Okay, that’s just a catchy headline in most situations, because in most situations I like my bars safe and booze-y and full of cozy chums. But for some reason, the below panel, from a knockout Stan Lee / George Tuska comic called “Acid Test!” printed in the October 1973 issue of Tales of the Zombie #2, (though originally presented in the July 1953 issue of Menace #5 under the title “Nightmare!”–huge props to the amazing pre- and post-code horror comics site The Horrors of It All, which is where I found this, and where I visit every day to get my chill on) made me think of how some days you go to a bar to forget, or try to forget, the murdering you’ve done. That’s all right, too (even if for most of us it’s symbolic murder, one hopes). Especially when the bartender below is such a dead ringer for bartending pal Andrew B. Or is it bartending pal Andrew F? Now that I look at it, a bit of both. The fact that the bartender turns out to be a certain famous evil-doer has nothing to do with it, naturally.

Okay, full disclosure straight up: the bar manager at the new (as opposed to the older version from a few years ago) Mistral Kitchen in Seattle is a pal of mine. A good pal, even. His name’s Andrew Bohrer, and I’ve blogged about him before, cause he makes damn good drinks, and isn’t all snooty about it (and his blog Cask Strength is full of booze and cursing, which is nice). Heck, I’ve heard him praise PBR as casually as Pappy’s 15-Year bourbon. Here he is, getting busy with pouring:

This all means that when wife Nat and I went to Mistral recently (during the “soft opening” phase) we were probably going to be pretty forgiving, if needed. But to get around the whole “of course you’ll say nice things, you know them” I’m going to keep commentary at a minimum, and go the photogenic route (which is great for me, cause I’m, well, hot and so inclined to like the photogenic route). The quick summary, though, before the photos (did you think I’d back out of editorializing completely?): the savory food was still being worked out, but solid ingredient choices, if pretty straightforward preparations (this on the veggie side); the dessert-y food was interesting and delicious and architectural and a step above the savory right now; the cocktail food was, well, great. Now, onward. We had some roasted veggies, but they weren’t as good as the wood-roasted mushrooms:

And we had a vinaigrette’d green salad (good, but pretty spare), which wasn’t as good as the cheese plate:

With the meal, Nat had an Aviation cocktail (we both went classically at first, picking off the old-school short bar menu), which was dreamy and cloudy like a cloudy dream:

I had the Mint Julep, which was made just right, with the right crackity-cracked ice, the right metal julep cup, and the right healthy amount of bourbon. Pretty, even:

For dessert, we had the Ultra Brownie, and it was ultra creamy chocolate goodness, but topped, I felt, by the Walnut Honey Cake (the desserts, made by chef Neil Robertson, both kicked sugary ass though), which came with rich figs and homemade (natch) chestnut ice cream:

With desserts, Nat had a fresh cocktail that Andrew had recently been working on (as an aside: isn’t it always swell to be able to be one of the first to taste a new drink? I think it’s swell), which mixed 1 ounce gin, 1/2 ounce kirsch, 1 ounce blanc (not dry) vermouth, and 1/2 ounce orgeat. It was really jumping (or frolicking) with the balance of dry to sweet right on. And, he called it the Tauntaun. Geeks, rejoice:

For my last drink, I had a Fernet Old Fashioned, which Andrew had been telling me about, and about who originally created it, but now I can’t find the email. Maybe he’ll be so kind as to leave the info and the instructions in the comments. Though he is busy. But not that busy (so get to it, Andrew). Anywho, before starting an online booze war, let me say that I dig Fernet, and this drink was the tops. I love the phat orange rind, and the ice ball, and the bitter-after-dinner experience that is summed up in this glass:

That’s the Mistral Kitchen kids, well worth a visit, especially if you belly up to the bar and let the cocktails roll. Just be sure to order a drink with an orange peel:

Gawd bless the hard-boiled folks at Hard Case Crime. I may not have fallen in head-over-guns love with every single one of their books (that I’ve read), but enough of them hit me square in my noir-loving solar plexus that I’ve been known to fall on the hard cold concrete yelling their praises. And that’s just for the covers. No, no, it’s for the innards of the books they publish, too, and for their deadly devotion both to newly minted murderous/suspenseful/chilly/mysterious/etc novels and to reprinting hard-to-discover classics on the genre/s. For example, I just wrapped up John Farris’ (writing as Steve Brackeen–they’re great at printing up stuff from writers’ various and sundry nom de plumes, too) Baby Moll, a book that pulls no punches and revs up quickly into a mash up of twists, turns, smacks, sips, hips, and your general “guy-wants-to-go-straight-with-hot-babe-on-beach-but-gets-pulled-back-into-underworld-activities-by-once-beloved-boss” plot. No messing around, solely good, rapid, action of all sorts. And boozing. Which, as you know, I’m fond of (excessively? Maybe). First one’s a bar quote (for my bar-working chums), and the second’s a hard-drinker’s quote (for my hard-drinking chums).

