for the drinks, I cautiously take a sip and find myself wincing at the rush of heat hitting the back of my throat. Given this is the ‘mild’ choice, I’m thankful to Owen for the recommendation.
This is confirmed when Josh takes a sip of his Vincent and immediately splutters, taking deep breaths. Owen turns away from us, politely covering his mouth as he’s hit with a coughing attack.
Elliot’s drink still sits in front of me on the bar. I slide it towards him with a wicked grin and he stares down at it with dread.
‘Oh my God, they made it even worse,’ Josh croaks, clutching onto Owen’s shoulder. ‘Get a medic.’
Hennie’s eyes water mercilessly as she fans her face.
I always wonder why people choose to do this themselves, but ultimately feel I should at least try to be supportive.
‘You alright?’ I ask, giving her a pat.
She nods, still looking pained. ‘It tastes illegal.’
‘Is it strong? Or just hot?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘But I’m definitely talking a little slower.’
‘It feels like my mouth is gone,’ Josh says with wonder. He doesn’t sound unhappy about it. ‘Is that charming bald man going to appear and start asking me thoughtful questions?’
