"Where's the money, Lebowski? Where's the money, Lebowski. Where's the fucking money, shithead?"
"It's down there somewhere. Let me take another look."
That was essentially Trevor and I with our White Russians.
After dinner, we both ordered one and, naturally, the conversation turned to The Big Lebowski. We started talking about the movie, what it was actually about, what the point was, and why a rug could somehow become such an important part of a man's life.
Then we took a sip.
Something was missing.
So we took another.
Still missing.
A White Russian isn't exactly a complicated cocktail. Vodka, coffee liqueur and cream should come together into something rich, creamy and balanced. When it works, it's indulgent without being overly sweet, and there's a reason The Dude seems to have made them a lifestyle choice.
The Proper's version didn't quite get there.
The balance was off, and it lacked the creamy richness I was expecting. We couldn't quite put our finger on what had gone wrong, although we did wonder whether skim milk had somehow found its way into the equation.
Whatever the reason, it wasn't quite right.
So, naturally, we gave it another chance.
Another sip.
Another assessment.
Maybe the next one would reveal what we were missing.
It didn't.
At this point, our conversation about The Big Lebowski had become less about the movie and more about trying to figure out where the hell the White Russian had gone wrong.
"Where's the White Russian, Lebowski?"
"Where's the White Russian, Lebowski?"
"Where's the fucking White Russian, shithead?"
It's down there somewhere.
Let me take another look.
We did.
Repeatedly.
And unfortunately, The Dude did not abide.