August 21, 2009
In honor of the two sorcerous folks who were able to say where the name “Tareva” came from in the drink “Tareva’s Tipple,” I thought I’d point you in the direction of two more drinks that have at least somewhat mystical sounding names. But first, a huge shout out to Paul de Senquisse from the blog Tears of the Night (which is in French, as Paul’s from France–that’s right, Spiked Punch is international) and to PTOR from the awesome Sanctum Sanctorum Comix blog, which is not only a blog devoted to my (and your, if you’re not square) favorite Sorcerer Supreme, but also one that features Rom: Spaceknight and the Man-Thing. That is a line-up good enough to make Stan Lee cry triumphant tears of happiness true believers. I owe those two drinks, when we’re on the same multi-dimensional plane at some point. But until then, sip on these pleasant potions picked out of the drinker’s blogosphere.
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Vampiro: Buried a bit in a hangover post (which one might have on a weeked), this savory tequila-y evilicious drink of the underworld winds its way from the LUPEC Boston blog. Only fitting, really, since those ladies are known to weave wicked liquid spells of whooping wackiness with their wondrous cocktails. Whoopee! (I suggest you read this graphic novel while drinking for maximum mayham).
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Zamboanga Cocktail: If (and I’m not saying it isn’t, I’m just saying “if,”) there isn’t a wizard and/or warlock of some standing residing within a little known tropical country whose name is “Zamboanga” then there darn well should be. Have a few of these Cognac-and-maraschino-and-more cocktails, utilizing the useful recipe from one of the most prestidigitatously powerful cocktail blogs present, Paul Clarke’s Cocktail Chronicles, and you’ll start peering at said wizard whether he (or she) is real (or not).
August 10, 2009
I’m back from lovely and liquid San Francisco, but still a bit woozy from the boozy (oh, the drinks at the Clock Bar, at Heaven’s Dog, and at Rickhouse, oh, trying to match drink-for-drink with international drunk of mystery Camper English), which means no long post detailing S.F. thrills and chills. That will, I promise, come later. But for now, how about gnawing on this hard-boiled quote from Death Watch, a book I scored at one of the best bookstores in the world (located in S.F.), Kayo books. Maybe the world’s only all pulp bookstore. Anyway, this was somewhat how the conversations in San Francisco went, except that it was backwards, in that I hadn’t been there in about six years.
Caine said with detached curiosity, “How long have you been with me?”
“Six years. And three months, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve had a drink in all that time.”
“No sir.”
“Gaffer,” said Caine,” bring out a bottle of Three Star. You and I are going to have a drink–a big drink.”
—Death Watch, Ruth and Alexander Wilson
August 4, 2009
Whew, I’m all a’flutter. I’m trying to wrap up a million projects, teach my dogs to talk, not throw water balloons at my co-workers, invest in a few more ionic salt lamps to bump my negative ions up, put the soon-to-be-here Dark Spirits out of mind so I don’t get too bubbly about it, and keep my fragile mind in order so I can leave for lovely San Francisco in just a day and half. Which means I’ll probably post even less than the little I do this week (though who know), as I’ll be visiting with the radly-named drinks writer Camper English (check out his blog Alcademics right now!) over drinks, stopping in to hang out with Meredith and the fine folks from Chow over drinks (and have a drink with pal Michael, sometimes known as Mr. Meredith), visiting Matthew at the Clock Bar with wife Nat and having some drinks, and then sleeping. Now, you can see why I’m a’flutter. Why you’re a’flutter is because this picture of the almighty Mai Tai is so darn pretty you might just fall over:
It was made by Evan Martin at Naga and it was scumpdeliyciousness. That’s what I’m calling it. You should have one, and soon, as they make the summer even better. I’ll be sure to think of you when leaving my wallet’s contents and parts of my liver in San Francisco, and you be sure to think of me when you have your Mai Tai, and then the harmonic convergence of all this thinking and drinking will usher in a new boozy state of being. Just watch and see.
