Sipping Cocktails Quotes

Did you just spit something?” he asked, sounding curious and amused … “Never would have pegged you as a spitter, Vivian.” Eyes suddenly wide, I sat straight up, almost levitating from the bed, then rallied. “Only when it’s something not worth swallowing.” Hello line, I believe I just crossed over you. I distinctly heard Clark choke on a sip of what I assumed was his Scotch.

What the hell was your pal Bertin demanding?” he asked. “Sipping syrup?” “It’s a cocktail he prefers when he gets, ah, overly excited.” “A cocktail?” “Of sorts. Lemon–lime soda, vodka, codeine in solution, and a Jolly Rancher candy.” “A what?” “Bertin prefers the watermelon–flavored variety.” D’Agosta shook his head. “Christ. Only in Louisiana.” “Actually, I understand the concoction originated in Houston.

The idea of sharing a tradition with Isabella, even one as silly as a cocktail, pleased me even more than her potential jealousy, but I kept my voice bland as I took a sip.

When I regained my freedom, that was my cue to step out onto dry land—and, any time I want, to take vacations, sip a cocktail, drive my car, go to a resort, or stare out at the ocean.

She's going to castrate him,' Prince Envy said, swirling his signature cocktail, a Dark and Sinful, his expression one of mock contemplation as he sipped his blackberries sand bourbon.

An ice-cold Martini is like the first sip of water for a desert strandee — nectar from the Gods; a warm one is a human rights violation and tastes more like Bear Grylls' regular drink of choice

Raj lifted a finger and the front door shut behind him. With hollow steps he entered the kitchen. Inside, his dad sat at a fold-out table for two sipping from his bottomless cocktail. It was hard to breathe through all the smoke. The ashtray on the table was already full, a book of matches tossed beside it. His dad coughed before asking, “How was school?” Raj shrugged. “Same old.” “You stay out of trouble?

shy but handsome fellow is sitting at a club, sipping a cocktail, and sees a beautiful woman seated alone at the bar. After an hour of screwing up his courage he finally heads over to her and asks tentatively, "Um, hi. Would you mind if I chatted with you for a while?" She responds by yelling, at the top of her lungs, "No, I won't sleep with you tonight!" Everyone in the bar turns in unison and stares at them. Naturally, the poor guy is hopelessly

She watched as he put a few ice cubes in a heavy glass, then expertly curled a strip of grapefruit rind from one of the fruits in a bowl on the bar top. "This must be a favorite," she commented, nodding at the supply of grapefruit nestled in the bowl along with the usual lemons and limes. He poured a generous measure from the black bottle and handed it to her with a cocktail napkin. "See for yourself." Gemma wasn't in the habit of drinking gin neat, so she sniffed, then took a tentative sip. The flavors exploded in her mouth- coriander and juniper and lime and... grapefruit. "Oh, wow," she said, when her eyes stopped watering. "That is amazing. I'm converted.

Fukuoka, more than any other city in Japan, is responsible for ramen's rocket-ship trajectory, and the ensuing shift in Japan's cultural identity abroad. Between Hide-Chan, Ichiran, and Ippudo- three of the biggest ramen chains in the world- they've brought the soup to corners of the globe that still thought ramen meant a bag of dried noodles and a dehydrated spice packet. But while Ichiran and Ippudo are purveyors of classic tonkotsu, undoubtedly the defining ramen of the modern era, Hideto has a decidedly different belief about ramen and its mutability. "There are no boundaries for ramen, no rules," he says. "It's all freestyle." As we talk at his original Hide-Chan location in the Kego area of Fukuoka, a new bowl arrives on the table, a prototype for his borderless ramen philosophy. A coffee filter is filled with katsuobushi, smoked skipjack tuna flakes, and balanced over a bowl with a pair of chopsticks. Hideto pours chicken stock through the filter, which soaks up the katsuobushi and emerges into the bowl as clear as a consommé. He adds rice noodles and sawtooth coriander then slides it over to me. Compared with other Hide-Chan creations, though, this one shows remarkable restraint. While I sip the soup, Hideto pulls out his cell phone and plays a video of him layering hot pork cheeks and cold noodles into a hollowed-out porcelain skull, then dumping a cocktail shaker filled with chili oil, shrimp oil, truffle oil, and dashi over the top. Other creations include spicy arrabbiata ramen with pancetta and roasted tomatoes, foie gras ramen with orange jam and blueberry miso, and black ramen made with bamboo ash dipped into a mix of miso and onions caramelized for forty-five days.

