Dear Campari,

It was time to do something drastic.

It was last Sunday. I spent most of the day at the office involved in the unpleasant side of the business, such as paperwork and watching the mold grow under our new roof. Don't ask Campari. Once home, it was all about My Littlest Petshop, weird odors and new kitten Biscuit Nugget that darts and pounces and claws, much like streetcar chatter on feedtacoma.com.

I suggested pizza as half my body was already in the car - a car that can sense Sunday, salami and stress and tracks toward the warmth and wonderment of Primo Grill's wood burning oven. The car waits patiently while I sit at the counter and French kiss the glow, the smell and the minimum of two drinks before the giant wood spoon fetches the heavenly food disc from the open-faced oven.

For 15 minutes I feel halfway rebellious, like when I was a kid and ventured down Chambers Creek toward Steilacoom to play in the mill's giant sawdust piles, shoving dry Quisp into my mouth and without a GPS tracking my hidden adventure. Hidden ... like you Campari.

I get it Campari. You like living behind the bourbon bottles on Primo's shelf of beautiful booze. You're good there. You're fine. No one bugs you. You don't bug them. On occasion, if that old man on 12th walks in, you'll appear for his Negroni. Otherwise, you're most likely dreaming of your Italian childhood when Gaspare Campari introduced your deep-ruby bitters-esque apéritif to the boot-shaped country in 1860. To this day, your recipe remains a proprietary secret, a blend of more than 60 ingredients - alcohol, fruits, spices, herbs, barks and peels. I suppose that your dominant orange-peel ?avor points to your core ingredient. And just like your recipe hasn't changed, you're still commonly ordered as you lived at the turn of the 20th century: either with soda or on the rocks with an orange slice. If remembered at all.

But I spotted you Campari, you rascal. I had a straight view down the kitchen line to your shy self. I saw you duck behind the Maker's Mark. Surprised you didn't know that bottle thinks its king of the world. Check out its red crown. Maker's Mark thinks its better than you. It will rat you out every time.

I suppose I could have sipped you as an apéritif while studying the exposed skills in the open kitchen. After all, apéritifs are drinks with a purpose, as they're sipped before dinner to stimulate both palate and appetite. You and me both knew thats wasn't going to happen.

Primo bartender Alexandria, several lovely servers and phone a friend Chelsea over at the Crown Bar came up with a couple of a Campari cocktails that should have you sitting in the front row. The first drink combines you, brandy, a splash of scotch, home made maraschino cherry liqueur with a brandied cinnamon cherries garnish. The drink doesn't have a name, but the flavors blend well. The second cocktail is a bit more festive. Primo's Bellisima Campari consists of brandy, you, champagne over a brown sugar cube in a flute with orange zest and a peel as a crown. Deliziosissima!

I suppose I owe you an apology, Campari. Your quiet life may be finished, at least at Primo Grill. But may I suggest you enjoy the exposure and gratitude. Hang out with your fellow countrybottles Amaretto, Frangelico and Sambuca. Date the sweet looking Limoncello on the next shelf. La dolce vita Campari!

Ciao,

Ron Swarner

PRIMO GRILL, 601 S. Pine St., Tacoma, 253.383.7000