Having honed my taste for Campari in preparation for an event this evening, my research swelled my expectations out of proportion. Campari’s recent saucy marketing campaign led me to believe that certain items would be present.
BAMBOOZLED: There were no Italian flygirls in red body paint.
HOODWINKED: I couldn’t find any representatives to speak with me about the apertif’s place in American culture, only waitresses in bad 40s-era replica hats passing out gift boxes. They weren’t a far cry from mechanized mannequins: useless for information.
SURPRISED: A burlesque dancer, wearing only what I believed to be a fishing net, carried a massive translucent beachball into the crowd. She referred to herself as the “Female Atlas.”
I did sample a host of Campari’s permutations, and isolated bitterness as the variable that elicits the most dismay from my tastebuds. With fresh orange juice, it no longer tastes like decomposing swamp puss. I highly recommend this incarnation for anyone who finds themselves in in the face of a poorly-stocked liquor cabinet.