When growing up, we owned a bunch of horses. And yeah, I showed them and all that (though not nearly as well as my sister). But, even with this bit of background, and my admiration for men in a certain type of suit, I never have spent much time at the track (that’s the horse track, for those of you still thinking Olympics). Which is probably one of the reasons I haven’t read much Dick Francis, who writes a lot of his mysteries around the tracks of England and the folks that hang out at or near them. But when on an extended trip to Italy once I was in a need of a book, and there was a Dick Francis number where I was staying, and so I read it, and liked it pretty darn well. It was called Whip Hand, and was horse-y, and had the following quote which I was quite fond of:
We met most weeks at noon in the upstairs bar of the Cavandish Hotel, where a pink gin for him and a whiskey and water for me now stood on prim little mats beside a bowl of peanuts.
In the post below this one, I introduced a book that I was destined to like (and had a long story about why—go read it why dontcha, if you haven’t), called The Man with a Load of Mischief, by Martha Grimes. What I didn’t say (cause I was going on and on too much) was that the title actually refers to a local pub in a small English village, and that a murder takes place at said pub along with three other murders at other local pubs. It’s a pub-murder-a-thon (which, on the page, I’m all for), and as you might expect with that set up has more than one quote that needed reproducing, which is why there is a Part II in the title above. But hey, just read and love the quotes, don’t worry about semantics.
Since Mrs. Withersby’s oracular powers were somewhat dimished by gin, not many people listened
In the meantime, Twig had shuffled in and taken their order for drinks. A pink gin for Agatha, a martini for Melrose. She leaned her ample bosom on folded arms and said, “Now, my dear Machett, let’s have Murch in here.”
Jury wasn’t used to such etherealized cup and china. His cup was shaped like a conch shell, the handle an airy spindle of green. He was almost afraid to pick it up. On a plate were tiny cakes, prettily iced.
“And were you in the Jack and Hammer on that Friday evening?”
“I popped in about six-ish for a Campari and lime, yes.”
Sometimes, it doesn’t take long to know you’re gonna like a new book. I’m talking about a completely new book here, by an author you don’t know, and not say the 32nd book in a series by your all-time favorite writer (which I’m guessing is Garth Marenghi). Sometimes, it takes a few pages, but sometimes, rarely, sure, but sometimes by the end of the second sentence you know the book’s gonna snag you. Or at least has serious potential. I recently had this very phenomenon happen, with a book called The Man with a Load of Mischief, by Martha Grimes, who I’d never read word one from before. As this blog isn’t one of serious literary merit (wait, are any?), you probably have guessed that there’s some boozy mention in said second sentence. And you’re right. But what you probably couldn’t guess is that the boozy mention is of an English beer, one that’s not prevalent in the U.S., but one whose distillery I’ve actually been to! Amazing. It was a few years back, and I was traveling the U.K. with wife Nat and pals Markie B and Leslie P and we were in the Yorkshire region tooling around before seeing the Mighty Boosh, and ended up in a village called Masham, where the famous Theakston Brewery resides, which we visited. And, to bring it all full circle, at Theakston they make a renowned beer call Old Peculiar, which we had (and which Markie B has since lobbied to get in Seattle—successfully I might add) and loved, and which is mentioned in the second sentence of the book, which I talked about like an hour ago at the top of this paragraph. But hey, you wouldn’t want me to leave the story unfinished, right? The payoff is the quote itself, which is right here:
Outside the Jack and Hammer, a dog growled. Inside, his view of the High Street obstructed by the window at his shoulder, Melrose Plant sat in the curve of the bay drinking Old Peculiar and reading Rimbaud.
Now, don’t get jealous, loyal Spiked Punch readers (or, reader, as the case may be). But I’ve been blogging again for the fine folks at Seattle Magazine. It seemed like a good summer thing to do, spreading around the cheer like one of those sprinklers that spreads cheer around (okay, you may think there’s not a sprinkler that spreads cheer around, and you may be right. But what if you’re wrong? Think of how awesome that would be. Just think of it). In case you are only a reader here, I thought it’d be nice of me–and I am seriously nice, especially if you’re buying me a drink. Or three–to put up a little list of five of the bubbly, stirred, and shaken posts I’ve Seattle-Magazine’d up recently. So, here they are:
Back a bit ago (not so long ago that it was, say, past century, but the recent past, which you probably still at least somewhat remember, unless you were hit on the head by a lead pipe, in which case you probably have deeper problems that the fact that you’ve forgotten what I’m about to remind you of) I wrote an article on Seattle’s Happiest Happy Hour Bartenders. In it, I talked about Bryn at the Rob Roy and how he made the more fantastico fizzes in lands near and far. Well, here’s the photographic evidence (a note: when it came out, I had already slurped off the top 1/2-inch of foamy goodness that was firm above the top of the glass):
Look at the foam on that fizz! Amazing. It was a Fine Point Fizz Fizz, with a wild, I tell you, wild range of ingredients: sherry, Strega, pineapple and lime juice, sparklin’ cava, and egg white. Not for the boring. And luckily, I’m not boring. I’m so un-boring that I wrote a short blog post for the Seattle Mag on poets and drinks and mentioned Bryn again–cause he’s all literary–with some wacky lit-tastic combining of Wallace Stevens himself and the drink (which is on the Rob Roy menu don’t cha know) the Mr. New Yorker. And here’s a pic of it (it’s a darn good drink even though un-fizzy, by the way, with gin, sherry, Cointreau, dry vermouth):
Here’s another un-boring thing: if you see me at the Rob Roy, and Bryn there’s, and you quote Wallace Stevens, I will buy you a drink. And give you a hug. Unless you just want one of the two.
Seattle is stocked like a good bar with good bartenders and mixologists and shake-em-up-ers, and ice-crackers, and sturdy stirrers, and bottle-top-twisters, and cocktail cuties, and powerful punchers, and ear-twisting-tipsy-story-telling tippler pourers. Lots of ‘em. I hate to even make a grouping, but if I have to pick a list, let it be one favoring those who both make great drinks and also make the whole bar happier by their presence and person. Which is what I did in my happiest happy hour bartender list (from the new issue of the Seattle Magazine). Because spending a happy hour or six with these five jolly drink slingers is sure to make the day better.
In the below post, I talk more about the recent Seattle Magazine Best Restaurant issue and the top happy hours I picked and more to make you thirsty and hungry. But, in the same issue, I also have an happy hour essay about their history, what makes a memorable one, and why they’re so crucial to the social construct. Well, not so much on the latter, but it is a fizzy piece to read while having a cocktail at a great bar. If I can say so without sounding too self-centered (or at least not so much so that you won’t buy me a drink). So, happy hour it up.
The scrumptious Seattle Magazine has made a recent mistake: they had a few cocktails and let me pick the current round of top happy hour cocktail hotspots for the recent Best Restaurant Issue. Also in the Best Restaurants issue the editors talk it up about their fav eateries, foodie playahs, and top hits for happy hour eats. The whole thing is smart and helpful cause these ladies know their eats. I’m not saying I know it all about cocktails in the same manner, but I have had a drink here and there and do have a bit of an opinion on what makes an ideal happy hour (I also wrote an essay on it, but more on that soon), but here I am going on and on about myself. What I really want to say is: go read the happy hour picks and then get in the car and go have a drink. You deserve it.
When growing up, we owned a bunch of horses. And yeah, I showed them and all that (though not nearly as well as my sister). But, even with this bit of background, and my admiration for men in a certain type of suit, I never have spent much time at the track (that’s the horse track, for those of you still thinking Olympics). Which is probably one of the reasons I haven’t read much Dick Francis, who writes a lot of his mysteries around the tracks of England and the folks that hang out at or near them. But when on an extended trip to Italy once I was in a need of a book, and there was a Dick Francis number where I was staying, and so I read it, and liked it pretty darn well. It was called Whip Hand, and was horse-y, and had the following quote which I was quite fond of:
