Or at least he thinks he can in the below video. But he is challenging you to prove him wrong. So, if you’re tough enough, film yourself and then let him know. I’m just happy I can have an open beer served to me really darn fast (and without even having to break the bottle’s neck off with a rock. Which is what I usually do).

Another bartender showing up at your bar for a free drink after you had one at their bar? Check. A vest and bow-tie? Check. Giant hands getting ready to work out that shaker? Check. A little crankiness cause you’ve been slinging ‘em all day? Check. A super curvy redhead walking away from the bar and wearing a groovy shirt that you just can’t keep your eyes off of? Check. And that’s how the life behind the stick operates.

PS: I picked this panel up from the blog Warren Peace, in an article about the artist Steve Ditko (whose art I dig, especially in early Dr. Strange and old horror comics), coming out of panels from The Art of Ditko, edited by Craig Yoe, which is a full book of older Ditko. It almost should go without saying (cause those who read this blog occasionally will guess it already), but I found the Warren Peace blog via a link in a post on the otherworldly Neilalien site.

PPS: I’m not, any more, a professional bartender. But I know a lot of them. And this post is for them, especially the hard-working Andrew B who writes the hard-working blog Cask Strength.

I was recently in the big ol’ NYC, doing some glad-handing and jive-talking for my corporate overlords (sadly, today, I don’t get to spend every waking minute footloose and fancy free with drink in one hand, and the other hand working on putting together this Munsters model). I wanted to spend some time traipsing around the bazillion NYC bars and lounges and taprooms and dives that I have and haven’t been to yet, but sadly I only had one evening free, and not even much of that one. So, I went to the Raines Law Room. I’d mentioned Raines, and its friendly and writerly bar manager Meaghan Dorman before (here and here), and had been given a tour of Raines by her, but hadn’t actually stopped by when it was in full swing. Which made this stop a real treat, because the atmosphere in there is such an underground thing of beauty, all plushness and secret-y goodness. And the drinks? The drinks were heavenly. I had a bunch, but most of the photos didn’t turn out (due to a combination of user fumbling and dim lighting), but the below gives you at least a glimpse. And Meaghan was working, and can I say one thing: that girl’s a helluva shaker. Don’t take her on in a bar fight. Oh, the drink below is a (not sure how I forgot to mention this) Ragtime, which is Pernod absinthe, Ramazzotti Amaro, Rittenhouse 100 proof rye, Aperol and Peychaud’s. That’s a lineup of genius, which translated into layers of bitters and deliciousness. If you’re heading to NYC, be sure to put Raines on the “must visit” list–but get there early, cause it fills up quick.

After the longish (or just plain long) Tom Waits post below, I thought I’d slip in a short couple of quotes from a book that almost echoes Waits (a book which is definitely the inspiration for the “ethics” scene in the Coen brothers’ film Miller’s Crossing, too), in that there are some shady and weird characters and everyone ends sad, dead, or drunk–a book called Kill and Tell. The first one’s about going into a bar, and the second about drinking at home (cause I wanted to cover the bases).

The bar was a fine old piece of imitation mahogany, and there was a fine old imitation Irishman in a white coat behind it.

We lifted our glasses to each other; the wine was cool and dry. I kept refilling our glasses while we ate, and when Jake brought the coffee Catherine asked him for some brandy. We were celebrating; each of us understood that.

“I think I’m drunk,” she told me.

“I’m drunk, too,” I said.

–Kill and Tell, Howard Rigsby

Ohh, that title just makes me shudder: Death at the Bar. Perhaps the worst thing possible (well, okay, that’s a bit much—there are, in life, much worse things, but this is just a drinks blog, so give me some leeway), especially if it was a jolly evening. Which, in this book, by Ngaio Marsh (Ngaio is pronounced /ˈnaɪoʊ/ if you were wondering, and is a lady), isn’t 100% true, as the evening at the bar (a little English town bar called the Plume of Feathers. Which is fantastic, especially as it’s not a disco), is a tad contentious, with old fiesty relationships, and reds (in the commie way), and an arrogant lawyer, and more.

But it’s still a pretty good night (as the below quote points out, though it also has a bit of foreshadowing), until they decide to play darts. Because one of the characters is killed . . . by a dart. Or is he? You’ll have to read the darn book to find out, because I’m no spoiler.

