Economic gloom and doom—not to mention an unending winter—have you reaching for the bottle? Too bad you can’t afford the Grey Goose anymore.

Yes, gone are the days of trolling the liquor-store aisles, cart at the ready, seeking out the new, the exotic, the vintage. Who can justify a triple figure booze tab in these uncertain times? For most Canadians, replenishing the California cab stock falls firmly in the category of “frivolous.”

Now is the time to get creative where your liquor cabinet is concerned and rediscover some old favourites. Bottles fall out of fashion, and once their sweet elixirs have satisfied a cocktail fad or hot recipe they stand forgotten under a layer of dust, relegated to the back recesses of the cabinet with only a few sad shots left to their name.

It’s those sweet liqueurs—the Chambords, apricot brandy and crème de banane—that linger for years. But you drank them once and you can drink them again. Or if, say bad memories render that impossible, many can be used to tasty end in the kitchen (since restaurants are no longer part of the budget, either).

And the rule is one bottle out, one bottle in, right?

First on the list is Chambord, a delicious black raspberry liqueur from France and housed in a gorgeous (albeit space-eating), bulbous bottle, decorated with bits of gold plastic. It was likely purchased to shake up the highly satisfying French Martini—a mixture of two parts vodka, one part Chambord and one part pineapple juice—which is a pleasant way to enjoy it again.

But its potential doesn’t stop there. It can add great flavour to a raspberry vinaigrette. Add one part Chambord to two parts extra virgin olive oil, one part red wine vinegar and a dab of Dijon. Season with some salt and pepper, and you’ve got a versatile and economic salad topper. Other liqueurs like sambuca and limoncello, or fortified wines like sherry and port can also add great flavour and depth to a mound of mixed greens.

Add a minced shallot or toss in some of your favourite fresh herb to build on the flavour.

With St. Paddy’s day just around the corner now is the time to bust out that bottle of electric green crème de menthe but please don’t pour it into your pint glass. Sweet and minty cocktails are a hard sell so either enjoy it over ice after a heavy meal as it helps cleanse the palette and aid digestion, or better yet, use it to flavour chocolate truffles.

You can use brandy, Kahlúa, Cointreau or any number of spirits but the combo of rich dark chocolate and cool mint holds a significant place in many a confectionary repertoire (Grasshopper Pie ring a bell?). And despite what you may think, truffles are neither complicated nor laborious.

Simply heat 1 cup (250 mL) heavy (35%) cream until it just comes to a boil. Remove from the heat and pour over 1 lb (500 g) of chopped dark chocolate—the best your thin wallet can afford. Let sit for 30 seconds, add an ounce (30 mL) of crème de menthe and 2 Tbsp (30 mL) butter, then stir until smooth.

Cool in the refrigerator until solid then use a teaspoon to scoop out small portions and shape into balls. Roll truffles in cocoa powder or chopped nuts and voila, fancy-pants truffles with just a hint of mint.

That bottle of peach schnapps, years forgotten now, may be what’s left from your Fuzzy Navel days but there’s a reason that trend gripped the ’80s like Michael Jackson’s sparkly mitt—it tasted pretty damn good. For an updated version of the classic cocktail combine one ounce peach schnapps with ¾ ounce triple sec in a tall glass filled with ice. Top with equal parts orange juice and cranberry juice and garnish with a few frozen cranberries.

Your bottle of crème de banane may date back even further (Chocolate Monkey and a swing on the dance floor at Studio 54 anyone?) and with its candied banana flavour it can dominate even the most complex of libations, but used to its full potential as a banana flavouring in a traditional cream pie or pudding recipe it’s the perfect addition. Save the Chocolate Monkey shots for really tough times.

