The Colada Affair

A Pina Colada with a strong coconut balanced by bright acidity from lime and pineapple, and a light floral touch finish from hibiscus. Sticky sweet and full-flavored.

The Notes:

FA Coconut, TPA Coconut Candy, TPA Coconut Extra

When in doubt, steal from the best and then ruin it. Originally this combination was wholesale lifted from ID10-T's If You Like Pina Coladas, but i've pushed the artificial coconut note up quite a bit. The goal was a strong, assertive coconut that toed the line on straight sunscreen. It's an aggressive coconut note, but I feel like it's balanced well by everything else going on here.

CAP Hibiscus

The floral part of the recipe. CAP's hibiscus reminds me of a floral take on the top notes of a pineapple, so I just kind of went with it. 1.5% is enough to make a noticeable difference, but not dominate any of the other flavors in play.

CAP Golden Pineapple, TPA Jackfruit

I wanted a juicier, instead of sharp or realistic take on a pineapple so I went with these two. For all of the canned weirdness, CAP Golden Pineapple is hella juicy, and TPA Jackfruit helps to fill that in further and sweeten the pineapple note up a bit.

INW Lime

A twist of citrus to brighten everything up. I went with INW Lime because it is the best ever for everything. But seriously, I like how sweet and bright it is for beverage type vapes.

FA Oba Oba

Subtle vanilla, cream soda kind of flavor that fits really with the creamy coconut and juicy pineapple. Also helps to give the mix more texture and cut some of the syrupy sweetness.

FLV Cream

The cream, as far I'm concerned. Nice and thick but not too sweet or dense. Also helps to tone down some of the acidic brightness from the pineapple and lime.

The inspiration, a work of short fiction:

Her voice cuts through your overfed nap, startling you awake on your plastic poolside lounger.

"Are we doing okay over here?"

Her white hospitality uniform comes into focus against a rich blue sky. She's pretty, but she looks impatient. Her hips are slung to one side, and the pen she's holding in her right hand looks poised to drive itself clear through the notepad she's holding in the left.

Annoyed by your obvious disorientation, she repeats herself subtly slowing down and enunciating each syllable like you may actually be stupid instead of suffering from a mild form of sunstroke and an overzealous attack on the continental breakfast.

"Are we doing okay over here? Can I get you something to drink?"

Her eyes catch yours and, for a second, it doesn't seem to matter that you're here with your family. You manage to stammer out that you'd like a Pina Colada, a decision you instantly regret. You could swear you see a glimmer of derision in her hazel eyes, like she expected more from the overweight, sunburned Adonis sprawled out under a languid tropical sky.

Forcing a smile, she assures you that your drink will be right up as she pivots on her heels and unhurriedly walks back to the budget resort's version of a tiki hut. She looks like a goddess from here, her chestnut hair kicked up by a sweet floral breeze, leaving the smell of hibiscus and suntan lotion in her wake.

She smells like you imagined those girls on the Hawaiian Tropic posters smelled, all sweet flowers and thick coconut. Those posters got you through high school, sulking about whatever JV level heartache laid on you that week by another sweet girl with the good sense to stay away from insecure teenage dickheads.

She's laughing now, with the handsome dirtbag pouring drinks behind the bar. He's graceful, but it's all wasted effort. He grabs the Pina Colada mix in one hand, and the opaque sludge seeps artlessly between the ice filling the blender carafe. The rum comes after that, studiously measured out to the drop in an almost comically small shot glass. A short burst from a blender, a sad looking lime wedge and she's got your drink in hand and walking towards you.

She looks tired. She looks like she's trying to talk herself into coyly smilingly and performing the same disheartening song and dance she does for every middle aged guy beached poolside.

You are just another flabby source of tips, one of the thousands that will appraise her solely as a source of amusement in a comfortably mediocre life.

She gets paid to do this, and she gets tipped extra to offer the escapism of a potential tropical fling to reassert whatever primal masculinity these guys are convinced their 2.3 kids and demanding wives are somehow subverting.

She gets tipped to make you forget about the way you cried when your wife finally accepted your marriage proposal, when you felt like all of that loneliness from years of chasing women who only tolerated you was blasted away by your wife's kind eyes and honest enthusiasm for spending her life with you.

She gets tipped to make your forget about that day in the hospital when your first daughter was born, and the wonderment of how someone so grievously flawed, petty, and small could help produce something so heartbreakingly beautiful.

It's the service industry. It's escapism.

It's a transaction, and now she wants to conclude it.

She wants your room number, but it's just somewhere to charge the drink.

You tip the three bucks you have left in your wallet, hidden under a wadded white towel at the side of your increasingly uncomfortable plastic recliner. The transaction ends, she turns to go, and you take a sip while you luxuriate in the scent of her suntan lotion and the hibiscus carried on the gentle breeze. It's not a great drink, but you can't beat the view.