Watchman had already taken three glasses of Treble Extra and, although sober, was willing to be less so. Parish, suddenly flamboyant, offered to bet Able a guinea that the brandy was not Courvoisier ’87, and on Abel shaking his head, said that if it was Courvoisier ’87, damn it, they’d kill a bottle of it there and then.

–Death at the Bar, Ngaio Marsh

Was sent the accompanying photo (which I’m hoping was from outside a bar–I mean, it has to be, right?) from pal Pat Jalbert-Levine, who is the wonderful person that ensures that my books from Harvard Common Press get done up right and make it to the printers on time (as well as about a million other things). It happened to be a long day at the salt mines when I got it, so it made my day hugely better (she’s both a geting-books-done superstar and a makes-the-day-better person. That’s a sweet combo). Here’s what she said about it (she sent it to me and boy PR genius Howard Stelzer, who loves himself some beer):

“I don’t know why this made me think of you. Oh wait, yes I do! I’m working on In Their Cups right now, and I know someone who’s a beer fanatic…! My mother forwards “joke emails” she gets from her family in France, and a recent one contained this picture. You’d have to know how the Lord’s Prayer goes in French to really get the cleverness, but anyway, here’s my attempt at a translation which would do it justice in English:”

Our beer who art in vats

Hallowed be thy foam

Let thy glass come

Let thy distribution be done

On the table as it is in the bar

Give us this day

Our daily hops

And forgive us our hangovers

As we forgive those

Who drink coca-cola

Lead us not into temptation

But deliver us from thirst

For thine are the bubbles, and aroma, and freshness

Now and forever

Amen

Isn’t that swell? I think so, and if you do, too, be sure to raise a toast to Pat next time you’re quaffing a cold one (and for that matter, raise a toast to Howie, as well, and to all the folks worldwide who are also, at the moment, drinking a beer. Now isn’t that nice to think about?).

Okay, that’s just a catchy headline in most situations, because in most situations I like my bars safe and booze-y and full of cozy chums. But for some reason, the below panel, from a knockout Stan Lee / George Tuska comic called “Acid Test!” printed in the October 1973 issue of Tales of the Zombie #2, (though originally presented in the July 1953 issue of Menace #5 under the title “Nightmare!”–huge props to the amazing pre- and post-code horror comics site The Horrors of It All, which is where I found this, and where I visit every day to get my chill on) made me think of how some days you go to a bar to forget, or try to forget, the murdering you’ve done. That’s all right, too (even if for most of us it’s symbolic murder, one hopes). Especially when the bartender below is such a dead ringer for bartending pal Andrew B. Or is it bartending pal Andrew F? Now that I look at it, a bit of both. The fact that the bartender turns out to be a certain famous evil-doer has nothing to do with it, naturally.

Okay, full disclosure straight up: the bar manager at the new (as opposed to the older version from a few years ago) Mistral Kitchen in Seattle is a pal of mine. A good pal, even. His name’s Andrew Bohrer, and I’ve blogged about him before, cause he makes damn good drinks, and isn’t all snooty about it (and his blog Cask Strength is full of booze and cursing, which is nice). Heck, I’ve heard him praise PBR as casually as Pappy’s 15-Year bourbon. Here he is, getting busy with pouring:

This all means that when wife Nat and I went to Mistral recently (during the “soft opening” phase) we were probably going to be pretty forgiving, if needed. But to get around the whole “of course you’ll say nice things, you know them” I’m going to keep commentary at a minimum, and go the photogenic route (which is great for me, cause I’m, well, hot and so inclined to like the photogenic route). The quick summary, though, before the photos (did you think I’d back out of editorializing completely?): the savory food was still being worked out, but solid ingredient choices, if pretty straightforward preparations (this on the veggie side); the dessert-y food was interesting and delicious and architectural and a step above the savory right now; the cocktail food was, well, great. Now, onward. We had some roasted veggies, but they weren’t as good as the wood-roasted mushrooms:

And we had a vinaigrette’d green salad (good, but pretty spare), which wasn’t as good as the cheese plate:

With the meal, Nat had an Aviation cocktail (we both went classically at first, picking off the old-school short bar menu), which was dreamy and cloudy like a cloudy dream:

I had the Mint Julep, which was made just right, with the right crackity-cracked ice, the right metal julep cup, and the right healthy amount of bourbon. Pretty, even:

