Liquidity Issue & Text from an Ex

I'm the world's famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.

What can I say? That Biona Organic Agave Syrup works really well with Margarita's, according to American Bar's Mikko. And if that's not enough, it's glucemic index is great, meaning it gives you more sustainable energy than regurlar sugar. It's right there with fructose, and much better than honey. It follows logically that a Margarita with Agave Syrup is a health drink!

OK, didn't manage an impressive cocktail report this time. But you'll understand when you hear my excuses.

Excuse n:o 1: Liquidity problems. Yes, I know, liquidity should not be a problem for someone who handles liquids for a job, but I mean financial liquidity. The thing is, my capital is purely symbolic and social, and I gotta be really careful in exchanging it into economic capital, lest it diminish. In other words, can't sell out. So, please donate, N.O.W.

Excuse n:o 2: I got a text from an Ex.

Started the night by going to an exhibition opening at Mutageeni, displaying paintings by my friend Jenny Majke Suhonen. Downed two plastic cupfulls of punch, got suspicious - and yes, I was told it contained no alcohol! Got bored, left. Decided to take a healthy walk around Töölönlahti park. Got a text. From an ex. That Man. "I've got two tickets to Huvila tonight. Wanna come?" I immediately knew the answer: No way! I do wanna come, but not with you, slime! I was furious. And hurt again. Memories of the two weeks when I was his girlfriend flickered past my eyes in form of an r'n'b videoclip. How did I reply? I am ashamed. "At 7?"

Went home, sipped through a bottle of rosé and did the styling. Went overboard with sexyness, and knew I was giving in to the marshmellows. Meat is weak. Felt hugely feminine as I approached his familiar parfume-sweat-feromones-mix at the entrance. It made me feel tipsy. Which, of course, I was anyway. He let his hand run along my back. Went in.

Forgot about the band (does anyone really go to see a band for the music? come on!) and stayed outside at the bar drinking sparkling throughout the gig. Exchanged long looks, laughed at nothing and anything, felt a lot of marshmellows in the knickers. Oops, run into friends. They immediately abducted me behind the tent and tried to talk sense to me. "I'm in the flow", I laughed to mock my friend who practises meditation. "You've got to live in the Now." They gave up and hoped for the best.

Left the tent together, were proceeding towards his flat half blind, saliva secretion accelerating, marsmellows burning sweeter each second, when a woman who was passing by began staring. She stopped. Then he stopped. And me: I froze. He quickly dropped his hand off my waist.
"Hi!" he said.
The woman looked at me.
I noticed the top she was wearing underneath her jacket. Had I not seen that on his floor on that awful night? So, I found out he wasn't a trasvestite. He was worse.

I should have caused a scene. What had I to lose? It's that old trick of labelling a woman hysterical that holds us tame in this Millenium as in the Roman Empire when the Europeans were giving public shows displaying hysteria attacks of women.
I didn't cause any trouble at all, and that's exactly why men like him have always been able to sneak out of trouble from Bronze Age until the current Virtual Reality.

I broke myself free from the freeze. "Well, I'm going, see you later", I announced and let my shoes do the walking, my eyes do the mourning.

Met my friends again at Bar Devil and didn't cry for long. You know what? They were all compassion and none of the what-did-I-tell-you. They know how it is.

Superb Liquids & The Night of the Missing Target

I'm the world's famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.

Ginger, Cinnamon, Chili = CCC = Creat Cool Cocktails we had at the new Farang. They were definetely not ruined by the beauty who served them. With looks and manners of some imaginary Sheikh of Alhaban in a dirty romance novel, he made us feel like having been happily kidnapped to a harem: time for an interview.

I didnt want to know much: just his marital status and his name. Only the latter was disclosed: Not Ross as in Friends, but Rosh with h in the end. Rosh, who's, as it happens, the bar manager himself.

Drank 2 Lady Bois and 1 Lingon Lulu, both Asian infused and superb but the formentioned more to my taste e.g. sweet and crispy sour. Discovered the secret: selfmade syrups and seasoned vodkas.


Headed towards the classic, the American Bar. Had three drinks, but forgot take notes and don't know what they were anymore. One had a lot of ice slush, a Daiquiri? And the other one was red and served in a martini glass. The most interesting was the third one. The cue for it's name is that it made me ask the bartender if it contains potato. "No, it means chili", he replied. Weird.

I did roll out my note pad though. Nodded the bartender Mikko Kemppinen, who seemed flattered to be interviewed by me the WFCJ.
WFCJ: "Why do the cocktails I mix at home nearly always turn shit?" (My vocabulary was getting somewhat limited at this point) He new exactly what I was talking about though.
MK: "Ice gets wet."
I knew it! Every time I bring this up in a conversation with amateurs they look at me like I was a cute but stupid child.
MK: "The ice you use inside the mixer, you throw off afterwards. The ice you use to cool the glasses, throw it off. Use only dry ice in the drinks."

Hah, there you go ignorants: dry ice is possible!

My friend got a text from someone, announcing we had our names on the list for the record release of some band at Belly. "Let's go to Corona bar instead", I suggested. "There will be drink tickets", she replied.

At Belly I drunk what I couldn't get as an environment: Corona. That ment I was officially finishing my night shift and beginning recreational drinking. Sadly, the place was not inhabiting Target Group, which is self evident considering the band: Coldplay number 107. Surrounded by sentimental and all too earnest 19-year olds with cute hairdos like dogs have, I gave up of the possiblity of Details happening, although Chris Martin himself is shagging with that MILF Gwyneth Paltrow; and you never know if the fans might follow. But you know, toy boys are not my thing anyway. And, hate to admit it, I'm not exactly Gwyneth Paltrow.

It was cosy, really, sitting in the corner table with my good old friend, having a chat above our beers. She, seriously commited to a man for a record breaking 12 years already, gave me a couple of useful tips. For example:

The Experienced: "When a man you live with is going out with the boys and suggests on his way out that, "It might be fun for you to stay over at your mum's place tonight!" what do you do?
WFCJ: "I tell him it might be fun for him to stay out on the yard tonight. It might be cool to watch the garbage men come in the morning."
The E: "Oops, oops, oops. You never complain on his behaviour right away. You wait until it's a nice relaxed moment and the situation is not on. And even then, you say it nicely."
WFCJ: "Yeah, but he was obviously just trying to make me go to my mothers because he wants to sleep late and enjoy his own company next day when hang over!"
The E: "Yes, that's his motive."
WFCJ: "That's selfish! And he was trying to make it look like I wanted to go to my mothers! Although he knows I hate my mother!"
The E: "Darling, people are selfish, and their motives are selfish. You need to accept it, and not make a fight out every little detail. You let go." (Did you notice? She said every little Detail!)
WFCJ: "I don't think I'm ready for a serious relationship."
The E: "Oh, you'll grow."
WFCJ: "But I'm already -- " Shit. Sorry, that IS a secret.
The E: "People are just different."

Holiday Summary

I'm the world's famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.

Finally back to work! A new Asian influenced restauraunt Farang has opened. Naturally, I was attending the opening but now, I will go undercover, some serious cocktail reportage in mind.

While I'm putting on make up and getting changed between 10-15 times before leaving, here's a summary of my summer holiday (drinking only beer, cider, whisky and wine. And brandy.)

