Cut the clamoring–I know I sloshed it up about Kingsley Amis just down the page, but I wanted to get another quote in quick, before I forget (hey, I’m getting older by the day. Just like you by the way). The following is from the second part of Everyday Drinking, called, strangely, “Every Day Drinking,” which is a collection of columns Mr. Amis wrote for some London newspaper I haven’t yet tracked down, cause I was too busy writing this. Each column is shortish and on a different subject, making them brilliant bus reads (not as brilliant as a Herbie the Fat Fury comic, but darn close). The following quote’s near to my heart cause it’s about Campari, which I love, and about drinks using it–drinks I also love, if I may be so bold:
Next in line comes Campari, which as everyone knows has made an immense impression on the British market in the last twenty years or so. Not my cup of tea, alas. But, hurray, an acceptable drink can be cobbled together from this and another innocuous potation. Take two parts Italian vermouth and one part Campari (or in another recipe, one of each), mix them with ice and add Pellegrino or soda water and a slice of orange, and you have an Americano. Good at lunchtime, and before Italian food.
If you feel that, pleasant as it is, it still lack something, throw in a shot of gin and the result is a Negroni. This is a really fine invention. It has the power, rare with drinks and indeed with anything else, of cheering you up. This may be down to the Campari, said by its fans to have great restorative powers.
Okay, I can admit it, I’m not the world’s most in-depth sports fan. I don’t have 10 fantasy leagues (or even one), and mostly I like Super Bowl parties because I see it as a day when I can eat as much cheese dip and snacks as I want to and not have anyone say “boo” about it. But darnit, even if you’re not an over-the-top sports fan, you should still be able to consume an above-average punch on the day of the big game. On any day, for that matter. And Football Punch is more than above average (it’s way, way, above, I tell ya), with a mingling of rum, sweet vermouth, and apples with a touch of orange and lemon. Just watch the effect it has on pals Jamie, Rob, Brett, Andy, and Bob in the below instructional video. And be sure to check out my socks. And then thank director and co-writer Dr. Gonzo for me by giving him another glass of punch.
Though I usually stick to the boozing here on Spiked Punch, I also wanted to put up this new vid for Monterey Cremini Quesadillas (from the Party Snacks), cause I sure don’t want you to starve while sloshing back all the Football Punch. These tasty tidbits will make you hum. Or cheer. Or hum cheerfully. Or, at least, be amazed at how I can speed up and slow down time. Really.
I actually know this quote from the Burton-Taylor movie and not the book (though perhaps it’s in there too? Who’s literary enough to answer that question? Or sober enough, for that matter?), but since I have a couple pals quitting, or attempting to quit, or playing at quitting, smoking right now, it certainly seemed appropriate. And maybe will spur them to finally give up the stinky sticks. And even beyond that, it’s such a darn fine quote:
Now, I will hold your hand when it’s dark and you’re afraid of the boogeyman and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that.
Okay, I can throw this out there for all the William Makepeace Thackeray fans to get up in arms about (cock your slings and arrows-delivering devices now): I’m not a huge fan of Vanity Fair. I mean, I like it all right. But Mr. Thackeray just doesn’t get me involved in the way other novelists (English novelists, two specifically, and if you’ve read this blog you can guess who I mean) do. He always feels like he’d sit in the corner at any party pooh-poohing the people laughing loudly and spilling peanuts on the floor. And I’m usually one of those people. But, I did buy some maraschino liqueur last Friday, and I do really love it, and at least like Vanity Fair better than, say, 92.3% of the books published last year. And I would thoroughly enjoy having someone administer maraschino to me. That sounds divine. So, this quote seemed well-timed:
“The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering Maraschino.”