For dessert, we had the Ultra Brownie, and it was ultra creamy chocolate goodness, but topped, I felt, by the Walnut Honey Cake (the desserts, made by chef Neil Robertson, both kicked sugary ass though), which came with rich figs and homemade (natch) chestnut ice cream:

With desserts, Nat had a fresh cocktail that Andrew had recently been working on (as an aside: isn’t it always swell to be able to be one of the first to taste a new drink? I think it’s swell), which mixed 1 ounce gin, 1/2 ounce kirsch, 1 ounce blanc (not dry) vermouth, and 1/2 ounce orgeat. It was really jumping (or frolicking) with the balance of dry to sweet right on. And, he called it the Tauntaun. Geeks, rejoice:

For my last drink, I had a Fernet Old Fashioned, which Andrew had been telling me about, and about who originally created it, but now I can’t find the email. Maybe he’ll be so kind as to leave the info and the instructions in the comments. Though he is busy. But not that busy (so get to it, Andrew). Anywho, before starting an online booze war, let me say that I dig Fernet, and this drink was the tops. I love the phat orange rind, and the ice ball, and the bitter-after-dinner experience that is summed up in this glass:

That’s the Mistral Kitchen kids, well worth a visit, especially if you belly up to the bar and let the cocktails roll. Just be sure to order a drink with an orange peel:

Hey, happy Mon-Tuesday. Just hold off before calling me calendarily challenged. I know today is really Tuesday, and that there is no Mon-Tuesday day. But as it’s the day after a Monday holiday, all of us working slobs (those who work the regular work-week at least) going back to work feel like it’s a Monday, cause it’s the first day of the week with the good times that entails (sing it now, good times, any time you need a favor), but it’s actually Tuesday. Hence the Mon-Tuesday. What does this mean in the world of boozing and spiking of punches? That it’s a fine time for a quote by Hal Masur (who in his full name is Harold Q. Masur, as seen in this post about Suddenly a Corpse), from a book in his Scott Jordan series. Scott’s a lawyer, see, when that meant more than a bad film adaptation and a southern accent. What it means is he drinks hard, rumbles with jerky DAs, snuggles up with any number of hourglass figures, and then solves mysteries and murders. The kind of lawyer a boy or girl can admire, and aspire to being (or hiring). You know, as it is Mon-Tuesday, here are two quotes from Tall, Dark and Deadly: one martini one, and one bar one. Enjoy them, and then go litigate yourself something cold and strong (whatever that means).

“Thirsty Scott?”

“Parched. I’d like a martini, very dry.”

She went to a portable bar. “One martini, coming up.”

“May I help?”

“I know the formula,” she declared loftily. “Gin, vermouth, and cyanide.” She prepared the ingredients in a chrome shaker, applying the vermouth with an atomizer, and substituting a twist of lemon peel for the cyanide. I drank. It was very dry indeed and the gin left me a trifle lightheaded.

“Another?” she asked?

“Not unless you can handle me.”

“Does that mean I have to get you drunk?”

“Helps. I’ve very shy.”

I entered and perched on a bar stool. The place was humming with activity. Regardless of the hour or the temperature, it seems that a large number of citizens continuously suffer from parched throats. In order to accommodate this drought the city has spawned a thousand watering holes that serve no water. This one was indistinguishable from its cousins.

            I ordered Canadian ale and got a glass of Milwaukee stout.

–Tall, Dark and Deadly, Hal Masur

Happy salivating September folks. Welcome to another month where you should be trying to have as many cool and creative cocktails as you can consume without causing chaos (or making you miss too many mornings). The reason, you might ask, if you were the asking kind, that September is so salivatious? It’s because of this very blog post, where I’m going to cut at least some of the chatter off the tree and present you with a few more almost drinkable photos from the San Francisco trip I had not all that long ago (and which I detailed a bit in a post you probably remember fondly called Drinks on the Road: San Francisco, Part I). But before the drink pics (hah, I always do this: set up, then aside), a quick shout out to my pals at the wondrous Chow.com, who brought me in to Chow HQ while I was in San Francisco to shoot some tips. And no, tips aren’t an endangered species (wow, the jokes come at a fast pace here at Spiked Punch), and yes I’ll post some later. But first, check out me preening while camera-person extraordinaire Blake Smith sets up a limoncello shot. You can’t see her here, but pal Meredith Arthur is taking the pic, directing things with calm and aplomb like she did all day (not easy to do when dealing with a diva like me).

