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Lalo doesn’t consider himself a connoisseur of alcohol, but he does know what he likes and dislikes. His first tastes were as a child, when his papá would sneak a dash of rum into his coca-cola, a playful wink on his face and a whisper of “Don’t tell mamá.” By the time of his awkward adolescence, he was well acquainted with liquor. Glasses of wine at ostentatious dinners. Tumblers of whiskey, vermouth, gin, you name it. Pisco, mezcal, cachaça, all lined up, flaunting themselves from atop kitchen shelves.
He doesn’t care much for champagnes, and despises rosés. Too fruity, too sweet. And he feels a man of his nature drinking rosés only perpetuates stereotypes. Doesn’t need Tuco snickering from across the table as he pours himself Domaines Ott. A nice red or white suits his tastes better. A ‘98 Chateau d'Yquem while he snacks on ceviche, or a ‘71 Sassicaia during meetings with Eladio. Beers are serviceable, after a long day of work, but lack the punch he craves.
Tequila is his go-to. A shot before and after a juicy steak. Nothing younger than añejo. Blanco and reposado lack complexity, he jokes they’re for dullards, the only acceptable place for them is mixed in a joven or a margarita.
And don’t even think about mentioning liqueurs. They’re a total joke.
Above all, however, his favorite has to be cognac. And tonight, what better to celebrate with than Louis XIII. A treat, even for him. Burns his tongue, gums, teeth. Paired nicely with his own blood as Ignacio drags the smooth blade of a knife across his neck, slicing him open. His prodigy, his right-hand man, the man he has fallen so hard for, gripping his hair, yanking his head back, slashing his throat. Droplets spray from his lips as he laughs. The finest way to savor his drink. Sweet and honey-like, with a bitter punch at the end.