It takes a strong stomach and a steely gut to love Manila. Even then, you have to take small sips at spaced intervals to build your resistance. Because if you take it in all at once, Manila will overpower your senses, knocking you unconscious until the morning after when you’ll find yourself hurling over the toilet bowl and swearing you’ll never ever drink again as long as there’s breath in your hungover body.
Unlike Boracay, Manila is not a dainty glass of margarita topped by a tiny umbrella. Manila is that dark drink in a plain lowball glass, a pungent concoction of spirits that have no business being mixed with each other. It’s the one served to you by the bartender with a devilish smile on his face. Ask him what’s in it, and he’d only say, “You wouldn’t want to know.”
But you do. Out of curiosity, you sneak a peek at the labels of discarded bottles.
Vintage 400 years, says one label.
Fermented in American and Spanish distilleries, says another.
There are a couple more, written in Chinese and Japanese characters you can’t decipher.
The bartender catches you and says, “Some things are meant to be experienced, not learned. Just drink it.”
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Eccentric Errant 