After the tipping, I made a quick change into my Bob Fossil t-shirt, and then headed out to meet Meredith and her-husband-and-pal Michael for a drink at Range in the Mission (for more on Range, be sure to check out the blog Inside the Blood Bank). It was a sweet little spot, and M & M are great drinking companions (though I somehow managed to forget to take a pic of them, which is a shame, as they’re cuties) and I got to have a (drum-roll here) Zyzzyva cocktail. Not only was it a tangy-herby-august mixture of gin, yellow Chartreuse, apricot brandy, and fresh lime, but it was a tangy-herby-august mixture of gin, yellow Chartreuse, apricot brandy, and fresh lime named after the magazine (that I love) that published my first book, Want. Dang, that’s what’s listed under the definition of “Awesome.”

The next day after that (please, please, don’t ask me to name what day it was though), Nat I had a day of drinking delights. You know, I should copyright that phrase for my new tour guiding service (you know, I should have a tour-guiding service). “A.J.’s Day of Drinking Delights.” You’d sign up, right? Our first stop was in the middle of Chinatown (forget about, it’s Chinatown. No, no, don’t forget), where we slipped into the Budda Bar, a lovely little dive we had to ourselves, along with the amiable bartendress and the owner, who kept coming up to talk to us from the basement. We charmed him (natch), and he introduced us to the following unknown Hong Kong sipper (he insisted we swirl it around our mouth and teeth before swallowing though, as it’s not a shooter). I hadn’t had said spirited drink before, but it had a very powerful, not harsh, sense about it, like a good strong peasant grappa.

That night, we met pal Megan (from HCP and the A Year in the Life Beatles blog no less) at the Clock Bar, which is a stylish spot situated in the classic Westin St. Francis hotel downtown. It’s managed by a dapper and friendly fella name Matthew Meidinger, who not only helped me out recently with an article (which I’ll talk about when it comes out), but who also treated us to a few of the Clock Bar’s perfectly made cocktails that night, starting out (for me) with a slightly savory Sage Advice, a drink that could stand tall at any bar with its combination of Rittenhouse rye, Italian-specialty Averna amaro, fresh orange juice, black tea honey syrup, and good pal Peychauds bitters. I might like that drink so much I’d let it take my dogs for a walk.

Matthew not only ensured we had a host of helpful (well, why not?) drinks at the Clock Bar, but he also pointed us towards the Heaven’s Dog for dinner and more drinks, calling ahead to assure us a spot, getting us a cab, and making sure we didn’t trip on the way out the hotel. I tell you, if you’re in S.F. and don’t visit the Clock Bar, you only have yourself to blame. For that matter, if you don’t visit it and Heaven’s Dog, then you shouldn’t even talk to yourself any more. Because Heaven’s Dog was also, well, heavenly. General Manager Erik Adkins met us at the door and swept us off our feet with his genial good nature and miles of smiles. What is it about S.F. and friendly bar folks? Sometimes it’s best not to question, and instead just be happy with your fine fortune (a phrase sounding somewhat fortune cookie like). At Heaven’s Dog we had multiple snacks from the dinner menu, which is set up for sharing and which has a Vietnamese flavor (like Vietnamese tapas, someone said)–perhaps the tops was the vegetarian pork belly, tofu skin, shiitake mushrooms, clam shell buns, and scallion–and all was yummy. But the drinks, the drinks were even yummier. Ours were made by the also-friendly and very knowledgeable Eric Johnson. He’s opening (by the way) a new spot called Bar Agricole in the very near future, so keep your eye open for it (and your mouth wide open). Eric made us a whole host of cocktails and highballs and their brethren and sisteren. Sadly, we didn’t take too many photos, as we were busy talking, drinking, and eating, and those we didn’t take we went flashless on (not to mention that I put the monkey book away, so am guessing a bit on what we had). But here’s one nice pic of Eric I think putting the finishing touch on a Gin Fizz Tropical, which was gin, pineapple gum syrup, orgeat, lime, egg white, mint, and soda:

Ah, San Francisco and the many bars and just outstanding people on both sides of them. Hopefully we make it back soon. And if the above didn’t get your “thirsty” button pushed, then you must be a zombie. Except that even a zombie would be thirsty after those pictures. So, go get your zombie-self a cocktail, why don’t ya?