All right, all right, I know it may seem strange (not groovy and mystical like Dr. Strange either, but just downright odd) to be sipping a bubbly-cooling-kind-of-a-drink in Seattle’s damp and dreary mid-to-late November, but I’ve been working hard stocking the shelves (virtual shelves surely, but shelves) and shilling the books, not to mention raking the inordinate amount of leaves in my backyard (and, you know what, if Mr. Cherry Tree is reading this, please stop dropping basketfuls of your leaves on the ground the minute I get finished raking said ground. Wait a couple days at least. Give me that, for gosh sakes.), or writing this sentence which will never stop. Anyway, I was feeling the need for a refresher last night, but one that still had an underlying . . . strength of character. I didn’t want to go teeth-rotting sweetness, but did want a hint of sunshine. And, I wanted to be able to name drop a second super hero in one post (Hourman, that is). All of which led me to the Hour Glass:
Ice cubes
1 ounce Cognac
3/4 ounce Cointreau
1/2 ounce absinthe
Chilled club soda
Lemon twist, for garnish
1. Fill a cocktail shaker halfway full with ice cubes. Add the Cognac, Cointreau, and absinthe. Stir well.
2. Fill a highball glass three-quarters full with ice cubes. Strain the mixture over the ice, and then fill the glass with club soda (unless it’s a large-ish highball, then just go up three-quarters of the way).
3. Squeeze the lemon twist over the glass and drop it in.
Okay, I’m a little behind on posting about this (it’s funny to say “I’m a little behind” though, since I do have a fair amount of junk in the trunk. It’s like Bruce Banner saying, “I get a little angry” or something), but a couple weeks ago I had an awesome experience carrying on a cocktail conversation via email at Cookthink (if you haven’t been visiting the Cookthink and you like eating and drinking, you, pal, are missing out). And if a cocktail conversation at a good site wasn’t enough to make me smile like a bartender on payday, the fact that the two people I was conversing with were Greg Boehm, the publisher of CocktailKingdom.com and the bubbly Mud Puddle Books, and Rob Chirico, the author of The Field Guide to Cocktails and writer of Cookthink’s Hair of the Dog column, made me sort-of giddy. We talked about drinks, cocktails, books, modern trends, the word “mixologist,” and a whole bar-load of other subjects any imbiber would be interested in reading more about. So, quit dallying–head on over and dive in to the Cocktails Rising.
Cause I’m a busy little boozer (wait, can I get away with a phrase like that? Or does it imply a cutesy-drunky combo that should never be descended toward? Ah, well, you know how I am), I’m going to have to make my recap of New York drinking a little shorter than the Boston one (which rambled in usual style). But I do want to hit a couple key spots that I stopped at, cocktail’d at, and dug hanging out within. The first was at Tailor, where I meet up for sadly only one drink with HCP stalwart Howard Stelzer and Onion AV Club scribe Andy Battaglia. The drink list there (created by Eben Freeman) is a drinking-adventurer’s earthy dreamscape, as it really is pushing some of the boundaries. The line up was thus: Howard, Butternut & Falernum (rum, butternut squash, falernum); Andy Battaglia: The Waylon (bourbon, smoked Coke); A.J., Nutty Monk (walnut Cognac, Benedictine, bitters). While I loved the inventiveness of the other’s drinks, I thought mine, with just a nutty trace socializing with herbs and Cognac, was the tops.
My second NY drink extravaganza was at Albert Trummer’s Apotheke, where he says “We look at a bargoer almost as if he’s coming to a doctor’s office.” It’s a twisty-turn-y kind of office, as it’s on Doyers Street, a vaguely backalleyish snaking street in lower Chinatown. The old-time-y pharmacist set up, with lots of beakers, and coils, and bartenders in white smocks, and the fact that our amazingly friendly waitress brought us a liquid amuse bouche right after we sat down (it was a cilantro vodka prescription), made me love the atmosphere right away. Well, that and the fact that I was drinking with NY pals Kristine and Andrew. The line up: Kristine, Strawberry Fennel (fennel-infused vodka, strawberries soaked in orange liqueur, fennel oil essence); Andrew, Five Points (House elixir #4 with hibiscus, Italian bitters, grape juice, and sugar-cane infused rum); A.J., Vanilla-Rum Julep (Madagascar infused rum, Israeli mint, house-pressed sugar-cane juice). As you can see, it was an around-the-world hospital visit. Though we were all pretty well stoked about our drinks, they did fall into the florid-fruity-in-a-field-of-flowers side of the taste spectrum, and so I really wanted to hit something a touch umph-ier. But, sadly, they were out of the ingredients for what I thought would be the ticket, the bourbon-based Autumn Harvest–however (this was luck incarnate), they did have the Saigon cinnamon-infused bourbon from it, so Mr. Trummer himself stirred me up a drink with that as a base (not sure exactly what else was in it, but a trace of lime and bitters seemed in play). Now this was a drink I could sink my cocktailing teeth into–a drink that instantly became the favorite of that night’s drinking team. Then, we got to see Mr. Trummer line up a dozen glasses with absinthe and sugar, and light them all on fire (and throw a lot of fire around). The fact that we ended up with a glass of warm and slightly sweet absinthe makes the experience that much finer.
