The Catullus 27

Pure spirit. Or at least transubstantiation. Without the base admixture of the pressed flesh of fruit, we hope to loose the tether that binds us to this low, wordly corruption. Yet if Plato is to be believed, and each pleasure is a nail fastening the soul to the body, then this drink should not be drunk. What we have here, then, is a contradiction in a glass. Sip carefully lest you slip.

Catullus 27
3/4 oz. allspice dram
1/2 oz. absinthe
2 oz. rye
2 dashes Fee’s bitters

Or, as Catullus brokenly said:
“at uos quo lubet hinc abite, lymphae
uini pernicies, et ad seueros
migrate. hic merus est Thyonianus.”