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 23, 2009
Talk about a good way to spend the summer: kicking back in the recliner in shorts with a cold drink in one hand and a heavy book in the other (the book to keep people from pawing your drink). Really, that’ll beat the heat and have you in a dandy mood no matter what day of the week, month, or year. And if you need an example, check out the below lovely pics of pals and Spiked Punch readers Jon and Nicole. Dang, I’ve never seen a finer looking couple of cocktail-swilling kids (and hey, the fact that they’re reading the good old Good Spirits is just a happy by-product of their awesomeness). And now, in honor of Nicole (who may have hinted that my blog posts tend towards the lengthy), I’m going to stop here and let the photographs tell the story:
July 21, 2009
As captain of industry Ed Skoog said in a recent blog post for the Seattle PI (which used to be a paper, but which now is a website, or something like that, as the song says), “summertime is poetry time.” Well, maybe that’s a paraphrase, but it was close, and when I was drinking with him last week he at least mumbled that exact phrase. Which is why I wanted to put up this poem called “The Menu” for you, dear Spiked Punch reader, to make your summertime complete. And, cause I like the rhyme of “the days” and “mayonnaise.” Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the author, is dead. But he had a rollicking time of it before March 19, 1907, from what little I know, and from reading this poem, which is pretty darn celebratory of the drinking-and-eating-with-pals-makes-life-better theory, a theory I have signed on for myself. With that said, have a pal or two over, make some treats of the liquid and edible variety, and read this out loud. It’s a hoot. Hoot, hoot. Or maybe I’ll just record myself reading it? Unless you send me pictures of writers or pets drinking. That’s a threat.
The Menu
I beg you come to-night and dine.
A welcome waits you, and sound wine–
The Roederer chilly to a charm,
As Juno’s breath the claret warm,
The sherry of an ancient brand.
No Persian pomp, you understand–
A soup, a fish, two meats, and then
A salad fit for aldermen
(When aldermen, alas, the days!
Were really worth their mayonnaise);
A dish of grapes whose clusters won
Their bronze in Carolinian sun;
Next, cheese–for you the Neufchatel,
A bit of Cheshire likes me well;
Cafe au lait or coffee black,
With Kirsch or Kummel or Cognac
(The German band in Irving Place
By this time purple in the face);
Cigars and pipes. These being through,
Friends shall drop in, a very few–
Shakespeare and Milton, and no more.
When these are guests I bolt the door,
With Not at Home to any one
Excepting Alfred Tennyson.
–Thomas Bailey Aldrich, The Menu
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.”)
July 14, 2009
Poor Martini (I’m talking the real honest-to-Betsy-straight-up-gin-vermouth Martini here. None of your “ini”-added-to-anything-even-liquid-shoe-polish drinks that aren’t, after all, a Martini, but just a drink some joker was too lazy to come up with a real neato creative name for). Yes, the most popular drink in the world, and perhaps the most popular icon in the last 100 plus some odd years (maybe Mickey? But he’s a kid’s game.) And yet, still slogged off in the most ridiculous manner (hence the “ini”-on-anything-makes-a-name disgust). Well, don’t let ‘em get you down Martini. We still love you, and to prove it, everyone reading this will have a Martini tonight (that means you and you and you, and maybe you, too), and I’ll type up this Bernard DeVoto quote, which extols your loveliness (Mr. DeVoto will have a Martini tonight as well, in that great next world bar):
You can no more keep a Martini in the refrigerator than you can keep a kiss there. The proper union of gin and vermouth is a great and sudden glory; it is one of the happiest marriages on earth, and one of the shortest-lived.
–Bernard DeVoto, The Hour
PS: I like mine this a-way, by the way: 2-1/2 ounces gin, 1/2 ounce dry vermouth, lemon twist.
July 10, 2009
I’m sure you’ve had a night like this: you get home, you know you should make dinner (to save money, and to use up what’s going bad in your fridge at this very moment, right now) but you’re having a hard time getting the energy going to get started, and so instead you make a deal with yourself (and maybe your wife or husband too): I/we will go out to dinner, but then I’ll/we’ll fold the unbelievably-large mountain of laundry when I/we get home from said dinner out. That happened to me (and Nat) last night, and the restaurant we ended up going to, to balance out that part of the “deal” was La Casa Azul. We’d never been before, but our pals, tattooed-Nicole and photographer-Josh, had recently A: told us about it, and B: told us it was darn tasty. Well, they’re believable folks, so we figured we’d give it a whirl, even though it’s in a strip mall kind-of a spot. It ended up being just what they said: darn tasty. And cute and cozy too, with both a Frieda Kahlo style and décor focus (and food, in a way) and super nice waiter and chef/waiter (these two guys do it all). If you live in Seattle, take my advice, and make the trip up or over to 14419 Greenwood Ave North. If you don’t live in Seattle, then move here for gawd’s sake. Sadly, our camera ran low on batteries, so I don’t have food pics, but this blog’s about booze anyway. And, luckily, I got some snaps of the lush sangrias before said batteries blew:
The sangria was a touch sweeter than my venerable family recipe (which you can find in about half of my books), but had a great clean and bright taste backed by some fruity but firm red wine, and a full array of fresh garnishes. Nat loved it, and I drank two, so I must have thought it fine as well. We also ate like hogs (or hog-like humans, ala the Island of Dr. Moreau, the book and not either of the movie versions), which is understandable, because the food was done so right, from the spicy salsa to the onion-and-pepper packed queso fundido (which they were nice enough to make for us veggies without chorizo) to the Tlayudes which I had (which was like a giant super thin tortilla–more a tortilla-Italian-style-pizza-combo–topped with black beans, cheese, cabbage, veggies), and the Plato Vegetarianos which Nat had (which was sautéed slabs of squash and nopales, sautéed mushrooms and spinach, and lots of smashed seasoned potatoes with an avocado-tomatillo sauce). Dang, now I’m hungry. Thanks Nicole and Josh for pointing us in the right direction (North, for us).