Old Fashioned Banana Pudding

• 1/3 cup (75 mL) sugar
• 2 Tbsp + 1 tsp (30 mL) cornstarch
• Pinch salt
• 3 large egg yolks, lightly beaten
• 1 cup (250 mL) milk
• 1/4 cup (50 mL) evaporated milk
• 1 Tbsp (15 mL) butter
• 3 Tbsp (45 mL) crème de banane liqueur
• 1–2 bananas thinly sliced

Whisk the sugar, cornstarch and salt together in a medium saucepan. Whisk in the egg yolks, then gradually whisk in the milk and evaporated milk until smooth. Cook over medium heat until foaming subsides and mixture thickens, about 8–10 minutes, whisk¬ing constantly. Remove from heat and whisk in the butter and banana liqueur. Cool 5 minutes, whisking periodically to prevent a skin from forming.

Spoon some of the pudding into the bottom of four dessert glasses, add a few banana slices and cover with remaining pudding. Cover surface with plastic wrap and cool completely before refrigerating for 3 hours or until chilled. Serve with a dollop of freshly whipped cream and drizzle with just a touch of Kahlua, if desired.

I’m not one to make fun of others—to point out culinary foibles or food-related faux pas. I’ll judge you on fashion, etiquette, design choices, manners, drug habits, self control, partner selection and moral inconsistencies, but kitchen matters are off limits.

Judging the shortcomings of others is truly one of life’s joys, especially when it’s some highfalutin chef whose obvious efforts fall short of his desired outcome. Or some pompous fashion house whose latest collection ends up setting the standard of what not to wear. Riffing on those kinds of idiosyncrasies couldn’t be more enjoyable.

But when a friend invites me over for dinner I wouldn’t dream of tearing him down for his efforts. And that’s the reason—the effort. Someone opens his door to you, invites you in to share food and drink and conversation, there’s no room for culinary judgment. It’s just not polite. Don’t think it. Don’t say it. And for gawds sake, don’t write about it.

Ya’ll know where this is going?

Well just last week I was invited to some fellow curlers’ home for dinner before our Wednesday night game. I must point out that this is the first meal we’ve ever shared together and perhaps the last, if they read this.

Now Brad and Patrick are two of the loveliest people you would ever have the privilege of dining with. And the fourth dinner guest, Mark, also a fellow curler, just as equally charming.

Besides the delightful company and swank surroundings (they live in a gorgeous home in Toronto’s Beach neighbourhood) the meal was absolutely great. We first mingled around the kitchen counter, sipping Chianti and nibbling on jalapeno hummus, marinated olives and old cheddar. For the main course we enjoyed barbequed salmon—each filet adorned with a charred lemon wheel and served with goat cheese mashed potatoes and perfectly al dente asparagus and steamed carrots.

It was simple, real food that not only looked good but tasted great. Fresh and colourful with textural interest, prepared simply—exactly what a good meal should be.

It wasn’t until dessert that the train derailed.

Now, I’m exaggerating a little for literary effect just to drive the point home. And because my hosts have thick skins and a wonderful sense of humour, I know I won’t offend them. Well, I’m hoping anyway.

A deliciously smooth and creamy New York style cheesecake was placed in front of us for dessert. The boys layered it with a 1/4 inch of thick caramel and Brad decorated each piece with two shriveled up and wilted blueberries. Now the lights were dim and I had indulged in at least a couple classes of wine, so I didn’t really notice the state of the berries until the conversation suddenly turned to the sad, puckered fruit.

However it was too late. I’d eaten both of mine and looked around to see that each of my companions rolled their berries to the side of the plate while they finished their dessert.

“Well you weren’t supposed to eat them. They were just for decoration!” roared Brad.

“What do you mean don’t eat them? You put them on my plate!” I laughed back. “Of course I’m going to eat them.”

While presentation is incredibly important, the freshness of your ingredients out weighs any decoration, no matter how esthetically necessary you perceive it to be. Everything on your plate should be edible. If you, as the chef wouldn’t put it in your mouth then it shouldn’t be on the plate. And if a guest decides not to eat something then that’s his choice, but he should always have the choice.