I told the barman to pour me another. He looked at Georgette, who shrugged, then poured. I tossed that one back just as quick as the last one. “Look,” said Georgette, “Getting drunk doesn’t solve anything here.” “On the contrary,” I said, being contrary, “It solves me being sober.” “So you hit on him and he walked away. It’s not like that’s never happened before. And when I say hit on that was like a mortar round being fired more than anything else..” “Yes, but I didn’t mean to hit on him. I mean, I did, but I didn’t. I really like him.” “Oh, I think it’s safe to say at this point we’re aware that you like him,” said Georgette before sipping on her cocktail. “Like really, really like,” I said. She furrowed her eyebrows. “What, are you thirteen now?” I told the barman to pour again. He didn’t even look to Georgette this time. “Maybe. I feel like I’m thirteen. All hot and wet down below and not knowing what to do about it”. If the barman was listening in, he wasn’t showing it. ‘It seems you had a different childhood from me. Also, you’re very drunk.” “I should go and speak to him about this, right now.

Imagine the cocktail party raconteur who captivates his listeners with some adventure story while taking dramatic sips from a gin martini. Chances are he is not a writer. This seems counter-intuitive. After all, writers create characters that are so darn interesting. A good writer can hold you spellbound through a two-hundred page story. Why aren’t all writers scintillating, life-of-the-party types in person? Some are. But many are not. Part of the answer is that writers are not required to think on their feet. Spur-of-the-moment wittiness is a necessary quality for improv actors, talk-show hosts, and politicians. But writers don’t think or work in real time. They create at their own pace, spending hours or days on clever dialogue, or crafting a scene in which they get to micro-manage every detail. Real life doesn’t work like that. And that’s okay. There is really only one place where a writer needs to be absolutely charming and irresistible; not at cocktail parties, not on television, not in front of a live audience -- but on paper.

Two glass of Exile, formed in a brownish color, A sip to get lost and no where, to be found, brandy it's. The taste of it under the tongue, for the weekend, remain blessed, and intoxicated to dark rum, Dark till it grows glommy. drinking and sipping with purpose, With the rose of lousy laughter's, A moment to forget your worries, And live again the next day.

Looking at digital influencers, often at the beach or another luxurious destination in the background, sipping cocktails, or seeing them smiling with their families, shopping, looking good and confident, you realize that you don’t have any of that. Or at least not in the same way. You not just start comparing but also focusing on what’s missing in your life. Over time, you feel a void inside, that was never there before. But here’s the thing. This void is imaginary. It came to be because you let your guard down and allowed something to influence your brain. It turned out to be a well-thought-out tool for changing your whole life, but without your role in it.

I plucked the cherry off the stem with my teeth, looked anywhere but at Joe as I chewed and swallowed, took a sip of my vodka and cranberry juice to clear my mouth in preparation for my endeavor then popped the stem in. Within seconds, I’d done it. It wasn’t hard at all. I guessed it was like riding a bike. I slid the stem from between my lips, showed him the result and set it on my cocktail napkin. His clear blue eyes were on the stem when I asked, “You impressed?” His head tipped to my glass. “That your last?

At Roatan beach trip, you can enjoy the local music while taking a sip of your favourite tropical cocktails.must visit with your family and friends.

tycoons were sipping cocktails over ice cubes shipped from Antarctica.

BLOOD ORANGE MIMOSAS Hands-on: 10 min. Total: 12 min. We love the color blood oranges give this classic brunch cocktail. A dash of bitters adds depth. Look for orange bitters—such as Fee Brothers or Stirrings— at liquor stores or specialty grocers. The sugar cube dissolves as you sip, balancing the bitters and giving of bubbles for a festive touch. Juice the oranges and keep chilled up to a day ahead. 12 sugar cubes 1 ⁄ 2 teaspoon blood orange bitters or angostura bitters 1 7 1 ⁄ 2 cups sparkling wine, chilled 3 cups fresh blood orange juice (about 6 oranges) blood orange rind curls (optional) 1. Place 1 sugar cube in each of 12 Champagne futes or slender glasses; add 1 drop bitters to each fute. Combine wine and juice. Divide wine mixture evenly among futes. Garnish with rind, if desired. SErVES 12 (serving size: about 3 ⁄ 4 cup) CalOriES 143; FaT 0g; prOTEiN 0g; CarB 11g; FiBEr 0g; CHOl 0mg; irON 0mg; SODiUM 0mg; CalC 5mg

New Orleans, said he usually dresses in costume for the Mardi Gras holiday, but the weather deterred him this year. Baker said he chose to celebrate a little differently — sipping cocktails under the cover of a friend's French Quarter patio balcony while watching other costumed revelers

He could become again the man who had once crossed a Surrey park at dusk in his best suit, swaggering on the promise of life, who had entered the house and with the clarity of passion made love to Cecilia—no, let him rescue the word from the corporals, they had fucked while others sipped their cocktails on the terrace. The story could resume, the one that he had been planning on that evening walk.

