Karl Klockars

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced two ounces of Malort’s going down your gullet – you’d know if you’ve done it – but it’s not something that anyone would really consider “good” by any stretch of the imagination.  It’s actually frighteningly bad.  Like, life-scarring bad to the point where Malort’s is in the category with “losing your virginity” and “where you were on 9/11″ and so on.

It’s horrifying.  And I think I’ve learned to like it.

A little Malorts history for you:  From what I understand (read: basic Wikipedia research and some barely hands on stuff) Mallorts was a booze that was based on jimson weed, which apparently can drive you crazy.  It was one of the only liquors brewed in Chicago for a long time, along with (I believe) Dmitri Vodka, which is specifically made to be paid for in change.  There’s a rhyme about Dmitri vodka that I heard once, but can’t remember it, because I believe I was drinking something else.  But I’m pretty sure it was funny.

So there’s this Malorts stuff, and I had never heard of it until a few years ago while sitting at the lovely White Tavern in Naperville.  For those of you that have never set foot inside the White Tavern but know what Naperville’s reputation is like, imagine taking a bar from West Chicago or Aurora and dropping it on Ogden avenue.  Then fill the juke box with metal records.  The put me and my friends in there for a few years starting at around age 20ish. Anyways.

We’re sitting at the bar in the White Tavern enjoying our respective High Lifes and other such swill, watching (I believe) the ’02 World Series.  We might be the only ones in the bar.  And out of sheer boredom, malice and sadism, the bartender pulls out a bottle of this stuff called Malort’s and shows it to us.

“Want to give it a try?  It’s on the house,” he says to us.  We’re smart enough to realize that this is very likely a gag along the lines of feeding us pork-flavored liquor or something, but we’re young and broke enough to accept it.  Fine, we say.  Line ‘em up, barkeep.

Yeah. It's like that.

What ensued was approximately a two-day process of voiding the toxins that Malort’s put into us.  The first thing you smell is basically compost.  It’s plant-y and and brownish-grey smelling, if that makes sense.  And it doesn’t get any better.  When you drink Malorts for the first time, your face is pulled into what can only be described as a rictus of pain.  No one uses the word “rictus” outside of descriptions of Pompeii victims and vampire novels, so that should give you a good idea of what it feels like.

As soon as you feel the liquid hit the lining of your stomach and start dissolving it, you are immediately distracted by the massive herbal taste coating your mouth, tongue, nasal passage and general esophageal area.  It’s a mixture of a burn and a vapor that is now your new best friend, your roomate, your spouse of taste and pain for the short term.

Gasping and sputtering usually ensues directly after that, and bartenders always laugh.  It’s the only entertainment they have other than beating up drunks and plying women with alcohol, so I’m surprised I don’t see it more often.  For the next 48 hours you will curse the family of the bartender for breeding him, curse the company that creates the demon liquor, and make plans to raze the bar to the ground and seed the soil with salt so that no other drinking establishment would ever be built there.

Then you go to the bar and order someone else a shot of Malorts.  It’s like a ponzi scheme of pain, and after you opt in to the first level, you only profit by introducing other people to Malort’s after you.  It’s like a hazing process in a fraternity, only this band of bretheren costs like $3 at the most and more often than not, you get it for free because the bartender knows there’ll be a show.

The second & third times I had Malort’s was my turn to introduce the unknowing into the fold.  It was (I believe) a couple co-workers, as well as my brother-in-law, respectively.  I am still surprised to this day that I am gainfully employed as well as married.  But it was a marvel to experience on the faces of others the shock, horror and pain that I knew so well.  It was beautiful.

(For the record, every time I introduced the unknowing into the Brotherhood of Malort’s, I enjoyed it as well.  It was never as good as the first time, but it was always something that let you know it was there, if you take my meaning.  So don’t think I was only watching in sadistic glee.  I was part of the fun.)

And then last week, after a full dinner at Laschet’s Inn, we started talking about Malort’s.  The experience of Malort’s.  The Tao of Malort’s.  And we (we being me and co-worker I introduced in one of the above paragraphs) got it into our heads that more Malort’s would be a good idea.  We ordered.  We drank.  And I…

I…think I liked it.

Actually, I take it back.  I’m almost positive I liked it.  We went out to another bar afterwards and I didn’t consider for a second drinking any sort of rubbing alcohol to clear the taste.  I didn’t even feel like I was going to regret my decision for even a day afterwards.  In fact, the taste was much milder, the scent was softer, and the whole experience was rather pleasurable.

Either I like Malort’s, or my tongue is dying.  Either way, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.