But what a great blog topic this would make! Thanks for the inspiration guys.

And I’m not too worried about a future invite—they’ll step up next time. And besides I brought a really nice bottle of wine.

I’m always thinking about my loyal readers. Your needs and wants. Your desires. I’m just that selfless, it’s true. So, I’ve compiled a few questions that have come in over the last couple weeks from “peeps” just like you. Why help one person when you can help nearly a dozen?!

Q What’s the truth behind best-before dates, can you let it go for a couple weeks once it’s past its expiration?

A The greatest gift my dad ever gave me was common sense. I consider expiration dates guidelines that shouldn’t override good sense. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, it’s probably a duck—the same rule applies for food. If it looks bad, smell it? If it smells bad, throw it out. If after the sight and whiff test you still can’t tell, taste it, then trust your gut.

Q I received a bottle of icewine for Christmas from my boss and I know it’s very expensive but I don’t like icewine. I thought about re-gifting it but is there something else I can do with it?

A Icewine (like female pop singers) is one of the greatest and most delicious products this country produces and best enjoyed in 2 oz. pours with sweet desserts like sticky toffee pudding or Banana’s Fosters, for example. If I still can’t convince you, pour ½ oz. of icewine into the bottom of a champagne flute and top with a dry sparkling wine. I call this cocktail a Niagara Gold and it can make a cheap bottle of bubbly taste like the good stuff. It’s delicious served at wine and cheese parties, to congratulate newly engaged couples or to help pass a Tuesday evening.

Q My second wedding anniversary is coming up and instead of going out for dinner I’d like to make a great meal at home. Any suggestions for something not too complicated?

A Of course. First, buy my new book, Entertaining with Booze. Second, turn to page 73 and voila!, a menu for The Perfect Romantic Dinner. Start off with a simple butternut squash soup (homemade or store bought) and garnish in the centre with some cooked lobster meat tossed in a little cognac—a wonderfully sophisticated starter that couldn’t be easier. For the main course medium-rare beef tenderloin for two (a.k.a. chateaubriand) served with Béarnaise sauce and a side of green beans steamed in white wine and tossed with slivered almonds and orange zest. And for dessert, a small cream puff tower drizzled with bourbon caramel. Serve with the best champagne you can afford and prepare for an onslaught of amorous advances.

Q What’s your take on eating local? It sounds great in theory but do you think it’s actually practicable?

A I’m all for a local diet and it’s definitely doable in many parts of the country if you’re an unapologetic carnivore—Yorkshire Duroc pork from Norfolk County, Ontario, Wagyu beef from southern Alberta, Brome Lake ducks from Quebec’s Eastern Townships—but a lot of fruits and veggies (especially in winter) are imported, and I, like many others will not be giving up Hawaiian pineapple or Spanish clementines any time soon, not to mention French wine or Belgian beer.

Q What’s a new lasagna recipe to try? I make a traditional version with Bechamel sauce and meat sauce but I’d like something a little different.

A I’m a creature of habit myself and have been making the same lasagna recipe since I was in high school—one that uses crumbled Italian sausage instead of beef in the Bolognese sauce—but it’s delicious so I keep making it. Sausage meat is already seasoned so you’re starting with a great flavour base and it’s veggie friendly, meaning you can add almost anything to the sauce—I’ve made it with caramelized onions and sauteed spinach or portobello mushrooms, roasted garlic and red wine—to keep it interesting. But don’t let that stop you. Use chorizo or lamb sausage and create something all your own.

It’s Friday March 20, 2009, the first day of spring. A gorgeous blue sky keeps tempting me outside as sunlight washes over the sides of my neighbours’ homes. It’s been a long time coming, this change of the seasons. Too damn long. But winter is the past and I for one, never linger there for long.

Life’s way too short.

I was reminded of this very fact yesterday while taking in an afternoon flick with my mom. She was in town for two days and while we Crate-and-Barreled our way through the first day, we decided a matinee would be a perfect afternoon diversion for the second.