July 31, 2009
Happy last day of July, 2009. And, happy last day of the hottest work week Seattle’s ever had (that’s what the weather people are going on about at least). You know what really hot weeks like this lead to? Drinking, naturally. But you know what else hot weeks like this lead to? You got it: murder. And mayhem. And mangling. And mauling. And muzzles. All those devious and deadly “m” words. Which is why I thought there’d be nothing better to start the weekend then a quote or two from Richard Sale’s Benefit Performance. Not that this is the most murderous of Dell pocket-sized book (which are about the same size as Pocket Books), but it does take place in Hollywood, which is of course also hot, matching up with the theme of murder and temperature (or something along those lines–really, I just like the quotes).
To the left was the bar. The bar looked as good as the band sounded. “We’ll have a drink,” Kerry said.
“We’ll go up to the office and wait,” said Willie.
“You heard what the Bull of the Pampas said,” Kerry replied. “Clam isn’t here yet. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Willie nudged him with a round hard muzzle.
Kerry said meaningly, “Shoot me in front of all these people. It’s good for business and it stretches your neck.” He pushed the muzzle away boldly. Then he walked into the bar and ordered a Scotch old fashioned. When he glanced around, Willie had joined him, looking mad and frustrated. “You’ve been seeing too many movies,” Kerry said, amused.
A night club in the daytime is full of phantoms.
He took a breath and passed through the dusty light shaft as if it had depth and breadth. When he reached the bar, there was no daylight, and the dust danced invisibly. The bartender was working patiently behind his bar, designing his architecture of inebriation. He was cutting his lemons, putting his olives and cherries in their receptacles, anticipating Manhattans and Martinis.
–Richard Sale, Benefit Performance
July 28, 2009
Not too too long ago (I mean, I am a bit tardy on this, but not, say, a year behind, or even three months, and if we didn’t have the interweb and the telephone and whatnots, and communication came via Pony Express, I’d be totally on time), pal Becca from the tasty Key Notes with Becca was talking up her newly planted basil in a post, and thinking about all the dishes she might make with it, and generally giving a big “yay!” at the thought of fresh basil. A sentiment I second. But (and you knew that “but” was heading your way), none of her ideas had anything to do with a basil drink. Which is a shame, cause she’s a boozehound. No, no, I kid. She’s not hitting the bottle at the break of day, but neither is opposed to a nice cocktail and, knowing this, I said we should try to come up with basil drinks. Which leads to Tareva’s Tipple.
A friendly mystical kind of a mix (when you remember that basil has had a few theoretical–as far as I know–mystic connotations in the past), Tareva’s Tipple is good for a summer’s evening when you’re sitting on the deck reading a few issues of your favorite comic (and yeah, you have one, even if you don’t admit it) with the pups frolicking around you. It probably shouldn’t be too hot, cause there’s some muddling during the making and you don’t want to sweat. And you probably shouldn’t be planning on driving to the drive-in after having three of these, because there’s a double-delicious-whammy of sorts, due to the combo of gin and grappa (balanced out in the grand scheme of things by the basil and a bit of simple syrup). I used Aviation gin cause its floral notes play well with the basil, and Soft Tail Reserve grappa because it’s got that get-up-and-get-at-it underlying umph as well as some plays-well-with-others flavorings. The end result might not actually be a potion, but might leave you spellbound (if I can wax magically for a moment). Fresh basil’s the key, naturally, and best if just plucked before using.
6 or 7 fresh basil leaves, plus one for garnish
1/2 ounce simple syrup
Ice cubes
2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce grappa
1. Add all the basil leaves minus that last one and the simple syrup to a cocktail shaker. Using a muddler, muddle well.
2. Fill the shaker halfway full with ice cubes, and then add the gin and grappa. Shake well.
3. Strain into a cocktail glass, and garnish with the remaining basil leaf. Enjoy.
A Note: Wife Nat thought I used a bit too much grappa, when I was using 1 full ounce, so I scaled it back. But you can scale it up if you’re feeling frisky.
PS: If anyone can tell me right now without using the Googler who “Tareva” was, in decent detail, then I will buy you a drink that can cost up to $15. So, a fancy-pants drink.
PPS: If anyone can tell me after using the Googler who “Tareva” was, I still might buy you a drink, but not if you’ve consulted this guy, who would obviously know. And yeah, that’s a serious hint.
July 17, 2009
Hey, hey, happy Friday (if you’re actually reading this on Friday, as opposed to reading it some other day. If the latter is the case, pretend it’s Friday, or dream it’s Friday . . . you know, whatever makes you happiest). While I’m happy it’s Friday, too, and have the phonograph needle poised over the proper Loverboy song, I can’t but be a little wistful for last Friday, when prince o’ bartenders Andrew Bohrer was tending bar at Vessel (as opposed to Naga. See, he stepped in to help out because the other dandy Vessel bartenders were at Tales of the Cocktail, which we’re not gonna talk about since I didn’t get to go. And yeah, I’m bitter). Because of the occasion, and because Vessel’s just a few steps from the salt mine I spend my workdays at, co-miner and pal Andrea and I skipped over to said Vessel after work last Friday, leading to the wistfulness above. Wow, that’s was a long explanation. Anyway, Andrew made us some Captain Handsomes first, but the real hit was his special Sazerac:
Instead of just coating the inside first with absinthe, he went absinthe and Champagne (ou la la), and then had brought in some homemade bourbon simple syrup to use. Holy boozey, friends and neighbors, that was one swell drink. Maybe if I/we beg him, he’ll give us his exact recipe with bourbon syrup recipe tucked into it in the comments. We’ll see. He is a busy man. Check out how focused he is while I moon for the camera:
That’s a busy man. Hanging with Mr. Andrew and pal Andrea is definitely one swell way to while away a late Friday afternoon, and the perfect prescription for forgetting about the busy bee work week, as well as the right-on recipe for rolling into the weekend (and if you can mash more metaphors into a sentence, then more power to you). Just look how happy Andrea is sipping her medicine:
Now, go off and enjoy your evenings, mornings, and afternoons guys and gals (but as Sergeant Phil Esterhaus says, “Hey, let’s be careful out there.”)
June 26, 2009
I think writers tend to be drunks. Even those who don’t drink (such as Dangerous Dan Morris, who is drunk on life). Probably because it tends to keep them from talking too much, which might just endanger their existence. But this is just my theory. With that theory in mind though, or the end result of it (the drinking), I like to sometimes take pictures of writers imbibing, for posterity and in case I ever publish a paper on the subject. Below’s a good example, as you can see one of the finest writers, Ed Skoog, sipping a Mint Julep, before unleashing the power and glory at a poetry reading last night (also, he stalked the stage like a panther before starting in with the poetics, which was rad. The other readers should learn from his cat-like grace). You can see the typical marks of the drinking/drunk writer here: the deep look in the eyes that’s like a little sign hung up that says, “genius here,” the devotion to the act of consuming, the firm grip on the glass to keep any julep-stealers at bay. Yes, it’s a sweet (or, scary) sight. Watch for drinking writers yourself, and when you see one, take pictures and send them to me. Or, have a drink and do some writing. The choice, pals, is yours.
June 23, 2009
When a trusted confidant and drinking pal (in this case, it was Stereolad, alias Senor Crappy) sends an email that says things like the following about a new bar just visited:
“Although it’s a legit establishment, there’s no signage and you have to ring the doorbell to be admitted. But the awesomeness is what’s inside.”
and
“Ben {the bartender} came over and asked us a couple more questions (“Is rye OK instead of bourbon?” “Sweet or dry?”), disappeared briefly and presented us with a Remember The Maine (rye, Heering, sweet vermouth, and absinthe). Lovely. He came back for a follow-up and told us that he’ll do egg white cocktails for any takers.”
I get a little twitchy, partially with excitedness to visit said place, and partially with wondering if it can be true, and partially with thirst. And partially just cause I’m twitchy. It’s like a super power. But a lame one. I digress. The rest of said email was asking if we’d want to stop by the new bar, and so we (in this case wife Nat and I) took him up on it last Sunday and slipped into the Knee High Stocking Company.
