I have been trying to get my hands on OJ's Spicy Guava Margarita all summer.
Every time I ordered it, they were out of one of the ingredients. At this point, ordering it had become less of a cocktail request and more of an annual pilgrimage. I had accepted that perhaps the Spicy Guava Margarita was a fictional beverage designed specifically to disappoint me.
Then came roofing day.
I was up on my house, alone, installing metal roofing while fighting both the heat and the wind, which is apparently how I choose to spend my time.
There was actual math involved. I had to break out the Pythagorean theorem to figure out some measurements, which was a rare and exciting opportunity to discover that something I learned in high school might actually have a practical application.
Turns out, a² + b² = c² is considerably more useful when you're trying to put a roof on a house than it ever was in a classroom.
Unfortunately, the theorem did not account for the wind deciding to introduce a piece of metal to my cornea.
Because apparently roofing wasn't already dangerous enough.
I went to the optometrist that same day. They put numbing drops in my eye, shone a light into it that was roughly equivalent to staring directly into the surface of the sun, removed the metal with tweezers, and then discovered it had left a rust ring on my cornea.
So naturally, out came the tiny drill.
Yes.
They drilled my eyeball.
At this point, I couldn't help but think the optometrist should probably have been wearing safety glasses. It would have been an absolutely spectacular piece of irony if, while drilling the rust ring out of my eye, a tiny piece of that rust had flown directly into hers.
I'd have had to come back the next day like, "So… how's your eye?"
The next day, it was +28°C in Lloydminster, I was meeting a friend for drinks, and OJ's finally had the ingredients for the margarita I had been hunting all summer.
And, honestly, they could have put almost anything in a glass over ice at that point and I probably would have been happy.
It was 28 degrees.
I had spent the previous day getting metal removed from my cornea.
I was thirsty.
But I got the Spicy Guava Margarita.
Visually, it's a beautiful pinkish-red. At least I think it is. My colour perception had recently been outsourced to a cornea that had been stabbed by roofing metal, excavated with tweezers and subsequently drilled, so I'm not entirely sure my eyes were operating within manufacturer specifications.
The guava is pleasant, the Tajín adds some flavour and salt, and the jalapeños provide a little kick. There's enough spice to make the name legitimate, but it isn't particularly aggressive.
Did it knock my socks off?
No.
Did it crack my personal top ten?
Not remotely.
Did I have an “OH MY FUCKING GOD” moment?
Nope.
It's simply a good margarita. Nothing about it was bad, and I enjoyed drinking it, but after spending all summer trying to get one, I think I'd built it up into something considerably more impressive than what eventually arrived in the glass.
I'd order it again, especially on a hot summer day. But there are plenty of margaritas I’ve had that I'd choose before this one.