Amanda Rae Was Here...

Last night, three manly welders from Baton Rouge bellied up to the bar. They sucked down Sex-on-the-Beaches (true story) and regaled me with tales of the bayou, for hours. In fact, they had stopped into the restaurant earlier in the day for lunch mid-skiing, and they had returned after dark for a few more rounds. They liked our joint and claimed that I was the first female bartender they’d seen all week. “Finally.” (Tell that to my boss, I told them.)

I delivered three of our signature Snowmass Kickass rolls (eel, crab, avocado, sriracha, cream cheese; the whole shebang tempura-fried and laced with eel sauce, scallions, and sesame seeds), which they attacked with their country boy fingers, and I poured soy sauce into their dishes as any attentive hostess might. Then I suggested they try adding some wasabi.

My comment inspired twisted faces—scowls and ridicule. Judging from their protestations, you’d have thought that the blobs of spicy green condiment were arsenic bonbons.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad in small doses,” I coaxed. “Wasabi is a cousin of horseradish, after all.”

“Horseradish tastes a helluva lot better than this stuff,” one countered.

“Yeah but it’s nose-spicy, not tongue-spicy,” I said. “You know? It’s milder than, like, habanero salsa….”

Amid the chorus of nos, one guy slapped a C-note on the bar.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks right now if you eat that whole thing,” he crowed, while nodding to his buddy, who had stabbed an acorn-size wasabi lump with his yet-unused chopsticks.

“Are you sure you want to make this bet?” I asked. “I can do it…”

“Nobody in their right mind would do that!” the kid hollered, his face crinkling in disgust.

He didn’t think I would go through with it.

But the crisp bill awaiting my wallet made me bold. I smiled oh-so-sweetly, snapped my arm forward, grabbed the chopsticks, and swallowed the wasabi whole in one gulp. It all happened really fast.

The shock! The awe! The Louisiana trio whooped and hooted in disbelief;

I felt my sinuses burn as my rational thought came to a standstill for a few moments, and I coughed to clear what felt like a lump of dry sand inching down my throat. Yet twenty seconds later, I felt fine. Clearheaded, even. And, to the guys’ horrified reactions, I refused a drink of water for a couple extra minutes. Finally, through a glaze of sudden-onset eye sweat, I managed a wink.

And then snatched up my prize with flourish.

Thank you, Southern gentlemen, because later I received my first paycheck:

At least I make great tips….

Fact: shredding the slopes in search of fresh pow is a mission best shared with a buddy. Also, I never would have found this forest shrine to Dr. Gonzo, tucked deep into a pine glade on Snowmass Mountain, if I’d been by my lonesome. (And I certainly would not have been able to take this photo without assistance.)

It started with a casual challenge:

“Hey, wanna go find the Shrine to Hunter S. Thompson?”

“Um…yeah!”

The quest began. It wasn’t much of a quest, though, since my pal, a seasoned Snowmasshole, knew the location: midway off of the aptly named Gunner’s Way trail. (Aspen Skiing Company, which owns the four local mountains, was founded by a member of the Tenth Mountain Division after World War II.)

Partway down the trail, we slowed to a snail’s pace, scanning the edges for telltale tracks. We saw them, and slipped beneath the frosty canopy….

Following a short ride through a dense thicket, at the base of a steep drop, we found it: Fear and Loathing…in the Colorado wilderness.

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