4241 Lindell Boulevard


As we were leaving the grocery store, an older gentleman scowled at us and said, "Put a jacket on," in a tone usually reserved for conversations about unpopular dictators. And just a few days before that, we had to defend ordering an iced latte to the person behind us in line at a coffee shop: "There's ice out there," he'd said, gesturing outside. "Why do you want more of it in your drink?" We've long thought the benefits of sunlight far outweigh its potential risks and, to us, these off-putting encounters further bolster the case for the validity of seasonal affective disorder as a legit psychological ailment. Potential case studies lurk round every corner.

Like most people in this city, we're looking for sol. We're not asking for much: just a hint of it here and there from behind the uniformly charcoal sky, something that makes the sun worthy of its place as Earth's most important star. Something that demonstrates that its power is greater than the output of a dying flashlight.

In the hope of finding Sol in bottle form, we head to Sol, an up-and-coming hot spot in the Central West End that shares a space with the Grind, where we heard we could actually find Sol, our favorite, elusive Mexican-import beer. We've not been this excited about ordering a beer since Stella Artois starting popping up on tap at some of our favorite bars.

At least some of Sol's (the lounge) brick-walled interior reminds us of winter days: short and dark. On one side of the cavernous room there's a maze of low, black sectional couches and squat tables, the space itself divided by gauzy curtains.

We spot a bottle of Sol on Sol's impressive back bar, where an impressive array of liquor waits on shelves so tall that some bottles are only accessible by ladder. Our eyes are focused on the golden bottle of Sol that seems to glow from within. We order one, and the bartender starts digging through coolers. She comes back empty-handed. "I'm sorry," she says. "We sold out of Sol last night. And Corona."

Sol's sold out of Sol. We let out an exasperated sigh but do appreciate that so many other people in this city are as frantic for Sol as we are. We order a Pacifico. Pacifico is a fine-enough-tasting beer: Though it's brewed in Mazatlán, a Mexican city known in part for the college spring-breakers who take drunken, overpriced rides on banana rafts pulled by speedboats, we appreciate the hoppy, summery feel it lends. Better yet, it doesn't need any cutesy accouterments — lime, fruit, umbrella — to make it so. Nonetheless, our search for Sol continues.

Mom Drink of the Week always draws a giant smiley face on the calendar when Daylight Saving Time day rolls around. A Jimmy Buffett concert's scheduled for next month. There's a reason, we suspect, the comfort we're finding in these small but promising harbingers is referred to as solace.

Got a drink suggestion? E-mail [email protected]

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