And you can’t help but think of your own mortality while watching One Week, the Canadian indie film starring Pacey—you know, Canuck hottie Josh Jackson. Sitting there watching the beautiful scenery of this country go by on the screen, you question not only your mortality, but more important things like happiness. True happiness.

Are you living the life you thought you would? Are you living the life you want?

Yikes! Heavy stuff for a Friday, but there is a point.

In One Week, Jackson is diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer and before he can even consider entering treatment or becoming a patient he buys a secondhand motorcycle and heads west from Toronto in search of meaning, a point, adventure—anything that’ll make him feel alive.

The big question posed to the audience: “What would you do if you had one day, one week or one month to live”?

No light fare—that’s a six course turkey dinner with extra stuffing. I’m full just thinking about it and unless you’re really faced with that kind of news it’s a bit of quagmire conjuring up a true, honest answer. Though even contemplating the possibility has gotta be good for the soul.

What would I do? Well, I wouldn’t be wasting my time blogging to you people. That’s for damn sure. I’d get out there and live. Really live.

I’d talk to strangers. Try heroin. Swim in Lake Ontario.

I’d rent the Coco Chanel suite at the Ritz in Paris and spend a small fortune on a bespoke suit from Saville Row.

I’d dine at the French Laundry in Napa, The Fat Duck in London and Spain’s El Bulli.

I’d head north, venture beyond the tree line and drink a bottle of scotch while I watched the northern lights.

I’d throw a party and cater the hell out of it.

And I’d spend a day in complete sobriety, just to see what it’s like.

What would you do? Seriously, with a week to live what does your list look like?

Then don’t wait for chronic illness to get you up off your ass. Start living. Really living. If life isn’t about being happy, then what the hell is it for? We only get one chance at this thing.

I for one am pretty damn happy and more or less living the life I want but there’s always more—more to do, more to see, to explore and experience. I’m starting now.

Today I’m going to talk to a stranger and learn something about him. A story or a dream. Something that’ll connect two random human beings. Some common link. A bond. Anything.

And who knows, maybe he’ll turn out to be a heroin dealer?

Bring on the kebabs.

But don’t stop there. Biryani, jerk chicken, souvlaki and other ethnic bites will soon be available on the streets of Toronto, seriously upping the ante for the tube steak peddlers.

Finally, after years of lobbying for more diverse food on our fare city streets, which actually reflects the people and palate of Toronto, us folk who love to dine al fresco, will have a bit more choice this coming spring.

And hopefully it’s only the beginning.

For far too long hot dogs have defined Toronto’s street food, mainly because rigorous provincial health regulations make it nearly impossible to sell anything else. Wieners, and the like, are pre-cooked, seriously lowering the risk of food-borne illnesses. Thankfully, there’s a hardworking group of passionate foodies in this city (Councilor John Fillion and chef Brad Long among them) who’ve plugged away tirelessly to change what dishes can be sold on our streets.

Announced as a pilot project by city hall, dubbed Toronto al a Cart, the program selected eight new street vendors from a pile of 19. The new vendors will be stationed at hotspots around the city and offer hungry passersby Thai, Korean, Afghan, Middle Eastern, Greek, Persian, Caribbean and Eritrean cuisine.

But don’t fret, the eight lucky applicants selected had to win over a tasting panel of city chefs, as well as navigate tough food safety, nutrition and legal terrain in order to win one of the coveted spots.

It’s not all smooth sailing though. For this program to take off people have to fork over their lunch money, which in these recessionary times is one of the first things to go as more people brown bag it to work.

Competition is high.

You can score a hot dog for as little as $2 on the street—these vendors will be hawking their fare around $5, and for as much as $7.

And apparently the tubular vendors are not very happy with al a Cart at all. See, they were closed out of the competition even though their organizing party said it would take little to retrofit existing carts that would be safe to offer different foods. Still, they weren’t allowed to submit applications and feel they’ve been black balled from the process.

