September 8, 2010
Sorry for the second book party post in a row, but I’d be remiss to the bubbly fans (and general good-living and good-living-loving pals) if I didn’t say anything. So, bubbly ones, step right up–I have got a deal (full of bubbles) for you and for yours. On October 1st, 2010, I’ll be making a couple drinks from my brand new bubblicious book Champagne Cocktails: 50 Cork-Popping Concoctions and Scintillating Sparklers at Seattle’s own Dish It Up in beautiful Magnolia, at 2425 33rd Ave West, and you can get in on the effervescent action for a mere $25. This, you might think, is more than enough to get you out for a few on a Friday night. But wait, there’s more: you also get a free copy of the book (which I’ll sign to you with all the love and affection I have for you. Which is a lot). Now that, you’re thinking, is one heck of a deal. But wait, there is still more: you’ll also get a $10 gift certificate for Dish It Up (the coolest Kitchen store you’ll ever have the pleasure of browsing within) that you can spend that very night! Holy Dom Perignon, that’s quite an evening.
The book, if I can be so bold, is pretty darn swell all on its own, too (just in case you can’t make the big night on October 1st). It has the classic bubbly mixes, but also a host of unburied bubbly treasures, some fresh fresh mixes (from fresh folks like Andrew Bohrer, Jaime Boudreau, and the ladies of LUPEC), and some crowd-pleasers. And it doesn’t just rest its laurels on straight up sparkling wine and Champagne (though those are well represented). There are also drinks with Italian charmers Prosecco, Brachetto d’Aqui, Asti, and Lambrusco, South Africa’s Cap Classique, German Sekt, Spanish Cava, and Australian sparkling Shiraz, so it covers the globe and the rainbow (not forgetting the rose’ part of that rainbow either). Now there, friends, is a frizzante party just waiting to be uncorked.
May 11, 2010
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?).
April 16, 2010
This was originally published in the Spring 2010 Issue of the Khaos Apocrypher (a magazine you can sign up to receive, if you’re interested. Just email Dr. Gonzo, who I’m hoping doesn’t care that I’m putting this poem up here. But if he does, I’ll just buy him some gin. And, speaking of, I suggest sipping a gin cocktail while reading this. So, go shake or stir one up. Okay, you back? Let’s continue).
To Gin
It’s 10 am, and the word gin spills
out accompanied by a gentle twitch, Junipers communis
and I’m stuck in office chairs and prickly socks
distilled to only a toast: here’s to brisk bottles
and hosts, a soldiery row at ease waiting
for another vested soul to pull them down,
to start gin’s accented engine. Where to begin,
in my dream of gin? I’ll open with noon’s
luncheon sin, a Martini made on dry’s couth
side, winnowed twist, skip the olive, its briny mistake
like the sobering taste in your mouth
from a long-forgotten first date,
then I say amble into another kick in short pants,
a opaque smile designed for those desiring lack,
gin’s pocket compass, the Gimlet camped
in cocktail glass freshly limed, please, or take
it back and listen to me swear, thirsty.
And then there’s the way I lisp, like a trout,
after three Bronx in row, orange blessing
and fraternal vermouths, gin within and without
while I’ve lost another hour, now, absent gin’s zoo,
gin’s mill, gin’s soak, boots, piano, truth,
gin burn and gin singe, tingle and curaçao
blossoming into caraway and angelica root.
Give me the Rickey’s twentieth century sass,
bubble my black suspenders with Vespers nightly
losing sleep with Lillet before breakfast,
get me a big tray made from lime’s core, a White Lady
up on the chaise, Cointreau cornered
by gin and it’s 2 pm, somewhere eyeballs eye
Italians, gin’s Florentine mourner
wreathed in orange oil, bitter and red. But I
almost left the Campari out of the stanza
during my reverie of Negronis. I like mine up
but won’t turn gin away, even if tepid
I’ll take any highball, rocked and passed abruptly
across the room, a dimly lit gin sashay,
where the Last Word slips beneath sheets,
gin cuddling Marschino, Chartreuse, and lime swaying
into another ménage, making gray sky incomplete
unless someone, me, you, drinks them penitent
for what we will now receive: pass the gin, please,
echoes over cubes or neat, penitentiary
pleats or double strained, petticoated , and greased
with Angostura. The preference of ladies, Pink.
The gin, after three straight rounds, speaks:
Old Tom, London Dry, Hollands, Genever, Plymouth.
Thinking Englishly, I’ll be round in an hour, work
winks at shaker boys, undress cocktail waitresses
of cocktail napkins, blame gin, naturally,
and gin will soak it all in, knows it takes us places
we long to live within, from the Cornwall’s
coast to the furnace room under my Pierre St.
pied-à-terre where I tipped a bottle with soda
and a sliver of scotch (gin’s not afraid to meet
another as it turns the dark to stars), a comma
to New Orleans, Henry C. Ramos, and gin’s comfortable
motion, full conjunction between juices lime and lemon,
sugar, cream, egg, divine orange flower water,
an afternoon’s worth in one glass and time,
time, time, there’s never enough gin
or enough balance on my credit card, it’s not even
the end of the day, but I won’t delay gin’s hard choices
longer, a sip here and there like a bartender’s grin,
I’ve finally reached the bar and the words I’ve lingered
until five to hear–what’ll it be friend—
come without stopping. I breathe, unbend,
and say, finally, for me, make it gin.
