PREFACE

It’s 2 a.m. and you are having the time of your life. “The night is young!” you hear yourself cry; the club is heaving with people and the vibes are definitely as good as that bottle of Cabernet you drank at dinner. On your arm is a sweet young thing, skin soft and sensual. “More wine, my good waiter!” you say clearly, although he doesn’t quite understand your drunken enunciation and delivers two bouncers and a taxi instead.

The next day, daylight breaks through a chink in the blind. You wince as your eyelids begin to flutter. You try to lift your head and something inside recalls the wine, the music, and the sparkling wine . . . and your head pleads with you to lie back on the pillow. Trying to lift your arm proves difficult. It’s heavy—too heavy. So are your legs; someone has super-glued you to the sheets. Your brain’s flickering like a dance-floor light show and your thoughts keep flashing instructions: sleep, sleep, sleep . . .

This familiar scenario is played out every day throughout the world by millions of men, women, and teenagers, and has been doing so ever since we started counting off the centuries. It first happened to me when I was seventeen. After an evening of titanic drinking, waking up the next day was a nightmare. My mother took one look at me and knew I was in need of her magical potion. My head was spinning, my stomach churning—I thought I was going to die. Actually, I wanted to die. It was the easiest, painless way out.

The first thing I recall was the smell of freshly made coffee, and my mother’s voice calling me: “Salvatore . . .” I didn’t want to wake up; I just wanted to sink deeper into my sorrowful state. However, my mother has a remedy for everything. I slowly opened one eye and looked in the direction of the smell of the coffee. A small espresso was waiting for me. I knew the coffee wouldn’t help everything, but it would stimulate me to wake up. I stumbled into the kitchen, where my mother was busy creating her tried-and-tested rescue remedy. I still remember it today and recommend it to anyone. (See Rosa’s Magical Cure page 76.) One glass and I knew I would live to face another day.

Since the age of eleven, I have worked in the bar business. Bartenders are many things to many people: friend, psychiatrist, good listener, entertainer, but above all, he or she is also a doctor—a wizard who uses the bar as a pharmacy to create magical potions to save the world.

Alcohol affects people in different ways. It delivers various symptoms ranging from a headache to excruciating nausea and a general weakness. A hungover person’s eyes are droopy; they’re tired and listless. Even if they’re impeccably dressed, they still look ragged around the edges. They can’t sit up straight, but their body language reflects the internal damage done the night before. It’s then they always want the impossible: an instant cure.

This is more complicated than it sounds. When you’re talking cure, you have to consider what you drank and how much. What are the symptoms: Is it the splitting headache, or does your stomach wish it were elsewhere? Or are you just generally unwell?

To a bartender, many of the bottles on the shelf behind the bar are a source of comfort. Remember, some of the many alcoholic beverages sold today were originally made as preventatives and cures for all kinds of illnesses. These potions include Chartreuse, Fernet Branca, gin, brandy, Angostura bitters—even Campari if you mix it with the right ingredient. Jazz maestro George Melly has been known to imbibe a Campari and soda each morning after the gig the night before. “It gives a slight sense of taking medicine and cleans the throat,” he says. “The bitter taste has the virtue of making one feel virtuous while restoring a certain sense of well-being.”

There are so many tales I could tell you of completely wasted people limping into my bar. Here’s just one of the more positive stories: A regular customer once held a bachelor party at the hotel where I worked. His friends took him over the edge. When he came to the bar the next morning, dressed for the ceremony, he was sweating, shaking, and looked in a terrible state. He needed instant help. I asked for the symptoms; luckily, it was mainly his stomach and a lack of energy. A Calabrese Blood Transfusion was the only solution (see page 48).

“This will either cure you or kill you before your fiancée gets the chance. Whatever, you’ll make it to the altar,” I said as I passed it to him. He survived. And surviving is the name of the game when you encounter a hangover. I tell customers that it’s wise to remember they had a great time getting into this state. Memory is a very important psychological tool, and good memories will help you through any fog.

Chemistry is also useful. One day a doctor came into the bar and gave me a recipe to follow: a Mexican concoction, which I later discovered was the recipe for a Vampiro (page 81). I thought it peculiar, chopping raw onion with chili and mixing tomato with orange juice, but I followed it to the last milliliter. When he’d drunk two of these, I saw a person re-born before my eyes. He perked up, thanked me, and left. Voila! I had learned that spices, onion, and garlic, with the addition of vitamins from the juices, help build natural defenses, aided by a little hair of the dog.

I spent the next few years experimenting with various recipes for cures, the investigation of which, to me, is one of the most interesting aspects of my job. I have tried recipes from all over the world: Russia, the Far East, Australia, the U.S. All are interesting but none of them provide a cure. In Italy, we drink and eat. Eating helps the body during a drinking session—it absorbs the alcohol. It doesn’t prevent you from getting drunk, but it might give you less of hangover if you drink a lot. We Italians use fresh orange juice and raw eggs as a cure, unlike the Scandinavians, who drink a shot of schnapps with pickled herring. Just the thought makes me feel queasy, but they swear by it.

One last bit of advice. Here are my golden rules for when you have a desperate hangover. The first is, don’t talk to anyone. Conversation of any kind guarantees the filing of divorce papers, being fired from your job, and even worse, a loss of face.

Secondly, never read any of those awful Christmas and New Year features on how to avoid hangovers because they’re written by puritans who’ve never had a real humdinger themselves.

Third? Stay sober . . .