Look for some real street-based food fights to wage in the coming months. You’ll probably find them going down at the locations below—where the new vendors will be facing off against old. Let the games begin.

• Mel Lastman Square (Thai: pad thai with fresh rolls)

• Metro Hall (Afghani/Central Asian: chapli kebabs)

• Nathan Phillips Square (Central Asian/Persian: biryani)

• Nathan Philips Square (Greek: souvlaki)

• Queen’s Park (Middle Eastern: chicken/beef kebab wraps)

• Roundhouse Park (Eritrean: injera)

• Yonge and Eglinton (Korean: bulgogi with seasonal kimchi)

• Yonge and St. Clair (Caribfusion: jerk chicken)

It’s Tuesday. I don’t know about you but I certainly feel like a cocktail. Not that I have much to complain about. Life is good. I’ve recently returned from a week in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico where, as any good hedonist knows, is a fantastic place to enjoy cocktails. And I myself, along with my traveling companion Mr. Jamie Slater, a.k.a. “Ida Slapther” indulged several times over in delicious blended margaritas—delivered direct to our very favourite palapa.

While out for dinner at one of our new favourite restaurants, Joe Jack’s Fish Shack, we sampled the house specialty a few times over, a tasty and refreshing ginger mojito. We needed the digestive aid of the ginger to help sooth our bloated bellies.

On our first visit to Joe’s I ordered the self-proclaimed “famous seafood chowder”. A hot and hearty bowl of soup isn’t something I normally crave in 20˚C weather but I’m a bit of stargazer, especially when it comes to food. I had to see if this was indeed the Meryl Streep of chowders or just a tart of a soup named Paris, meant to seduce pink-faced tourists like me.

To my culinary delight this soup had balls to back it up. A tomato-based, Manhattan-style chowder so complex and layered in its seasoning I don’t know where to begin to describe it. It’s like sitting around a campfire and someone throws a bag of spices onto the fire which may or may not include fennel, cumin and paprika. Then someone else throws on a bag on dried poblano peppers and a bushel of tomatoes.

Into that smoky and charred broth is pieces of melt-in-you-mouth octopus, swollen shrimp, pacific lobster and mahi mahi—all locally caught and fresh beyond comparison.

The abundance of affordable fish and seafood in the markets in PV is one of the reason’s Joe Jack came to PV from his two successful digs in San Francisco and Los Angeles and opened his eponymous resto.

Lucky for us.

His fish and chips have become legendary in the three years since he opened and while neither Ida nor I tried them, we can both hail praise for the battered fish tacos. Three huge pieces of mahi mahi, thick and crispy coated, topped with a smooth and refreshing avocado and coriander puree, smoked-pepper salsa and crunchy slaw. For less than $10 CAD, it makes over-indulging very affordable.

There’s a vibe about Joe’s that instantly puts you at ease. A vibe that brings you back. Well that and a waiter Ida and I called Jaun.

It’s a vibrant place and servers are constantly running past with tall glasses of sangria; delivering dessert glasses filled with Joe’s amazing ceviche; or doling out thick pieces of coconut pie. Had we ever had room for dessert it would have graced our table too.

Thankfully, it gives us good reason to return. Well, that and Juan.

www.joejacks-fishshack.com

How can you think of food at a time like this? Seriously, I’ve been hard-pressed to find something worthy of posting to this space. Food, while inspiring and comforting, joyous and necessary, seems, well, a little lame right now. Trivial and frivolous even.

America swore a black president into office yesterday and the world has been changed forever. Barriers overcome. Doors opened. And a wave of hope and inspiration swept out over the Washington Mall to the rest of America and the world at large. We watched history unfold live on TV, or the internet, or on the radio—and that doesn’t happen everyday. It doesn’t even happen every year.

