Calling all drinkers, drink-makers, poets, poetry-readers, and anyone who is friends with anyone who fits in the above categories–which means, calling everyone. I was lucky enough to spend a chunk of the last year or so editing up a collection of poems about drinking places, drinks, and drinkers, and you’re lucky because said collection is coming out this month, and we’re having a big reading/party to celebrate. It’s going to be September 26th, at 3 pm, at Open Books here in Seattle (Open Books is at 2414 N. 45th St. Seattle, and the full reading listing is here).
Wait, though, jump back–I haven’t even told you the name yet. The anthology is called In Their Cups, and it features poets from hither and yon, poets who wrote in ancient times all the way up to poets who wrote a line yesterday. The whole idea behind the book (in a way) was to populate one giant bar with poets from throughout history, give them all some cocktails, and let them start spouting poems that would encompass the experiences of all drinkers. Did it work? You can find out by coming to the reading (or picking up the book, if you can’t make it). The reading will feature four of Seattle’s finest poets (and me) reading the poem they have in the book, plus a couple others from poets who couldn’t make it because they don’t live nearby, or don’t live at all anymore. The line-up includes:
Effervescent Emily Bedard
Action-packed Allen Braden
Jumpin’ jolly James Gurley
Awfully excited to be in such company A.J. Rathbun
One giant mystery guest
If you still aren’t sold, the full-on listing of poets who have poems on the pages of InTheir Cups is: A.J. Rathbun, Henry Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Guillaume Apollinaire, Emily Bedard, Bridget Bell, Allen Braden, Henry Carey, Richard Carr, Catullus, John Clare, Jaime Curl, Emily Dickinson, Philip Dow, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Stephen Dunn, Amy Fleury, Philip Freneau, Du Fu, Thomas Godfrey, Jeff Greer, James Gurley, Mark Halliday, Robert Herrick, Charles Fenno Hoffman, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Elizabeth Hughey, Richard Hugo, Christopher Janke, Jonathan Jonson, John Keats, J. Robert Lennon, John Lyly, William Maginn, Tod Marshall, Robert Hinkley Messinger, Dan Morris, Joseph O’Leary, William Olsen, Cesare Pavese, Li Po, Francesco Redi, Arthur Rimbaud, Ed Skoog, Gerald Stern, George Walter Thornbury, Chase Twichell, and Royall Tyler.
See you on the 26th friends and neighbors and local poetic drunkards.
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).
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.
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.
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.
Calling all drinkers, drink-makers, poets, poetry-readers, and anyone who is friends with anyone who fits in the above categories–which means, calling everyone. I was lucky enough to spend a chunk of the last year or so editing up a collection of poems about drinking places, drinks, and drinkers, and you’re lucky because said collection is coming out this month, and we’re having a big reading/party to celebrate. It’s going to be September 26th, at 3 pm, at Open Books here in Seattle (Open Books is at 2414 N. 45th St. Seattle, and the full reading listing is here).