The last (but so far, far from least) place I hit up for cocktails in NY was in Brooklyn, and is called the Weather Up. If anyone reading this is anywhere near Brooklyn right now, I suggest leaving poste haste (or right after you finish reading this) to run, speed, or skip to the Weather Up. You will not, I repeat, not, be sorry. Unless it’s like 4 am, in which case it may be closed. If that’s the teary-eyed state of affairs, just hang out on the block until it opens again. It’ll be worth it, cause the Weather Up is a lovely, tiled, intimate affair (no sign naturally–this seems to be de rigueur), with the real feel of a neighborhood bar that the folks living in the neighborhood want to keep close to their own vests. I can’t blame them. If Weather Up was in my ‘hood (yay! Loyal Heights), I would go there every night and not tell a soul outside of Nat and Sookie. I was drinking there with Michael, Miguel, Mark (whoa, a lot of M’s), and later Leslie and the girl of the future. Since the party got large, I’m not going to go through every drink, but just hit a few select hits. Oh, the whole range of cocktails and highballs and punches (oh my) were hits though (in case you were wondering), and made by bartender Gabe Harrelson, who, for my money, is one of the best bar slingers around. That guy can shake a drink folks. I started with a classic, the Pisco Sour, cause I was feeling like a standby (sometimes you want the refrains you know best, to see how well someone sings them out). It was spot on, with the frothy egg froth not overwhelming, but serious, and the Pisco itself rising and harmonizing with the lemon, egg, and simple syrup. Balanced, engaged, and great. I also had the house-monikered drink, the Weather Up, which I’ve been day-dreaming of ever since, with it’s Michelangeloesque simplicity of purpose and perfect lines: Cognac, amaretto, and lemon–it had a wide twist, interestingly draped over the glass’ rim, so you get a sniff every sip. An inspired, and inspiring, touch. I could have stayed there until dawn folks, if only I didn’t have to get up to catch a flight at 4 am. I sure can’t wait to get back to get back to NY.
PS: Don’t forget to vote. And then have a political drink, like the Ward Eight.
Much like it’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day busy-ness of work and then put off a blog post for a week plus, a post that you’ve been meaning to write every day (but then the corporate hive masters crack their electronic whips over you like you’re a sled dog pulling their dollar-making sled along until you just can’t take it anymore and end up constructing an example like this one, with mixed metaphors and long clauses that go on like a particularly annoying work day), much like this in a really small way is how it’s easy to get caught up in the vast array of ciders and beers available in the smaller towns in the U.K., and forget that there are some tip top cocktail slingers there, too, and that London has a sparkling array of cocktail spots. Whew, after that sentence we all need a drink. If you’re reading this in London, I suggest you find that drink at the Lonsdale, which is the focus of U.K. Drinks: Part Two (if you missed Part One, follow the link or scroll on down).
