The other week, my filmmaker took me out for a stroll about the town, for a prance and a promenade, to enjoy the freshly cool evening air. We soon found ourselves at a favorite, albeit comically decorated, local spot, where we had a drink and a pleasant conversation with our ebullient bar tender. The decor is an amalgamation of hotel bar sophistication and pathetic Euro-trash pathos, complete with an illuminated faux-marble bar top, however, this aesthetic swims rather swimmingly and does not falter one bit. On that particular evening, I chose a very spicy interpretation of a margarita, which incorporated lemon, as opposed to the traditional lime, along with steaming and powerful red chili peppers. Definitely not a libation that will suit the everyman's palette, but precisely the kick to the tongue that I desired that evening. The lemon, though an acceptable and versatile foundation, truly provided no flavor angle with this drink; it was all about the heat. Unfortunately, this week does not seem to bode well; it seems rather ominous that on a late Monday evening, gazing out my office window, I am, already, craving one of these pert and sensually obtrusive cocktails.