I looked around at the embassy people, who were nicely dressed, sipping cocktails and chatting. This could have been anywhere in the civilized world, including New York. But outside the guarded walls was another world that had absolutely nothing in common with this world. Except, to be optimistic, a shared humanity, a love of children and family, a hope for peace, prosperity, health, and happiness, and a belief in a higher being who was loving and kind—except when he got pissed off and sent plagues and floods to get rid of everyone.

I’d booked three nights at a hotel in Miami Beach, Florida. It would be our first vacation ever, and I couldn’t wait. The pictures on the hotel’s website showed couples lazing in hammocks, or sipping cocktails beside the pool. Also? Miami Beach was supposed to be one of the gayest vacation spots in America. And Caleb and I had never seen the ocean yet. There was just so much to look forward to.

Throughout the Day Trace Mineral Drops ~1/2 tsp (mix w/ gallon of water to sip on throughout the day) - Phases 1-3 With Breakfast Magnesium Malate ~200mg - Phases 1-3 Cod Liver Oil ~900mcg / 3,000 IU - Phases 1-3 Bee Pollen ~½ - 1 tsp - beginning with Phase 2 Beef Liver ~1,500mg - beginning with Phase 1 Boron ~1 - 3mg - Phase 3 Iodine ~ 1 serving - Phase 3 Mid-Morning (away from food) Adrenal Cocktail 1 serving (mix in OJ or water) - Phases 1-3 Whole Food Vitamin C-complex ~400mg - Phases 1-3 With Lunch Magnesium Malate ~200mg - Phases 1-3 Whole Food Vitamin E Complex ~ 1 serving - Phases 1-3 Beef Liver ~1,500mg - beginning with Phase 1 Mid-Afternoon (away from food) Adrenal Cocktail 1 serving (mix in OJ or water) - Phases 1-3 Whole Food Vitamin C-complex ~400mg - Phases 1-3 With Dinner Taurine ~500mg, - Phase 3 Evening Magnesium Glycinate ~200mg - Phases 1-3 Topical Magnesium 1 application - Phases 1-3 Right before bed, or first thing in the morning (away from food) Rice Bran ~1 - 2 tsp - beginning with Phase 2 Diatomaceous Earth ~½ - 1 tsp - Phase 3.

I was worried this visit would be stuffy and formal, but it’s quite the opposite. Cam and his sisters’ love language is giving each other shit, but there’s affection under the playful digs. Hailey hands me a creamy bronze cocktail with crushed graham cracker on the rim. I take a sip and smile. She makes a fuckin’ mean pumpkin-tini.

Joshua took another small sip from his wine glass as his gaze and his thoughts drifted away from the flat-screen television mounted above the marbled fireplace to ponder a roomful of sports jackets and pantsuits and in some cases cocktail dresses but only of neutral tones and minimal detailing if for no other reason than to avoid becoming the subject of the next petty scandal that would nevertheless send shockwaves through their haughty and insular world. The way they stood in their intimate clusters. Their drink glasses held in various poses of sophistication. And whenever they did bring glass to mouth in accordance with judiciously preset intervals it was also for show, as he believed was true of their subdued conversations, which, from where he was sitting, appeared to be nothing more than the unintelligible murmurings of barely moving lips. A whole list of observations came to mind. Not one of them flattering in any way. The atmosphere thick with that certain stuffiness and elitist redolence of an ivy league alumni fundraising gala. Of course, he readily admitted to himself that out of everyone in the room he was very likely the most materially bereft and least credentialed and that this stinging truth undoubtedly inflamed his plebeian impulse. But that’s not what was bugging him.

Then you talk it through. It’s when she stops wanting to talk that you’ll need to worry.” She pauses, takes a sip of her cocktail. “Trust me.

