July 7, 2009
Maybe you’re feeling a little dark, or loveless, or like you might want to get involved in a little small-time grift that might end up in a pool of bullets or blood or bourbon (ah, the three B’s). You could blame the holiday weekend and go on with your head down and your eyes tearful. You could go out and get involved with a dangerous person in a typhoon romance consisting of violence and betrayal. Or, you could just go read a little James M. Cain and live vicariously. To help you head down the last path (I am ready to help, my noirish pals), here are two quotes from his book Love’s Lovely Counterfeit. It’s probably not the best Cain, but still better probably than what you’re currently reading (well, I gotsta be honest), and it does have a little Midwestern politico and gangster flair I’m fond of, mighty fond I could say. If you need more than a read to flip-flop your mood, well, scroll down for some drinking ideas.
Ben, however, seemed neither surprised nor unduly upset. He righted the glasses, flipped a cherry in each, and poured the Manhattans. Setting one beside her, he said, “Here’s how,” and took a sip of his own, put it down. Then he took an envelope from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “Your share.”
“… Of what?”
“Of what we’re doing.”
He squashed his cigarette, looked at the palms of his hands. They had pips of moisture on them. He had the dizzy, half-nauseated feeling of a man who has been rocked to the depths by a woman, and knows it. He got up, crossed in front of her, went into the alcove for a drink. When he had downed a hooker of rye he looked and she was still there.
–James M. Cain, Love’s Lovely Counterfeit
July 2, 2009
It’s a holiday weekend, and you wanna get to it (hopefully yours starts on Friday, like mine), and I wanna get to it, but before then, I wanna drop a quick bit of holiday party science on you. You’re gonna eat too much this weekend (I’m also going for as many “nna” words a possible), but don’t wanna feel like the Blob (the fatty super villain, not the bubbly asteroid spin off). Which is why you should have the fixin’s for a Stomach Reviver on hand, cause it’ll cure your aching tummy, and let you have more fun-na. It goes like this:
Ice cubes
1-1/2 ounce brandy
1 ounce Kümmel
1/2 ounce Fernet Branca
2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
1. Fill a cocktail shaker half way with ice cubes. Add everything. Shake, strain into a cocktail glass or straight down the ol’ feed hole.
It’s the double bitters (FB and Peychaud’s) I believe, that alleviates that over-full feeling. At least it did for me the other night, after I’d consumed like six pieces of pizza, some salad, a few bread sticks, and probably some ice cream. Who can remember everything? Anyway, I was out of Kümmel (that caraway-and-sometimes-fennel-flavored treat), and so used homemade fennel liqueur, and it went down like a good date gone south. Wait, that sounded bad. I meant that it was really a touch sweet (but not too much) on the front end, and then a touch bitter at the end. I like that. You should too. If you don’t have Kümmel, play around with subbing in another sweetish spiced liqueur, and let me know how it treated you, and what you’re gonna call it (besides wonderful relief, that is).
PS: Check out that rad antique’y shaker I picked up not long ago. It pours like a little teapot. That got tall.
June 30, 2009
Following up on our Ed Skoog-drinks-and-almost-pokes-his-eye-out (thanks for the worry, too, PhiSmi–it’s nice to know folks like you are looking out for the eyes of poets like Ed) post below, I decided to turn this into Ed Skoog week (a week being two posts here at the ol’ Spiked Punch). With that, here’s the first stanza in a poem Ed had in LitRag magazine, issue 5, in Winter 1999, almost 10 years ago. Jeezus. He doesn’t necessarily like the poem anymore (cause poets are like that), but hey, this is my blog, and I’ll do what I want. So there. And I do think this stanza is such a perfect dip into the personality/personalities of that moment when you’ve left the bar after being there a bit to walk out into the night. And I like bars, and poems, and you, which made me think you might like reading it, too. We’ll see (and, this gives me a chance to give a fat shout out from fat me to LitRag magazine, which I used to put out for the screaming masses with D-Rock back in the day, as the kids say).
We waver and our shadows waver
along the alley, walking home drunk
past blurred and dulled angles,
call it the parson’s late night amble
or the clock-gong’s pave of morning,
this moment on the broad plaza
between the Mississippi’s tankers
and Rome’s outpost in the old town,
the scent of old robes rising
as if they were bread loaves
which are baking somewhere, so are
the bars open still, intensely
compressing the night before
for a few more drops of that spell
that holds a body inside four walls
that do not form the corners of home.
–Ed Skoog, Gaslight, LitRag 5
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.
