“Jeppson’s Malört, a liqueur, is a brand of bäsk produced by the Carl Jeppson Company of Chicago. Jeppson’s Malört is named after Carl Jeppson, the Swedish immigrant who first popularized and sold the liquor in Chicago. Malört is the Swedish word for wormwood, which is the key ingredient in a bäsk, a type of Swedish schnapps.”
We have Wikipedia to thank for that wonderfully underwhelming description of Malört, a Chicago drink that has been heralded by many of my friends as “something you HAVE to try if you live here!” While I usually respect the people of Chicago as a whole, this is something they have entirely, sadly, utterly wrong.
I invited some friends out for drinks one Friday so we could ring in my birthday at midnight. We had a merry time, as the hip folk say (they also say “hip folk”) and Christina tried so hard to keep up with my vodka cranberry consumption that she ended up lying her head on the table while we argued whether she was dead or just asleep. We played darts for a bit, played a few songs on the jukebox, and galavanted around the beer garden petting dogs. It wasn’t until my friend Brian showed up that things went quite awry.
Brian arrived, and he and Stacy, who had been there most of the evening, went to get another round. Dylan had taken Christina home once the clock hit midnight because he was afraid his carriage would turn back into a pumpkin. Stacy came back to the table with a shot glass full of what looked like pee.
“Happy birthday!” she yelled. “Drink this for the blog!” I instantly regretted telling her I wanted to take a shot of Malört for the blog. I love my readers, though (all 16 of them), and I thought “If Harambe can take a shot, so can I.” So I threw it back with the gusto of a man who had never tried Malört, then complained and cried about it with the shame of a man who just made a terrible mistake. Here’s video proof:
Malört tastes like a dog peed on a grapefruit, then ran some dish soap over it, squeezed the juice out, and peed in the juice, too. Props to the dog for figuring out how to do all that, but shame on the man (me) who subjects himself to that kind of physical torture.
I recovered after a window of time I’d prefer not to disclose, and continued to pound Tito’s and cranberry. By the time I left the bar, I had been 25 for about two hours and absolutely hammered for about three. I woke up to get breakfast with my dad and felt the pure hangover punishment that comes the morning after consuming liquefied satan.
In my next post, my friends and I learn what miracles taste like.
If you’re looking for a weekly dose of hilarity (other than ColeTries, of course), check out my friend’s podcast: Dumbass Podcast. I’m guest hosting an episode very soon, so look forward to that! But be warned—it’s NSFW.