I was taken to the bar by cocktail-loving pals Ean and Reba (also known as Tales from the Birdbath), and accompanied by them and wife Natalie, but was given the suggestion of the Lonsdale as a tight cocktail spot by the fine writing-publishing folks Jared Brown and Anistatia R. Miller (who are also co-founders of the Museum of the American Cocktail). As a quick aside, if you haven’t picked up Mixologist: The Journal of the American CocktailVolume I and Volume II, which they published, edited, and contributed to, then I’m not sure you can call yourself a cocktail lover, as these collections are bubbling over with essays from today’s top cocktailians about topics sure to wet your literary whistle. They’re also the authors of a range of books (from Champagne Cocktails to Shaken Not Stirred: A Celebration of the Martini). What I’m trying to get to in my roundabout way is that if they’re nice enough to suggest a spot for cocktails, it’s going to be reliably awesome. Which the Lonsdale was. The crowd may have been a bit stock-brokerish, and have wondered at my Mighty Boosh buttons, but the wait staff was sweet and the drinks were fantastic. I started with what I thought was a fairly under-utilized early-part-of-last-century-ish cocktail that I wasn’t sure was being poured today anywhere outside of my garage (I’d never had it outside of my garage at least. I had it first there when putting together Good Spirits), the Whizz Bang. From the Lonsdale’s in-depth and multi-page menu, I learned the drink was invented by Tommy Burton in 1920 at the Sport’s Club of London (I knew it was named after high-velocity shells in the war, due to the sounds they made). Here’s the picture (it was dark in there, so the photos aren’t the best) and the recipe.
Ice cubes
1-3/4 ounces Baillie Nicol Jarvie Scotch
3/4 ounce Noilly Prat Dry Vermouth
1/4ish ounce absinthe
1/4ish ounce pomegranate syrup
1 dashes orange bitters
1. Fill a cocktail shaker halfway full with ice cubes. Add everything. Shake well. Strain. Serve.
In the past, I’d made my Whizz Bangs with bourbon and Pernod instead of scotch and absinthe (due to necessity until recently on the latter). But the scotch here gave it a polite backbone and light smoky undertone. It may have been one of the best drinks I’ve had out (okay, take this with a grain of “I’m given to large pronouncements and going overboard about oodles of things,” but wow, it was delish), with the balance of flavors and hints of absinthe peeking through like the last rays of sunlight before dusk.
This may seem like an odd move for a cocktailing evening, but for my second drink I went for a Pisco Sour. After the knock out success of the Whizz Bang, I thought it’d be fun to get a more recognized classic, and see how the bartenders (who, sadly, I didn’t get to meet, as the bar area was overtaken by some sort of bungling birthday party, with ridiculous revelers who weren’t even taking advantage of the bar’s white hot staff of shakers, instead drinking beer and causing enough of a traffic jam that trying to get to the bar would have been an ordeal taking far too much time away from drinking) served it up. And, they served it up on the edge of marvelously (in the way that Dombey & Son is marvelous. It’s so marvelous, but not quite as marvelous as Bleak House), with an almost too serious head frothed up, as you can see in the picture below. The Macchu Pisco was exquisite, and the balance of sour to smooth walked the line perfectly. It would have been hard to follow up the Whizz Bang for any drink, though.
For my final drink of the evening, I went for a dessert number (and if anyone reading this wants to take offense with my dessert drink then fooey on you-y), a Coconut Flip, made with La Diablada Pisco (see, I was trying to follow a more natural path between drinks 2 and 3), Velvet Falernum (which I’ve been playing around with my-own-self recently), egg yolk, and sugar, with a touch of nutmeg on top in Flip style (a style which, the menu lets you know, traces back to pre-1810 England. They’re good country promoters at the Lonsdale). It was a great capper, with sweetness that didn’t overwhelm and a nice chewy (I’m not describing it exactly right, but it had a mouth feel that was more robust than most drinks due to the yolk) nature. By that time, I’d given up on taking snaps, due to lighting, but picture a smallish glass (a Delmonico glass, to be precise) of wet fluffy whiteness. Like a beautiful romantic ghost-in-a-glass, in a way. So, here’s to the Lonsdale, again, and to Ean and Reba again for taking us, with thanks for a delicious cocktail evening.
Cut the clamoring–I know I sloshed it up about Kingsley Amis just down the page, but I wanted to get another quote in quick, before I forget (hey, I’m getting older by the day. Just like you by the way). The following is from the second part of Everyday Drinking, called, strangely, “Every Day Drinking,” which is a collection of columns Mr. Amis wrote for some London newspaper I haven’t yet tracked down, cause I was too busy writing this. Each column is shortish and on a different subject, making them brilliant bus reads (not as brilliant as a Herbie the Fat Fury comic, but darn close). The following quote’s near to my heart cause it’s about Campari, which I love, and about drinks using it–drinks I also love, if I may be so bold:
