August 11, 2011
Stopped in with pal Andrew (he of the mighty Cask Strength) and wife Nat to Oliver’s Twist the other night, and had a few fine tasting drinks courtesy of English gin. See, Andrew (when he’s not mixing drinks) is an evangelist of sorts for English Gins (a group consisting of Plymouth and Beefeater gins I believe), an English Gins Connoisseur if you want to be formal, and so he was happy to buy us a few drinks if we’d listen to him talk up the gins. Heck, we’d probably listen to him talk about anything from the Misfits teevee show to the blue-eyed idol of millions if he’d buy us drinks. Especially when the drinks were as tasty as these’uns. I started with a drink of his own making called the Signal to Noise:
It had Plymouth gin, a smooch of lime juice and a smooch of orgeat and a dash of Angostura. It really allowed the gin to shine, which I dug immensely. Nat started with something off the house board, the Jasmine (which in this incarnation I believe combined gin with Cointreau, Campari, and lemon):
We both followed up with a drink created by Robert, who was our handy bartender. I believe it had gin, Aperol, and a few other choice ingredients, but know for a fact it was very icy and refreshing and sippable:
Nat had another of those un-named beauties for her final cocktail, while I headed back in time to a recent un-buried favorite (which is in this cocktail book that comes out soon-ish), the Bijou, which brings together sweet vermouth and green Chartreuse with gin and a twist:
All-in-all, my thanks to the dedicated men and women who make English gins, plus thanks to Andrew and Robert, too, for providing us with a delish evening.
July 29, 2011
Holy Toledo! It’s actually a tad warm up and over here in the Northwest, with the sun beating and bleating down and temperatures approaching something that seems, suspiciously, like summer. And when summer hits, one of my favorite things to drink is a cold hard cider served up over lots of ice cubes. I picked up this habit when visiting the U.K. once (and by visiting, I mean stopping at every little pub I could to taste local brews and booze) with pals Mark and Leslie and wife Nat and have never stopped. While I’ll admit my fav ciders tend to be dry and with accent, I also am a huge fan and support more local ciders, like the lovely Tieton ciders and Ace ciders (from CA). In the below pic, I was sipping an Ace while picking out what smashing sandwich I was going to order at the almighty Smarty Pants. I went with the Ms. Piggy, with Field Roast, and the combo was darn fine.
July 7, 2011
Seattle’s finally in a patch of sunny, summery, weather, which means one thing to wife Nat and I—we go inside to a dark, shady bar to have some drinks. We don’t want any of that sun by golly. No sir-ee. Give us the jazzy (and I don’t mean bubbly, here, but more 1932 jazz den of iniquity) insides of any bar serving them up with either a sneaky grin or a snarl. Cause that happy sunshine is just too much.
Okay, the above paragraph was a kidder, kids. We love the Seattle sunshine. But we also love having cocktails at Seattle’s Rob Roy, which does have a small deck in the sun when it’s sunny, but hey, the seats outside aren’t as comfy. And the inside of the Rob Roy is so groovy, that we decided to sit inside even with sun outside recently, sipping our drinks with pals Rachel and Jackie, and talking to pal Andrew Bohrer (he of the muscular and mighty Cask Strength blog) when he wasn’t making us drinks. The drinks, by the by, we mostly delicious. To start, I had a Pimm’s Cup (which I like to have when in the midst of a patch of sunny days, even when I’m inside): 
It was pretty darn good (if maybe a tad too mint-packed for me. But then again I’m vain, and always worrying about getting mint in my teeth). Nat started with one off the Happy Hour menu (she’s deal-oriented), the Oahu Gin Sling (which had gin, Cassis, Benedictine, lime, and soda):
Nice-y nice. For Nat’s second drink, she had Andrew make her an old favorite (of hers, but heck, it may be one of his favorites, too), the Diablo. Tequila, cassis, ginger ale and deliciousness. In this pic, the drink’s a bit blurry, but he, it gives you a sort-of paparazzi view of Rachel and Jackie (who also had nice drinks, but I’ve forgotten what they were. Sue me) as well as showing the sun for those who think I was kidding about Seattle and sunshine:
My next drink was an Andrew special, and for the life of me (honestly, if you held a gun to my classic cocktail book collection I could not remember) I can’t remember the name. But it was cracked ice, gin, a lovely vinegar, lemon, and I think something else. Maybe he’ll come by the ol’ Spiked Punch and let us know the name and if that was, actually the list of ingredients. But isn’t it a looker of a drink:
We had another round, but I put the camera down and focused on the conversation, as that’s more important than taking pics. I did, however, try to snap a snap of bar-tending Andrew actually behind the bar, working, but didn’t have any luck (he’s a blur back there). Instead, here is a final shot of his home-carved tool of ice destruction, his bartender’s Mjölnir if you will (and if you’re not afraid to admit you’re a geek and know what that means):
Be very careful when he’s swinging that hammer around. We don’t want any casualties at the bar.
March 23, 2011
When they’re talked of (which is a lot, one hopes), the Bronte sisters (Charlotte, Emily, and Anne) aren’t usually referred to as party animals. This is, of course, a crying shame. As their books are filled with well-rounded characters, and usually contain a wee tipple or tippling, or a bar, and mostly entertaining writing that pulls you in, as opposed to pushing you out, my thought is that for the years they lived within the sisters were a rollicking good time, and probably were thought of somewhat in the same way we think of modern party animal writers like J. Robert Lennon and Andrew Greer (at least when those two modern scribes are wearing hoop skirts). In any case, the Spiked Punch is going to dwell for two posts on quotes from Charlotte’s novel Shirley, published in 1849 and as worthy a read (I think) as her much more fawned over Jane Eyre (though admittedly I like me the Jane Eyre, too). This first quote falls into the “bar” shelf in the Cocktail Talk kitchen, and describes lovingly a 1800s watering hole (and I have a confession–I think longingly of whisky-and-water myself on occasion):
He looked for certain landmarks–the spire of Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revelers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-and-water.
—Shirley, Charlotte Bronte
February 1, 2011
It’s hard to believe that there could be two more beautifully booze-y quotes from this Ed McBain book, quotes as good as those below, but I’m going to say, drink in hand raised to the sky, that these may be as good. At least, they manage to mention a whole array of classic mixes—and both mention the Zombie. Is there another book (outside of drink books, duh) that mentions the rum’d out Zombie twice? I have my doubts (but would be happy to be pointed in the direction of another one). Does this mean you should be sure to have rums on hand when you read the Gutter and the Grave? Well, of course.
It was Park Avenue mixed with the slums, it was cocktail parties and pool parlors, theater openings and all-night movies on Forty-Second Street. It was her world and mine, mixed like a Zombie, four thousand kinds of rum, but blended because underneath the exotic name it was all rum.
The man handling our table wondered back. ‘Sir, the bartender says he is not equipped to make hot rum toddies, sir. He suggests, if you care for rum, a Planter’s Punch, or a Cuba Libre, or a Zombie.’
‘I’ll have a rye and soda,’ I said. ‘Toni?’
‘A whiskey sour,’ she said.
—The Gutter and the Grave, Ed McBain
January 14, 2011
People who know me, know that I dig the Trollope (the Anthony Trollope, that is, and not some other author trying to ride the coattails of his last name—and not the trollops this time, though I don’t have anything against a hooker with a heart of gold). I have pretty much (I’m missing one) the complete Trollope collection of novels and sometimes think I could subside on a reading diet of Trollope, Dickens, and Mosley (and maybe a couple pocket books for balance). Especially fine, and worth reading and re-reading, are the Palliser novels, where he takes on a combination of politics and upper crust foibles in the age when everyone had a ladies maid, had tongues sharp as Wustofs, and wore really puffy outfits. The Eustace Diamonds is the third of six Palliser novels, and while not my fav of the bunch is pretty darn fine. Especially fine is this quote where the drink of choice is Negus, the party hit of the late middle 1800s.
‘My dear, Mr. ‘Oward’ he said, ‘this is a pleasure. This is a pleasure. This is a pleasure.’
‘What is it to be?’ asked Gager.
‘Well;–ay, what? Shall I say a little port wine Negus, with the nutmeg in it rather strong?’ This suggestion he made to a young lady from the bar, who had followed him into the room. The Negus was brought and paid for by Gager, who then requested that they might be left their undisturbed for five minutes.
That’s not the only quote, though, cause on the very same page is this gem:
‘Six penn’orth of brandy,–warm if you please, my dear,’ said the pseudo-Howard, as he strolled easily into an inner room, with which he seemed to be quite familiar. He seated himself in an old-fashioned wooden arm-chair, gazed up at the gas lamp, and stirred his liquor slowly.
–Anthony Trollope, The Eustace Diamonds
September 24, 2010
For the last poem in In Their Cups week 2010 (celebrating the release and release party this Sunday for In Their Cups and the drinking poems contained therein, as if you didn’t know), I wanted to highlight one of the two poems in book by Ed Skoog (I should mention though, that he also has translations in the book from three languages–you’ll have to look to find out which languages). Without Ed, In Their Cups would have been called “Cups with Holes” and been awfully leaky, cause he not only let me put poems and translations of his own in the book, but helped me track down more poems that made the cut and are in the book, gave advice on ordering of poems and sections, drank a lot with me during the putting together of the book, and was generally helpful in every way you can think of plus a few more you’d forgotten.
If you don’t know already, Ed is one of the best poets anywhere alive today–buy his book Mister Skylight and you will be changed–but is also a drink maker of some renown, a drink consumer of much renown, and a sweet banjo player to boot who can sing the high lonesome like few others (even after a few–let’s say 5-to-10–shots). If you ever are going into a bar for the long haul (which I’m guessing you will be, probably soon), bring him along. Or at least bring this poem of his about New Orleans’ Saturn Bar, a truly divine dive, along with you as an Ed sub.
The Last Saturn Bar Poem
Around the art barn, Mike Frolich’s bar-tab
bartered paintings hang the hell that rose with him
from the Gulf of Mexico floor too fast, torturing
blood with air: maniac fish, demon in a diving bell,
and then from cadmium sunset through marsh comes
the boat bearing forward in grand roving the name
O’Neal, our bartender. Theirs are the dreams we enter,
entering the Saturn Bar’s owly heat re-tooled for unlovely
loss, the rattled corner leaning away from Chartreuse, neat,
and when I’m able to dream jukebox damaged warbling,
a Saturn-like-thing opens within me, but this is the last
Saturn Bar poem–I’ll try, I’ll try–to stop singing
shadows of St. Claude and Clouet on security camera
pavement grays we keep talking about with increasing
reluctance, ready to move on to fresh bewilderments,
spiraling neon, neon that lights up my nameless shot.
—The Last Saturn Bar Poem, Ed Skoog
Tags: Bars, Cocktail Talk, drinking poems, Ed Skoog, In Their Cups, The Last Saturn Bar Poem
Posted in: Bars, Cocktail Talk, drinking poems, Drinking Writer, Ed Skoog, In Their Cups
September 19, 2010
With the release reading for In Their Cups: An Anthology of Poems about Drinking Places, Drinks, and Drinkers just around the corner (and by “just around the corner” I mean Sunday, September 26th, at 3 pm, at the almighty Open Books), I wanted to prime the proverbial poetic drunken pump with a couple choice selections from said book. To get things started, much like the book itself gets started, here’s Keats’ rollicking reverie to his favorite bar, the Mermaid Tavern. It’s somehow weirdly (well, maybe it’s not weird–what do you 
think, bar lovers?) reassuring to me that Keats had a favorite drinking spot in the early 1800s that he wrote about, and by his writing I think I might have enjoyed sitting there with pals having pints (and the occasional Dog’s Nose, as they did at the time). So, take a step back with Mr. Keats before all this internet-y-ness, when folks actually did their talking and drinking face-to-face.
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
— Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, John Keats