* Met a man, a doctor, gorgeous. Became a girlfriend: doing grocery shopping together, meeting his friends, watching DVD:s on his couch, forgetting my friends, leaving their texts unreplied (sorry girls! I regret it deeply!). Until one early morning I made a surprise visit to his place, threw my clothes on the floor, and noticed there were already women's clothes on the floor. His? Some other woman's? I didnt stay to ask.
* Took a cab, made a last minute booking for the next flight to Nice, joining 3 of my friends already getting burnt there. Went straight from his, from here on known as That Man, place to the airport. Was forced to shop new clothes in Nice every day. Proved highly therapeutic. Didn't feel like shagging anyone yet though, so I had to gently push a cute bartender who fancied me towards my friend Miss G who fancied him, or, more honestly, anyone. The sex proved class A.
* Back in Helsinki, ended up in some Flow festival. Planned to work, but no cocktails at the Flow. They did have champagne, though. That explains the next morning. Before that, drunk between 5-9 tiny tiny bottles of the sparkling, talked to strangers at the bar, and ignored the whimpy "indie" bands whining and looking like they're about to collapse. Grace Jones, perfoming last, did get me on that cougar mood later on, but all I found was too young too "indie" men. People who look like virtual characters in the Internet, encoded by some lonely nerd. As if they're disembodied, living only in their head, in some imaginary world where everything is ironic & supposedly cool. Call me oldfashioned, but I'm all into bodies and energy. These people are anti-materia.
* Met my upstairs neighbours, shared a cab, listened to myself from the outside, as my lips were producing a monologue about how much I like children (they have those), and the real me was struggling with non-stop hick-ups.
* Next day I was cuddling the toilet seat intimately from 7 am to 2 pm, for reasons beyond by my control. I even, naively, made the classic decision: I will never touch etanol again. Hah!

I'm on holiday, in urgent matters, you can try..

to find me in Nice.


I'm the world famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.

Back at the office (=bar) sometime during the autumn, depending on situation with 'details' and 'target groups' in Nice area.

While on holidays, no cocktail reports, however, since what else would I have a holiday from? So I'll be drinking only beer, cider and wine. And scotch. And brandy.

Afterwards I'll be back with improvements. As it happens, I met a Japanese web business guru here in Nice, and he suggested a couple of developments to my approach. (And no, I don't mean 'developments' and 'my approach'.) So once I'm back at the office (yes, 'office'), I'll introduce some cool little gadgety applicationalities to keep all of us great personalities happy and well served. (As my friend said it, my glass is always half empty, and someone needs to fill it up, now!)

Perfect Margarita and Not So Perfect Single Males (What's Wrong With Them?!!)

I'm the world's famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.

While on her way home from visiting a friend at around midnight, world famous cocktail journalist received a SMS: At Grotesk yard with Mss S. Come! Love, Mss M.

I immediately recognized duty's call and turned my bicycle wheels into a new direction. In the lovely summer yard I found my friends Mss M and Mss S with another friend Mss M. Plus some new friends: Miss X, half Finnish, half Saudi-Arabian, a DOLL whom you gotta love (she said my selfmade little leather cuff could be Chanel), her work mate Mr X from Norway, and his mate Mr X from Ireland, the latter of whom happened to know Mss M already (don't want to know the details....and I'm lying... and I don't even know if there are any 'details', [oh, were there any Details last night? oh yes, you bet, such a Detailed night... and how were his Details? I'm into Details; Etc.]), and, in another table, more friends, the pretty and lushy blond Mss T, and another tall good looking blond Mss A -and all of these people wild and single, I assume. (Except for Mss S, who is seriously dating Mr V.)

At the bar the cocktail reporting possibility of Grotesk was visibly laid down on the bartenders' worktop in the form of fresh watermelon, mint, strawberries. As well as in the beautifully salt rimmed and icylemonysharp looking margarita sailing past my eyes in someones hand. At the moment, though, my code broke a bit, so I approached the bartender (another blonde Mr) as follows:

"Hi, I'm a world famous cocktail journalist. And I would like to order that drink with the salt trim, hmmm... Daiquiri?"

"No, that's a Margarita."

Luckily, my friend Mss T, the lushy one with breasts and all, appeared at the bar and begun her witty sexy flirt with the bar workers. That left me some time to create a new approach. Fandom.

