In Poppe Culture, my mystery novel about Skids Poppe, ex-motorcycle gang member turned journalist who solves crimes, I created a drink named after the erstwhile main character:
When I turned back to try and reintroduce myself, my bartender was setting a large glass down in front of me. I didn’t recall ordering a drink, but okay, I was ready to go with the flow.
Then he poured the drink. Not from a regular shaker, mind you, but from what looked like the crankcase of a ’59 panhead. In my mind, I was thinking it couldn’t be real, it would be too heavy, but the bartender was a big guy and he was having a bit of difficulty lifting it so maybe it was. Certainly what came out of it looked real. I mean the liquid he was pouring into my cup looked like it could have come from the crankcase of a ’59 panhead. It was thick and syrupy and looked like it needed changing about 5000 miles ago.
I leaned in to smell it. It smelled sweet and very alcoholic. The bartender smiled at me and put a small appliance around the rim of my glass. By this point, everyone around me at the bar was paying attention. Obviously this wasn’t a regular occurrence and I was wondering what I did to deserve such an honor. By the time the bartender finished fiddling with my glass, it looked like something out of one of the Mad Max films. It now had a twisted metal handle and a small area along the lip to drink from. No subtlety here. The piece de resistance came when the bartender pulled an unopened spark plug box from someplace under the bar. He fitted the plug into the contraption on the glass and set the whole thing down in front of me.
Suddenly, the music stopped. The woman who was singing announced the band would be taking a little break and they would be back in 20 minutes. I used the momentary lull to my advantage.
I looked the bartender in the eye. “What the hell is this?
“This,” he said, grabbing the handle, “is a ‘Skids Poppe.'” He pushed the mug closer while triggering an unseen battery, which set off the spark plug, which in turn lit the entire thing on fire. I felt like I had just been handed the remains of an accident and was being asked to drink the blood of the vanquished.
And now, evidently this guy called The Archeologist has created a unique gin bottled and infused with vintage Harley Davidson Motorcycle parts. Seems like I need a bottle or two, just for display if nothing else.