June 19, 2009
I’m not 100% sure what the below picture is, cause I stole it off the Vessel web site (I’m also not a very good thief, as I just admitted it, and hopefully Basil Childers who took the lovely photo doesn’t get too angry). Vessel, if you don’t know (and if you’re not living in Seattle, you’re forgiven, but if you are living in Seattle and don’t know, then I can only ask loudly: What The Heck Is Wrong With You? Notice the cap’d letters for emphasis, but not all caps, because I do still have lots of affection for you, so don’t want to be too screamy), is one of Seattle’s top cocktail spots (really, one of the nation’s), where the bartenders tend to be charming and in vests and always know how to pour a very well-prepared drink. Anyway, as a little Friday treat I’m heading over there (it’s at 1312 Fifth Avenue in downtown Seattle, just blocks away from the monolith where I spend my workdays) right after work at 4 pm, to have myself a drink before heading home. And I think I want the drink to be the below, whatever it might be, with its large ice ball (hah, that’s fun to say) and obviously brown booze base. If you can’t make it there at 4 pm with me, then I suggest you at least have yourself a nice Friday cocktail somewhere. Because you know what? You deserve it.
June 16, 2009
What the heck–it’s the 16th of June already? And I’m only just having my first “buck” drink? And it’s not even an Orange Buck, but the sultry-cousin-who-sits-in-a-loose-dress-on-the-porch-driving-the-neighbors-mad-with-desire-while-at-the-same-time-barely-perspiring-and-looking-all-kinds-of-languid New Orleans Buck? And I’m using the Nicaraguan-made Flor de Cana Grand Reserve 7-year-old dark rum (which, I have to admit, so you don’t think I’m some kind of un-admitting flunky, was sent to me in the mail not too long ago from someone in New York–who I’m thanking right now, cause really, it’s tasty rum)? All of this probably leads many old Kansans (pals KT and Markie Mark, for two) to saying one thing: “that’s bucked up.”
But really, my old Orange Buck brethren, forgive me. The New Orleans Buck is darn refreshing, and is a very close relative of the O.B., and part of that legendary Gin Buck family that traces back, oh, to at least the 1920s. And if you’re new to this whole “buck” thing, let me promise you: you’ll be happy to dive in here, because this is a happening and cheery summer drink, one that fits backyard kick-backs remarkable well. You can slim the rum down a snitch if you must (I like the umph, but wife Nat thinks a little less booze bring the refreshment factor up a notch. Take your pick pals, and let me know what you think), to say, 2 ounces. But don’t you dare mess with the ratio of ginger ale to orange juice. That has to stay at 1:1. Or the universe will implode. Which is a messy situation anytime, but especially sticky in summer.
Ice cubes
3 ounces dark rum (or a little less, as mentioned)
2 ounces freshly squeezed orange juice
2 ounces chilled ginger ale
Lime wedge for garnish
Lime slice for garnish
1. Fill a highball glass three-quarters full with ice cubes. Add the rum.
2. Carefully add the orange juice and the ginger ale at the same time. Stir briefly.
3. Squeeze the lime wedge over the glass, then let it join the mix. Garnish with the lime slice.
A Variation: For an Orange Buck, substitute gin for rum, and for a Nordic Buck, sub in vodka. For a classic Gin Buck, make it with gin and no orange juice.
PS: Hopefully this isn’t too mercenary a mention, but this here drink is featured in a book called Dark Spirits, which doesn’t hit the shelves until fall of ’09, but which you could, if you wanted, pre-order right now, so as to insure you’re the first on the block with it in your pretty little hands.
June 9, 2009
Chicago Confidential: The Low Down on the Big Town is a 1950 tell-all by reporters (and authors of Washington and New York confidentials) Jack Lair and Lee Mortimer, which is both “uncensored” and “shocking.” And reading it, I’m sorta shocked. The indie-rock haven that I know and love used to be a combination of Sodom, Gomorrah, and a Rambo movie, with more sex, death, grifts, grafts, and gambling than this poor boy can understand. Maybe the authors toned it up just a snitch? And maybe Chicago just used to be more rootin’ and tootin’. Maybe I just lived in the wrong neighborhood? Maybe if I would have crick’d my neck out longer (ala PhiSmi) I would have seen more? But wait, wait! This isn’t about Chicago and its malcontents, this is a quick paean to my favorite Chicago bartender and longtime close pal, Joel Meister. See, Mr. Joel (as many know) lives in rowdy Chicago, and tends bar, and rules, damnit, rules. Which is why I want to dedicate this quote to him, completely un-confidentially.
Burlesque bars are few on the near North Side beyond the mile of Clark Street dumps. There is only one open stripper on Rush Street, the Spa. Most establishments are restaurants or cocktail lounges with only a singing pianist, male or female, for entertainment, plus the inevitable B girl. The initiates hang around to drink, talk, meet old friends or pick up new ones. But the bartenders will get you anything you want–tell you where there is a crap game, contact call girls, or take a bet on the horses. Throughout Chicago, bartenders function to a much wider extent than they do in any other known place. It is the fashion to advertise their names in connection with saloons and restaurants, as though they are stars. And some of them are, with individual followings because of their wide usefulness. Their local appellation is “the mixo,” and they are heavily tipped.
–Jack Lair and Lee Mortimer, Chicago Confidential
PS: Don’t forget, when in Chicago and having Joel pour you or shake you or strain you one: “they are heavily tipped.”