"I love cocktails but good ones are rare. How does one become a pro cocktail bartender like you?" Saved. I hope there weren't people waiting in line for their drinks, as I spent some good five minutes at the bar. Learning the following:

The bartenders name was Victor Über, or that's what I first heard, until he corrected by pressing it's Nyberg, not Über. According to him and later on verified by googling by the WF investigative J, he is known in the bar circles in Finland, competed in the art of making cocktails, led various bars, often with his cute mate at Grotesk, whose name I forgot (either the face or name, isn't it? or, of course, the bod, and you know, sometimes something they say). And I learned, not only the difference between daiquiri and margarita but also this factum/opinion:

* Anyone can work in a bar. But to manage a bar, or to make cocktails in a quality joint, you need a 4 year education (which Victor himself, naturally, had acquire, plus some additional 4 years specializing)

* Bartending schools in Finland produce world's top bartenders

* In London, almost as nice a cocktail city as Hel Sin Ki ,you start from the bottom pooring beer, then you climb to the GT-mixing level, and, if you're good, only then you can dream of mixing a real cocktail (which doesn't stop me from planning to open a health drink herbal massage cocktail bar, serving also various chocolates, with the target group guess which sex?)

* Bad cocktails are typically too watery. Which is caused when the ice cubes used to cool the glasses are left to melt, and the resulting water is not carefully removed before pooring in the drink

* Cocktail quality is mostly up to the quality of the ingredients

* In Helsinki, only 6 bars can afford or care to use fresh produce. The list in random order:
1. Grotesk
2. Shaker
3. Sling In
4. A21
6. American Bar

* Soon, in The Night of The Arts in Helsinki, there's a cocktail festival at Apollo Live Club. Minuses: crowdy and the place is "Sedula" which is Finnish for tacky. Pluses: superb cocktails come cheap.

* And, in early 2000 Mr Victor Über himself (sorry, can't resist) had run a bar specializing in herbs (not talking about The Herb here), more than 20 of them, in Helsinki. And I said to him: "You were too early. Start again now. Take it from the World Famous Cocktail Journalist."

Back at the table, Mss M1 was anxiously waiting for her vodka cranberry which I promised to deliver and did, eventually. Us ladies took a round of compliments from each other (Mss M1's new soft ocra hair makes her look even more beautiful, my ear rings were gorgeous, etc. etc.). The two guys were keeping quiet, either shy, thinking we and women in general are stupid, or both, I assume. To make it worse, I decided to reveal the company my real purposes.

I told about my profession (WFCJ), and tried to interview Mr X from Ireland about his Mojito. Is it a good one? Him and Mss M2 were not getting it. "It's a Mojito, it tastes like a Mojito", they said. I was offering a glue by telling how I had often had very dissapointing Margarita's. "How can you fail making a Margarita?" Mr X from I asked. I'm telling you, it's people like this who keep the status of cocktail artists low.

"Well, for example, Margarita could be too stiff, too sweet, too soury, or too... watery?" As they didn't nod or give any feedback I looked for another word and immediately realized a joke. "Too wet?" Okay, now the guys really thought I was stupid. "Hey, my drink is too wet!" I yelled. As I said watery again, Mr X from I helped me out with my English: "Watery, yes, but not wet."

Which leads me to the theme of the rest of the night, shared by myself, Mss M1 and Mss S: Men. Before that, the drink test.

Margarita in Grotesk, Helsinki, was empeccable.

The 2, or 3, companies parted, and the three girlfriends were sharing gossip at Beetroot, drinking vodka cranberry.

"Is it possible that it was that bright red hair that kept the guys alert and away for the past 12 years???!!!"

"Is it possible that it is only this blonde hair that makes them so interested now?!"

"When a man cuddles and kisses a woman all night when they're out at bars, and then, when together in the taxi heading towards intimacy, all the sudden ask the driver to stop and escapes, and when this happens repeatedly for months on, does it mean that the man is gay?"

"This guy I've been sleeping with lately, although it's not something that is leading anywhere (this is what they all say when something really good is beginning, not just recognising it yet), is in the top on the sex list. Maybe even the top 1."

"Going three hours on end."

"We envy you!" (having boyfriends, a big mistake if looking from this 'detailed' angle)

"This guy is really nice but there's a lot of problematic stuff going on in his head."

"There's a lot of THAT around."

Details. Details. Details.