Not but a few mysterious weeks ago, I had a Cocktail Talk featuring a book called The American Who Watched British Mysteries, a cozy mystery whose title vaguely sounds like me (as I watch and love British television mysteries incessantly). And now, today, I’m having a Cocktail Talk for that book’s follow-up, called Ballgame. In the second American Who Watched British Mysteries book, all those quotes and references to favorite shows again spring up like clues alongside the clues to the mystery itself.
Levelheaded police detective Marlowe is back, summoned to a suspicious death that happened at a kid’s baseball field – while a game was taking place. And it turns out that mystery-television enthusiast John Arthur, who ended up helping Marlowe solve an earlier case, and brindled bouncy dog Ainsley were in the bleachers when it happened.
Marlowe and his partner-in-solving-crime Detective Morven, along with newly promoted Detective Nelson, discover that though the victim, pastor Pat Brown, died in front of a crowd during the game, seemingly no-one saw anything suspicious. Not even John Arthur. But he does have a number of British mystery quotes – and a few from a New Zealand town called Brokenwood – that he assures Marlowe will help.
It’s another fun read, and in it like the first book they spend time in one of my favorite fictional bars, Gary’s. Which is where the below quote comes into play.
“How about a Garibaldi?”
“Remind me?”
“Simple but delicious. And nutritious. Old compadre Campari with fresh OJ over ice. Campari taking the edge off and stimulating the brain, orange juice for vitamins and sweet citrus, ice to chill it out. Named for Giuseppe Garibaldi, the general who was one of those behind the wheel unifying your beloved Italy. National hero. Led his Redshirt army, shirts as red as Campari. Ideal for leaders and for the vitamin C deficient. Horses for courses and all, but you’ll enjoy.”
“I will. Hit me.”
Gary grabbed a glass and a bottle of Campari and started making the drink, saying, “Interestingly, the redshirts kicked off when Garibaldi was helping the Uruguayan civil war. A military leader with national independence and republican ideals, our Giuseppe.” He placed the drink in front of Marlowe with a flourish. “Must dash. Duty calls bartenders too.”
Well, here’s a jolly good mystery read, if I do say so myself (hehe). In The American Who Watched British Mysteries, by the book police Detective Marlowe is investigating the strangulation death of Lucy Dixon, beginning the case by interviewing recent widower John Arthur, who, with his brindled bouncy dog Ainsley (what a wonderful name for a dog!), found the body early on a Saturday morning next to a tree-filled community center. Mysterious, right? The detective soon discovers that John is a massive fan of British mystery television series (hey, I am too), to the point that he keeps going on tangents about the two Detective Barnabys from Midsomer and quoting French – or is it Belgian? – private investigators. As Marlowe and his team begin to dig into the case, John keeps showing up. He knew the victim, calls the neighborhood a village, and arrives at the station with a map of the block she lived on, detailing everyone who was at the party attended the night before her murder. As the officers investigate, John’s TV-driven insights and attention to detail become surprisingly helpful. But Marlowe’s eyebrows keep raising as he wonders if the man, who he starts to think of as a friend, is a curious and lonely television obsessive, or could he actually be involved with the murder? And is it, as John brings up, a one-murder show, a two-murder show, or an even-more-murders show?
It sorta hits all my boxes: British TV mysteries, British mysteries in general, cozy mystery books, good characters, neat references, there’s a dog, it breezes along while still having a good mystery going, and, perhaps most of all, there’s a very good bar featured, Gary’s, with an English bartender named Gary! And, as you might expect from a book here on the ol’ Spiked Punch, there is lots of Cocktail Talking, lots around Italian drinks. Including the below quote.
Marlowe had fallen for the Italian Negroni way back when introduced to it on his first visit to the country, loving the ideal balance between gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari—bitter and sweet and herbal mingling. When he’d first ordered one back home after that long-past Italian trip, the bartender he’d ordered from had no idea what he was talking about. He’d had to walk him through the drink construction step by step. Now, Gary had told him that there’s a whole Negroni week bars around the country take part in. The world, it had gotten smaller.
Before his musing got any further down the global gully, Gary set the drink in front of him with a minor flourish. “Ta-da. One country-trotting Negroni, made with Italian Campari, Spanish vermouth, and British gin. And an orange twist from Florida, I surmise. And local water in the form of ice. Cheers.”
This is another Cocktail Talk found in an older mystery story featured within one of the wonderful British Library Crime Classics collections (you can read more by perusing past British Library Crime Classic Cocktail Talks, a phrase rather fun to say). In this case, the collection is Final Acts: Theatrical Mysteries, so, as you might gather but in case you didn’t, all mysteries circling around the theater in one way or the other, some closer to the stage, so farther away. The collection was put together by the indefatigable writer and editor Martin Edwards, and contains works by lesser-known and widely-known UK authors from the late-1800s, early-1900s. Somewhat in the middle of the “known” ranges falls the writer Anthony Wynne – aka Robert McNair Wilson – who penned both with this penname and under his own a whole bunch of books, while also being a surgeon and politician and probably more things, too. Quite popular I believe in his time, if not as well known today. The beautiful below wine quote (and the inclusion in the British Library Crime Classics collections) will hopefully re-balance his rep.
