Most Chicagoans have an identical story when they’re asked about their first Malort shot. Their faces contort into a twisted mask of regret, rage, and confusion, and they’ll begin telling you about a person they thought was their friend buying a round of shots for the table at some dive bar. They’ll mention how this “friend” placed a glass full of a yellowish liquid in front of them, and how, trusting this person, they took the shot with the group.
Immediately their tone will change. The story will quickly become one of betrayal, of man’s inhumanity to man, as the storyteller questions how a person could torture somebody else with a shot of this bitter, horrible spirit and then take a picture of their face afterwards, uploading it to Instagram with the hashtag #malortfaces.