DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY

   I'm an old bartender, which means I was once a young bartender. People think of bartenders as soft upstairs, sort of like the character of Woody from the TV sitcom Cheers. In truth, a bartender who takes pride in the craft has many skills not called for in the bartenders guide: they are called on to maintain control of drunks, to diplomatically cut them off before they lose control, they are called on to counsel the lovelorn, or the depressed, to know a little about many subjects, and of course, to have a deep knowledge of cocktail recipes as well as a taste memory of the various bottles on display.
   I once worked with such a bartender. Stan was the the rare old bartender. He was then my age now. I was a young novice. Stan had an encyclopedic memory of classic cocktails and their history. People, mostly men, would stride up to the bar, lay down a $5 dollar bill and name a drink that might stump Stan. Invariably he would make the requested cocktail, charge the patron the appropriate amount, and put the five dollars in the tip jar. Needless to say, working with Stan was informational and rewarding. He always split those tips with the other bartenders. Maybe he was a Socialist.
   Part of the pharmacopeia of every bar is a bottle of Angostura bitters. It sits next to the spill-mat along with the sugar cubes.it is the essential ingredient in an Old Fashioned, soak the sugar cube with bitters, drop in an old fashioned glass, add a spritz of soda, muddle then add ice and rye whiskey. Garnish with an orange slice. Angostura is 9%alcohol, eighteen proof, but you use only a few drops. I was once in an Italian fisherman's bar in Martinez, California, near Oakland. Among the selection of liquor and liqueurs was a bottle of bitters liquor, Ferna Branca. The Italian bartender told me that it was a digestif. If you read the label of Angostura, it is called a "stomachic". Digestif-stomachic, they mean the same thing, it cures stomach distress.
   I was young enough then to read the very fine print, and I made a lot of tips helping patrons with their digestive disturbances. If you have the hic-cups, a lime soaked with bitters, problem solved. If you suffer from post-prandial bloating, soda, lime, a liberal dose of bitters, you can regale the woman next to you with your wit and charm without looking like Mitch McConnel attending a reception at the Osama's. Come to think of it, Mitch McConnel, even when he's  happy appears to suffer from Irritable Bowel Sundrome.
   My knowledge of other cultures is mostly from consuming books and histories, and the food and beverages indigenous to these cultures. The food, while enjoyable can sometimes necessitate the aid of Angostura bitters. I eat ethnic food in places where the owners are ethnic, and the language has the rythm of that culture. Olive Garden is not my family.
   My wife and I had heard of an Ethiopean restaurant in Portland which was garnering some attention. I knew hardly anything about Ethiopia, save the Eritrian conflict and its religious history. It seemed authentic as we walked in, based on the North-African ethnicity of its smiling owner and the lack of western eating utensils. We each had a bowl of rose petal scented water to dip our fingers in, and a plate of a kind of flatbread to sop up the food. It was spongy, thicker than a tortilla, and filled with holes made by bubbles that had burst in the baking process, like the holes in Swiss cheese that come from fermenting bacteria in the whey. These voids were so absorbent that no remnant of the sauces remained on the plate.
   Oh, what wonderful foods and sauces. Savory lamb (or was it goat) seasoned with rosemary and saffron. Tabbouleh, with lemon and parsley, dates stuffed with goat cheese, and many more offerings I no longer remember. They were consumed by tearing off a chunk of the delicious flatbread, using it and your fingers to carry the food, dripping with sauces, to your mouth. Each offering was a sensual delight and I got quite carried away. I even asked for more flatbread as I licked the sauce from my fingers.
   When Nancy and I had dipped our fingers in the rosewater for the last time, I had to loosen my belt a couple of notches. We paid our bill, complimented the staff on our delightful experience, and after leaving a generous tip, walked out to our car hand-in-hand.
   During the short walk the flatbread was swelling in our stomachs. By the time we arrived home we were suffering such pains of gastric distress we wore the expressions of a church lady who had taken a wrong turn and stumbled on a nudist camp.
   Not to worry. In my liquor cabinet was an unopened bottle of Angostura bitters., and in the fridge plenty of soda. I cut up some lime wedges, squeezed them into two tall tumblers with ice, and added the soda, followed by so many drops of bitters that the drink became a deeply textured brown. We drank the concoction then sat down to watch TV and let the carminative effect take place. After one more round of drinks, it did.
   Many of us are not suffering from over-consumption. What we eat is available in our cupboards. Ethnic food comes from an ethic to make palatable that which we have available. In politics we face the same choice of making palatable that which we are stuck with. At present we must accept a bloated gasbag that leaves us bilious and out of sorts.
   There is no stomachic for political distemper. A digestif dignifies a process lacking in dignity. Party affiliation can sometimes temper excesses of consumption. At this time, and for one party in particular, the bloated, gaseous state has achieved normalcy and relief does not appear on the horizon. Those of us who were distressed by the lingering stench of that condition have only recently been gifted with some relief. A group of young Democratic women who are taking the inedible gruel of corporate politics and replacing it with delightful flavors from cultures we know little of. This group, led by is led by a former bartender; a young woman of Puerto Rican ancestry from New York City. She has a quick wit and the ability to get under the skin of old white men. She has brought rosewater and spice to a body where pre-packaged meals were previously served. She and her colleagues are the Angostura bitters we have needed to dissolve the biliousness in our political digestion. There is now hope for us. Democrats are by nature progressive. Perhaps too incremental for some, perhaps too liberal for others. The history of mankind is progressive. This is what gives conservatives gastric distress. When viewed from afar, humans have made great progress. When viewed from up close progress has been glacial. Thanks to global warming those glaciers are melting faster than ever in recorded history. Faster than humans are progressing. Someday soon even Texans will be forced to acknowledge global warming. Knowing Texans, it will come as their coastline is pushed inland. When that happens, they will join a chorus of voters angry at those who told us global warming is a myth. That day will be a great leap forward and Democrats will be in the vanguard.
   A wise man once said, "revenge is a dish best served cold". This dish will be cold once it is served, but no less savory.