He raised his glass to his lips and sipped the exquisite wine, which it contained, very slowly. It was white Clos Vouget, the pale sister of the immortal red Burgundy of that name. Golden points of light shone from its clear depths. He set the glass down again and once more turned to Lalette; in some mysterious fashion she resembled the wine. It might even be possible to call her insipid if one had developed a taste for more exuberant gaiety. Men who drank red wine habitually, he reflected, were ignorant as a rule of the profound simplicity of white, that quality which transcends all the vintners’ descriptions.
The Blue Train cocktail recipe below, had me thinking of Cointreau (hey, that sounds like the first line in a sweet swing-style song, one of the sadder ones, probably all about lost love and travel and reading Charles Williams books), which then led to me thinking of the below quote from the Charles Williams’ yard The Wrong Venus. Even though the lead in said book doesn’t get to drink Cointreau, instead shifting to crème de menthe, well, it’s still a dandy quote and scene and I thought I’d better post it here for all to enjoy (and speaking of enjoying things, read all the past Charles Williams Cocktail Talks to learn more about this swell detective/mystery/thriller writer from days of yore).
‘Do you have any Cointreau?’
‘Cointreau?’ It was obvious she thought he was crazy.
‘You do sell liquor on these flights, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course . . . But with this turbulence, naturally we couldn’t bring the cart through. And we don’t have any Cointreau anyway.’
‘Then crème de menthe?’
‘Y-e-e-s, I think so. But I’m afraid only the white . . .’
He was conscious again of time hurtling past him, but managed a reassuring smile. ‘It’s all right. I only drink in the dark.’
We’ve had a number of brandy drinks here lately (just see the last few posts!), and they reminded me of the below quote from the George Harmon Coxe book Eye Witness, featuring photographer/mystery-solver Kent Murdoch, who can throw punches, talk smoothly with the ladies, drink it up, and snap memorable pics. All at once! Even with all that, I wouldn’t say George H. Coxe is like at the top echelon of Spiked Punch posted authors, but he can spin a swell yarn, as they say. And one with brandy!
Murdock asked Leone if she would have a brandy. She thought a B&B would be fine so he had the brandy. Only then, when the waiter took the other things away, was Murdock able to sit back and give his attention completely to his companion.
‘That was all right,’ he said.
‘Marvelous.’
She was watching him now, the faint flush in her cheeks giving her a new radiance that was attractive and promising. The cocktails had apparently done their work well for she seemed relaxed and at ease, content; it seemed to leave the next move up to him.
As mentioned in a Cocktail Talk just a few weeks ago, I was recently in the UK (which is always jolly) and while there of course I had to try out a few local gins, it being the country I associate perhaps most strongly with gin (though I love my local gins, tons and always, but historically, you know). And I had some good ones, indeed, with one fav being Whitstable Harbour gin (which features Sea Buckthorn and Samphire, and which has a sibling featuring Kentish Cherries and Hibiscus – that one I liked so much I brought a bottle home). I had enough gin, that I was reminded of the below quote from Raymond Carver, who liked gin enough to have his detective swimming in it, so to speak.
I smelled of gin. Not just casually, as if I had taken four or five drinks of a winter morning to get out of bed on, but as if the Pacific Ocean was pure gin and I had nose-dived off the boat deck. The gin was in my hair and eyebrows, on my chin and under my chin. It was on my shirt.
Well, we’ve had a fair amount of Cocktail Talks from Dickens’ classic Barnaby Rudge on the ol’ Spiked Punch and that’s a fact. But I was recently visiting the lovely countryside of England, stopping in at any number of cozy, friendly, tasty, thirst-quenching, delightful country (and city!) pubs. And when doing so, while always recognizing them for their own varied and multitudinous joys, also always was driven to think a moment about the Maypole, the bar some of the book’s action and non-action circles around. Is it the book-bar (meaning, fictional bar from a book) I’d most like to visit? Hmm, perhaps! In honor of it, and in honor of all the dandy actual pubs recently visited, I decided I had to re-post the below quote. It’s such a lovely one (oh, for more on the actual book and more quotes, see all Barnaby Rudge Cocktail Talks, and for that matter, why not view all Dickens Cocktail Talks).
Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody objecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the Maypole’s was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar, that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables, drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese!
Was thinking about how it’s mid-March and still quite chilly in this PWN part of the country, the kind of weather which leads me to a nice whisky or whiskey punch, hot, full of swellness, warming on multiple levels (temperature and whisky-a-ture). And then also thinking about yesterday being Saint Patrick’s Day, which then led me to thinking about the Anthony Trollope book called Castle Richmond, an early book for Spiked Punch pal Mr. Trollope, one that takes place in the beginning days of the Irish famine, and which, like many of his works, has dollops of humor in the midst of some non-humorous situations, and then all of it sprinkled with little everyday details, relationships, Cocktail Talks, life, love, and everything else (if that’s not getting too deep). Which then led me to wanting to post the below quote here, from said novel, a quote full of whisky punch. Oh, be sure to read all the Trollope Cocktail Talks for more from the book, and from many of his other works, too.
But the parlour was warm enough; warm and cosy, though perhaps at times a little close; and of evenings there would pervade it a smell of whisky punch, not altogether acceptable to unaccustomed nostrils. Not that the rector of Drumbarrow was by any means an intemperate man. His single tumbler of whisky toddy, repeated only on Sundays and some other rare occasions, would by no means equal, in point of drinking, the ordinary port of an ordinary English clergyman. But whisky punch does leave behind a savour of its intrinsic virtues, delightful no doubt to those who have imbibed its grosser elements, but not equally acceptable to others who may have been less fortunate.