He was discovering that if human beings drill down in the right way, we can hit a gusher of focus inside ourselves—a long surge of attention that will flow forth and carry us through difficult tasks in a way that feels painless, and in fact pleasurable. So the obvious questions are: Where do we drill to get it? How can we bring about flow states? At first, most people assume they will achieve flow simply by relaxing into it—you picture yourself lying by the pool in Vegas sipping a cocktail. But when he studied it, he found that in fact, relaxing rarely gets you into a flow state. You have to get there by a different route. Mihaly’s studies identified many aspects of flow, but it seemed to me—as I read over them in detail—that if you want to get there, what you need to know boils down to three core components. The first thing you need to do is to choose a clearly defined goal. I want to paint this canvas; I want to run up this hill; I want to teach my child how to swim. You have to resolve to pursue it, and to set aside your other goals while you do. Flow can only come when you are monotasking—when you choose to set aside everything else and do one thing. Mihaly found that distraction and multitasking kill flow, and nobody will reach flow if they are trying to do two or more things at the same time.

Like a proper addict, my entire body is now buzzing with adrenaline, the drink in my hand the only thing I can focus on. I haven’t allowed myself a drink all day, and every nerve in my body is screaming in revolt. Demanding a sip, like a petulant toddler. I lift the cocktail to my lips and take a small drink. In an instant, everything in me goes electric. My brain seems to whir to life. The room around me is brighter.

It’s frosty and blue like a Slurpee with cherries, gummy fish and neon-colored umbrella straws hanging off the rim of the half-gallon fish bowl. I lean forward and take a sip, ready to drown my sorrows in this cocktail.

Gran handed me her now warm Coke, and I took a sip, almost gagging at the sweet taste. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff, considering that your cocktail of choice is a martini that’s been shown a picture of vermouth.

Inside the Great Wall Sheraton Hotel, amber and crystal lights cascaded down seven stories to an atrium. Between two giant columns, glass elevators were rising like bright lanterns toward the ceiling. On the marble floor cool as a mirror, a jazz band was playing. Casually dressed tourists and businessmen in dark suits sipped cocktails in lounge chairs.

This space of the restaurant had an old European charm about it. It was understated and classic, and brought to mind jazz and cultured people sitting about sipping their cocktails. Actually, when he thought about it, it was the perfect blend of the two men he was eating dinner with tonight.

Moving slowly and carefully to avoid bruising the fruit, I combined handfuls of plump raspberries and deep purple blueberries, a healthy cup of sugar, and some spring water into a heavy saucepan. It climbed slowly to a gentle boil while I stirred and folded it carefully onto itself. I lowered the heat and let it form a syrup before adding another handful of raspberries and a splash of raspberry brandy. Avery came back to hover as I was finishing the dish. I puddled the warm berries into the bottom of a bowl and added a scoop of my housemade vanilla bean ice cream. Nestling the bowl onto a white rectangular dish, I added two ceramic shot glasses and poured in the final piece. "What is that?" Tova asked, her voice hushed. "Something I've been tinkering with. It's kind of a hot chocolate meets a pot de crème. Silky, espresso-laced chocolate sauce with a touch of cream and a pinch of freshly grated cinnamon. They can sip it, like a mini-cocktail. I think it will go well with the berries.

another Diet Dr Pepper? Wait, what? I was torn from my pirate fantasy by the nasal, weenie voice of Richard Harrison, CPA. “Can I get another Diet Dr Pepper, please? And for the lady, another—what was it you’re having, Viv?” “Scotch. Water. Neat.” I answered, looking across the table at the latest in a long line of blind dates. Set up by my mother, which should have been my first clue to say no and run screaming into that good night. Not that she didn’t have good taste; she’d picked a looker with Richard. Strike that—he was a looker if that’s what you were in to. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Brown chinos, perfectly creased. White button-down. White teeth. Blindingly white, actually; I was pretty sure when he smiled chimes went off. Every time a CPA smiled, a fairy got its wings? Jesus, Viv, get a grip. I sipped my Scotch, wincing not only at the good burn, but at the bad turn this conversation was taking. Tax laws over appetizers. Nothing like a little burrata caprese with a side of capital gains. I’d gotten through the first twenty minutes of Current Bad Date by letting my mind

The cocktails were fizzy and pink toward the top, then became a dark red at the bottom of the glass. "What's in this thing?" murmured MJ. "I call it a First Kiss," Doyle said. "Why?" Doyle's mouth twitched into a saucy grin. "Because it's sweet and simple with the first sip. But each sip after becomes more intense and irresistible.

Along the way we passed various restaurants with outdoor seating, where, to my astonishment, people were sipping cocktails and snacking on hors d’oeuvres and, well, just eating lunch. What the hell? They were chatting and pulling at the waiter as if it was just another sunny September Tuesday in Manhattan. I think about that image today, and I still can’t believe it. Boozer Boozer is Brian Wenrich.