On Monday a CBC Radio reporter lamented that she wasn’t around for Woodstock or Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, but that she felt the energy in D.C. from all the pilgrims who made their way from out of state or out of country for the inauguration, and it must be similar to those other historic events.

Whether or not Obama make’s a good president is beside the point. It’s not going to be an easy ride, that’s for sure and he’s gonna piss off some people, but it’s not really about that. Not right away. He’s sending out a message of hope and rallying change and that’s some powerful stuff. He’s an A-class motivator and if he can keep up his reign of inspirational enthusiasm he might just have a chance at leaving an A-class legacy.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Not even Barack could inspire hope for investors yesterday as the Dow had its worst Inauguration Day drop in history. Though starting at the bottom has its advantages. Just ask Dubya. Wait, right. He started at the top. Forget it.

One thing about yesterday’s inauguration that I find strangely abrasive is all the mention of God. Two ministers were included in the event and Obama himself mentioned the Holy One at least a dozen times during his 18-minute speech. As a Canadian it grates a little. Just like Trudeau said “the state has no business in the bedrooms of the nation”, so it applies to the temple, mosque, basilica, or what have you. Who cares about God? Is He going to win the war on terrorism or pull the real estate market outta the outhouse?

It got me thinking. America is cool with a black president, and is open to having a woman in the White House. Heck they might even go so far as to elect an openly gay man or a Korean-American lesbian (hey you Maggie Cho!) but what the hell would they do if an atheist ever tried to make a run for it? I’m thinking all those doors that just opened might get closed, dead bolted and barricaded pretty damn quickly.

It seems His Holiness really does wield a lot of power in that country. He brought along hurricane Katrina, the freakishly steroided Carrot Top and oh-so-slimming Spanx. Perhaps he could also see the benefit of removing his presence from the Oval Office? Maybe take a chapter from His Canadian constituents who believe that political decisions should be just that, political, and not confused with spiritual judgment.

If Obama has taught us anything it’s that there’s always hope. Even in America.

We’re getting fatter. Fatter and fatter, day by day, year after year. Fatter than all generations before us. Perhaps a subconscious human behaviour to cull the heard, control the population and confirm Darwin’s theory once and forever. Survival of the fittest, at its most literal.

The Spam factory in Austin, MN is churning out more canned ham than it has in decades. Now, before I get a lawsuit thrown in my lap from the good people in the tinned meat business, I’m not saying Spam is specifically making us fat, but our reliance on processed, high calorie, large portion food is the culprit. And with a recession bearing down on us it’s likely that cheap, high cal comfort food is only going to get more popular, continuing to expand our waistlines, give us heart disease and put us in the ground earlier than any generation before us.

Who says there’s nothing positive in the newspaper?

It’s not just canned pork products either. Apparently we’re seeking solace in the familiar and the fattening: mac ‘n’ cheese, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, chocolate chip cookies and chocolate cake.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these foods and there’s nothing inherently wrong with them if enjoyed with restraint (there’s that damn word again)—reasonable portion size with some veggies thrown in every now and then. But see, that’s part of the problem: portion size. It’s growing with our guts—or vice versa. Either way, over the years what could once feed a family of four, now feeds one hungry MF.

According to new research reported in last week’s Globe and Mail that looked at recipes from the Joy of Cooking over the last 70 years, calories are way up and portion sizes too.

The study covered some classic recipes like beef stroganoff and chili, that have appeared in every edition since its first publication in 1936, and found average calories are up 63%, and a nine-inch apple, which once served eight, now serves six.

It gets better.

In 1975 a brownie recipe made 30 pieces. Today the same recipe only makes 17. That means what we think of normal today, was half the size 30 years ago. Oink.

This has been happening slowly over time—starting after the end of WWII and continuing through the ’50s and ’60s—but according to the study portion sizes have jumped by more than 32% from 1996. Double oink.

The “more, more, more” mentality of North Americans (and the Brits) feeds this behaviour. We want everything and we want it now and we want more of it. The sad part is that it doesn’t even have to be good, just big. Hog-size, if you will.