By slipped in, I mean somehow managed to find the door, as it’s in a fairly out-of-the-way spot, and only has a very small sign (about knee-high, now that I think about it) next to a door bell with another sign that says “ring.” See, there’s no way in without ringing the bell, and it’s all very hush-hush, and speakeasy-esque, and painted blue (that’s about it for hints). Once we rang said door, above-mentioned bartender (Ben, that is) opened it, peeked out at us, asked how many we had, and then showed up to a table right near the bar. But I’m starting to wander, so let me skip the other atmospherics and say that the space was small, comfortable, dimly lit, and, well, cool in an unassuming and unpretentious kind of way. Which is just the way I like.
I started up with a Widow’s Kiss after mulling the nicely-balanced menu. It’s a combination of Calvados, Green Chartreuse, Benedictine, and Angostura, stirred up and served with a cherry. Ben filled me in when delivering it that it was from George J. Kappeler, circa 1895 (and not Gabe Kaplan from Welcome Back Kotter, though the joke was, of course, made by me. I’m thinking it was from the book Modern American Drinks, which I sadly don’t have. Yet).
It was delish. Had some backbone, but the Chartreuse and Benedictine and bitters came out with each sip, each bringing a little herbal joy to my afternoon. The other big kick was starting to realize that Ben was a bartender I could trust. He not only brought out a good drink, but a good bit of history. When he said something along the lines of, “I’m working on mastering the old classics, and then slowly working on mixing my own ideas” then I knew he was someone I’d be happy to have pour me many drinks.
Which led to my next choice (oh, wait, first, let me say that Stereolad had, I think it was, a Flor De Jalisco for his first sipper, after telling Ben only that he wanted something refreshing, not bitter-y, and a touch fruity, and that tequila was dandy. It was awesome, too, and hit the notes Stereolad wanted. That picture at the beginning of this post is it, in front of Stereolad’s manly mitts. I believe Ben said it was a Death+Company drink, which is always welcome at my table). Or, led to me asking Ben what he might like to make using the Bitter Truth bitters I saw behind the bar (for those who don’t know, Bitter Truth is a couple of German bitters-heads who make an assortment of tasty stuff, much of which I haven’t even tasted). He whipped up an Opera, tracing back Harry’s Bar, from way back in the 1920s (it’s in Paris), which had gin, Dubonnet Rouge, old compadre Maraschino, and Bitter Truth orange bitters. And a twist. Good golly, that’s enough to make a man like me dance in happiness as if in a touring company doing Breakin’ II: Electric Boogaloo. And I didn’t even mention the twist. Cause I’ve written more than you’ll find on most Christmas letters already. And I still need to mention three more things. First, Mark’s second drink was worthy of song, but I’ve forgotten what exactly it was, so instead of going on and on, I’m just going to show you this picture of our drink off (notice my unshaven-ness due to it being Sunday–I’m a bad man):
Second,and this isn’t about booze at all, but about mac-and-cheese, which was also had, and which was gooey and a smoosh spicy, and had a crisp about the top side: a winning combination by any stretch. Third, Nat was on call for a baby that might never show (darn those babies and their desire to forgo the outside world. Wait, that was sorta like us on Sunday at the Knee High. And yes I’m already truncating the name. I’m that guy), so she wasn’t drinking boozy booze, but Ben was swell enough to make her a ginger ale from scratch, and it was delish, too. Here’s an artsy shot Nat took of the g/a:
The verdict? I wanna go back right now. The Knee High Stocking Company has a speakeasy-woven-ing-with-your-neighborhood-bar vibe that doesn’t show its head all that often, but which is to be revered. Dandy drinks, chops-licking food, out-of-site conversation with good pal and hot wife: that’s the prescription for a perfect Sunday late-afternoon-early-evening, and I feel lucky I got to be there for it.
PS: Ben works Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays at the Knee High Stocking Company. I suggest you make his acquaintance (if you’re in Seattle–if not, find him when you visit). I’m not going to tell you how to get there exactly, cause it’s something you should work a little for. And because I don’t want it to get so crowded they won’t let me in the door.
