Okay spirit swillers, there’s a new vodka in town. To spread the word about Absolut Mango, the clear goods distiller set up a party station last week at Event Space and hosted three nights of unrestrained booziness and silliness that I found irresistible.
Inside, the centerpiece was a massive 40-foot-wide tree, humanely replantable I was told (though no one later confirmed), festooned with brass and glass lanterns and unbelievably perfect low-hanging mango fruit. They were strung up to look ripe for the taking, which was good enough for me.
Aiming to be smart with their budget while still making a fruity splash, the folks at Extra! Extra! used the same menu, decor, and props for each of the three back-to-back events. One night appealed to the flashier set, sponsored by Us Weekly, and the next night appealed to the downtown coolsters, hosted with Paper magazine. I guess the first night, which I attended, was for everybody else.
Let’s see who was there. Some crazy fashion types: silver lamé shoes, fishnet hose over pink tights—on a guy, two girls both channeling Amy Winehouse, a lost-looking Mr. Business Man in a good quality camel’s-hair overcoat, and a disgraced Baronness from my era, who eagerly handed out business cards proclaiming her Baronnessence, despite my understanding that once the Baron divorces you for adultery you are not really supposed to use the title.
This was one of those parties where everyone was having a blast, for no apparent reason. (Free vodka may have helped.)
The look was tropical—surprise, surprise—and kicked off with a Gilligan’s Island photo backdrop where you could have your picture taken with a body-painted, clothing-free, hmmm, let’s call her a fitness model. Many of the posers and poseurs availed themselves of a friendly grab of flesh, the type of grab that will get you thrown out of a strip club, but seemed kosher here. My, my.
Immediately after your possibly career-blowing portrait with an attractive mango artist, you could choose to mangle intricately cut and peeled pieces of mango on a skewer. For me, a big chunk of fruit on a stick was more than I could pilot through the bacchanalia, so I opted for a tiny slice of mango. No big deal honestly.
As I made my way to the bar, an exhausted looking waitress made eye contact while half-heartedly offering me one of her last nibbles from a tray that looked like baboons had been at it. I said I would wait for a fresh round. “Good luck with that,” she told me under her breath.
I was a little late, I should be clear. But the party had an hour to go based on my invitation, not to mention two nights to follow. I was worried that this first bow of Absolut Mango had blown off just a bit too much steam. Glass containers and nut bowls that appeared to have at one time contained bar snacks, now offered only forensic clues to previous offerings. Perhaps there had been peanuts, raisins, dried banana and plantain chips. But this I gathered from evidence on the floor, which I was too lazy to itemize more carefully.
The bar lady also looked like she’d had a rough few hours as she adjusted her formfitting black stretch costume with an audible snap. Gamely, I went for Absolut Mango on the rocks, wanting my first quaff unimpaired by adulterants. But I kept getting bumped, which at least helped me evaluate Absolut Mango’s unique bouquet, which truth be told I found olfactorily discordant. The taste of Absolut Mango was just fine though, like all those flavored vodkas, they mostly taste like vodka, but I suppose if I closed my eyes…
This was not my first time at the Absolut Vodka/consumer magazine rodeo. In my days as a glossy flunky, the care and feeding of the Absolut clients with parties, advertorials, mailings, and fashion shows was all-consuming, in a good way. Once, while en route to an elaborate sales pitch for Elle magazine, I saw a mugging. A necklace grabber, right in Hachette’s lobby, knocked down a screaming lady and ran for it. Don’t ask me why, I dropped my boards, chased the assailant through the parking lot on 50th and Eighth Avenue, tackled him, rolled with him, and was assisted by a passing firetruck and two of the city’s bravest in their rubber coats. I got the necklace and a letter of commendation from Robert Morgenthau, and went on to the meeting, which was successful. I tried telling this old chestnut to fellow revelers, started it a few times, but never got very far, which I’m chalking up to the effectiveness of Absolut Mango and not the ineffectiveness of my storytelling. What say you?