The Rendezvous was a charming basement beer hall near the ship channel. It stank of spilled brew, dirty clothing, and the elusive scent of rare sin. The rest of the building was a honeycomb of rooms for furtive meetings, the exchange of smuggled goods, the viewing of strange sex acts. I had been there often in my fledgling days with Macy.

‘You go on to bed,’ Macy told Rudy. ‘Better get a hot bath.’ Rudy went out. ‘You want a drink, Pete?’

‘God, yes.’

He waved me to a small bar. I chose a bottle. ‘Give me some whisky,’ he said.

‘What do you want in it?’ I said.

‘I don’t want nothing in it!’ he said peevishly.

I gave him some whisky. He held it as somebody else might hold a flower. He drank it slowly. In between sips, I could hear the breath in his throat.

–Baby Moll, John Farris

Hey, happy Mon-Tuesday. Just hold off before calling me calendarily challenged. I know today is really Tuesday, and that there is no Mon-Tuesday day. But as it’s the day after a Monday holiday, all of us working slobs (those who work the regular work-week at least) going back to work feel like it’s a Monday, cause it’s the first day of the week with the good times that entails (sing it now, good times, any time you need a favor), but it’s actually Tuesday. Hence the Mon-Tuesday. What does this mean in the world of boozing and spiking of punches? That it’s a fine time for a quote by Hal Masur (who in his full name is Harold Q. Masur, as seen in this post about Suddenly a Corpse), from a book in his Scott Jordan series. Scott’s a lawyer, see, when that meant more than a bad film adaptation and a southern accent. What it means is he drinks hard, rumbles with jerky DAs, snuggles up with any number of hourglass figures, and then solves mysteries and murders. The kind of lawyer a boy or girl can admire, and aspire to being (or hiring). You know, as it is Mon-Tuesday, here are two quotes from Tall, Dark and Deadly: one martini one, and one bar one. Enjoy them, and then go litigate yourself something cold and strong (whatever that means).

“Thirsty Scott?”

“Parched. I’d like a martini, very dry.”

She went to a portable bar. “One martini, coming up.”

“May I help?”

“I know the formula,” she declared loftily. “Gin, vermouth, and cyanide.” She prepared the ingredients in a chrome shaker, applying the vermouth with an atomizer, and substituting a twist of lemon peel for the cyanide. I drank. It was very dry indeed and the gin left me a trifle lightheaded.

“Another?” she asked?

“Not unless you can handle me.”

“Does that mean I have to get you drunk?”

“Helps. I’ve very shy.”

I entered and perched on a bar stool. The place was humming with activity. Regardless of the hour or the temperature, it seems that a large number of citizens continuously suffer from parched throats. In order to accommodate this drought the city has spawned a thousand watering holes that serve no water. This one was indistinguishable from its cousins.

            I ordered Canadian ale and got a glass of Milwaukee stout.

–Tall, Dark and Deadly, Hal Masur

Hello . . . hello . . . is it Wine Cocktails you’re looking for? If it is, you’re in luck, cause as I alluded to below (in the S.F. Part I post), I’m making a few wine cocktails from the book of the same name this Thursday at a sweet bar called Poco here in Seattle (which is named in full Poco Wine Room, but which has recently expanded to be Poco Wine and Cocktails Room, making it the ideal match up for above-mentioned book). The basics are thus (and you can see more on this Facebook page, if that’s your thing):

When: This Thursday, August 20th

Where: Poco, 1408 East Pine Street, near the intersections of Pine, 15th & Madison, Seattle

What: Wine cocktails demos, copies of the book, actually wine cocktails to drink

Who: You, one hopes. And me.

It’s $20 to get in, but for that you get your very own copy of the book (which I’ll of course sign if you want) and two drinks, so it’s a dandy deal. And, Poco is a really nice spot. All of which means you should, as the song says, come on down, have that drink. I’ll be happy to see you for sure. And while the below isn’t one of the featured drinks, it should at least whet your wine cocktails appetite.

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

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.”)

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

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.

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.”