This was my second Fluid State. Last year we had an amazing time in big brick warehouse. There were a good number of promo-spots from people who seemed to know what they were talking about. The whisky & cheese tasting session was an awesome experience, one that’s stuck with me all year (I still profess the wonder of whisky and cheese to anyone who will listen). The speakeasy upstairs was a great place to take a break. I was impressed by the guys on the wine stall, had fun drinking from the gin ice-luge (discovering Old Tom in the process), was talked through how to prepare a great gin cocktail, ate my fill of porky goodness at the gin palace, had a nice chat with the bouncers, enjoyed myself with the folks on the Japan stall… all in all, it was a great night. The atmosphere was awesome, the props set a great scene, the performance art was suitable surreal and there were lots of interesting people floating about.
And now on to this year.
There was a white box. It was loud. It was cold.
Downstairs, our introduction in to the proceedings was the (rather fun, if completely un-food-related) invisible baseball. Great start. Then we got told to go buy some tickets.
We had a wander, got some exciting glimpses of snakes and liquid nitrogen before making our way to the Palm Court, which looked rather akin to a school cafe and was obnoxiously loud. We got given (for six pounds, I’ll point out) three half shots of some whiskies. No options, no choice. Awesome. Not. Then we had to put up with some cacophonous free form jazz blasted at awful levels by bad speakers a few feet away. Eventually the real jazz band turned up and was just as cacophonous, though obviously skilled. I couldn’t hear the voice of our tasting leader over the racket. There was no personal touch. No one-on-one. No discussion and no point to this awful experience. There was no palate cleanser and nothing to eat, which ensured we gained as little knowledge and pleasure as possible.
Despite this, we decided to try the nitrogen thing. I left most of my deconstructed margherita as it tasted like sour milk. Still, the guys behind the stall were interesting. There was something going on in one of the cubicles that seemed to be three men massaging a confused girl.
We quickly moved on to what turned out to be a stall run by Crussh. Yes, Crussh, those well-known epicurians, those masters of cocktails, those… er… wait. The smoothie people? Okay. So we got given three cocktails which were, on reflection, smoothies with alcohol in them. Bad smoothies. And omg. The wheatgrass thing? Foul. Another drink unfinished. At this point I spotted what appeared to be a bloody-mary making contraption on the wall. Realising that these few pieces of plywood were the main constituent of the “steam-punk” event on Sunday, I decided I wouldn’t be bothering with that despite already having tickets.
We left, hungry, sober and with a lingering taste of wheatgrass in our mouths.
