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fred's kick-ass golden margaritas

Fred was a bartender in New Jersey who served some way wicked margaritas. Cathy batted her baby greys at him one night and convinced him to share the recipe. Here it is:

2 parts Cuervo Gold tequila
2 parts Rose's Lime juice
1 part bar (simple) syrup
1/4 part orange curaçao
1/4 part Grand Marnier
1/4 part Cointreau

We cut the Rose's lime juice in half, and reduced the bar syrup somewhat. The juice of a lime slice will tart the drink up, if that's your taste.

Bar syrup is concentrated sugar syrup. If you can't find it, sugar water will be OK.

Because these are so powerful, we post signs over the margarita dispenser whenever we serve them at a party.

The Torquemada Loan Company is proud to sponsor tonight's batch of Magic Margaritas. As you can see from the recipe, these are powerful! Please be careful — we'd like you to take part in the next druid labs party with all body parts intact.

The Torquemada Loan Company, Ltd., is a for-profit company supplying quick and expensive ("usurious" comes to mind) loans, specifically for high-potency margaritas such as these.

druid labs magic margaritas!
A friendly word of caution.

Perhaps you are planning to attend church tomorrow morning, or mow the lawn one last time this year. Maybe you are having your mother-in-law over for dinner and the turkey needs to go into the oven quite early. (The meal, not the mother-in-law.) So tonight you'd like sweet dreams and a restful sleep, to wake feeling refreshed, sharp and ready to tackle that damn turkey! Maybe you'll be performing brain surgery, or teaching little Timmy how to drive a stick using your prized turbo-charged Porsche.

So go ahead and have a really good time tonight.

But drink more than two of these margaritas, and you'll be seeing god in quite a different way. You'll wish that someone would chop your head off and stuff you in the oven, and if you even actually wake up tomorrow at all, you'll find your brain has been replaced with a throbbing mass of pulsing goo and Timmy can rot in hell before he'll ever get his butt in the plush leather seat of that status car you had to sell his mother in order to buy.

But don't blame us — we warned you.