And I’m as guilty as the next guy. I’ve written two cookbooks that pretty much encourage indulgence. With lines like, “full fat is best” and a chocolate soufflé recipe that makes four servings but is meant for a romantic dinner for two isn’t helping anyone practice restraint. In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite, and I apologize. Sincerely I do. But full fat does taste best, dammit.

I think the real culprit is a combination of serving size and lack of exercise. We eat like pigs then drive to 7-11 at 3am for Taquitos and Mountain Dew. It’s disgusting.

Fortunately I’ve been blessed with the metabolism of a 14-year-old sprinter, but I also try to take the stairs over the escalator, stop eating when I’m full and make wiser choices at the grocery store.

I’m not good all the time and my speedy metabolism will slow eventually. At which point I’ll have to make some serious changes in my own eating habits. But for today I’m going to supersize my lunch—who knows how much longer I’ll be able to get away with that?

I write about food and booze with a lighthearted and laidback approach. It’s a fun subject and one that I’m lucky enough to know a lot about. I sometimes think that I have the best job in the world—I’ve turned what was once my hobby into a career. I work for myself and don’t have to answer to anyone on a daily basis. It’s pretty plum.

Creating new cocktails is a hoot and spending the better part of a day in the kitchen can be exhilarating and wildly creative. I’m not stuck behind a desk dreaming about being the master of my domain, I’m actually doing it. And doing it in an area that’s centered around having a good time.

I don’t think of myself as a serious person but I know when I’m on a photo shoot taking a “bite” out of a Toblerone bar that I can be pretty damn serious. And once in a while it hits me that what I do (promote drinking, if I drop the euphemisms and pretense) does require some responsibility. Booze and the abuse of it can have tragic consequences, as we’ve heard a lot this week with charges being laid on two bartenders, a manager and directors of a private resort in Muskoka.

Three young men were killed July 3, 2008 after spending the afternoon at the Lake Joseph Club sucking back drinks before getting into one of the guy’s Audi’s, speeding down the road and crashing it into the lake. Nineteen year-old Nastasia Inez Elzinga was also in the car but managed to escape and swim to shore.

It’s all pretty horrible. These guys were between 19 and 20 and were just beginning to start their lives as adults, but they made a really dumb choice. It’s also pretty horrible because one of the bartenders charged was an acquaintance of the group. He was a friend who just kept serving them drinks—31 in total in a three-hour time period. It works out to a little more than one drink per person every half hour. I’m a guy who can hold his own and having seven drinks in three hours would leave me with a pretty damn good buzz. It could knock others out cold.

As a server of alcohol, whether it’s in a bar, restaurant or in your own home, you are responsible for your guests and their safety once they leave. People need to take responsibility for their own actions—I’m a firm believer in that—but the law also places responsibility on the shoulders of those who serve booze, and rightfully so. Booze impairs judgment.

The tragedy of this case hits home because it’s really just a succession of bad choices. And we’ve all made bad choices, especially when we were young and considered ourselves indestructible.

They were served too much, they drank too much and then they piled into car.

Part of the discussion surrounding this case has involved the rural nature of the resort. As someone who lives in the Big Smoke I’ve got options getting home after a night of irresponsible drinking—public transit, taxi or by foot. These options don’t exist outside urban centres, and while it doesn’t excuse anyone’s actions, the lack of choice makes driving drunk almost a default option, despite the fact that we all know we shouldn’t do it.

Whether or not the directors of ClubLink, the company that owns the club, should be charged at all in this case is a whole other box of crap. They weren’t present for any of what happened on July 3rd, yet their names appear on the liquor license so the OPP is holding them partially accountable.

We’ll find out more on January 27 when all 16 people appear in court to hear the charges, until then, please make smart choices and be responsible. Booze is a helluva good time but it has a way of making us do stupid things. Just look what it’s done to that Olsen twin.