For those regular readers of Spiked Punch (a list which includes my dogs Sookie and Rory, the dread Dormammu, and you), you know that I’ve taught a class at the Pantry at Delancey, which probably might lead you to believe that I’d be fan of Delancey, the pizza parlor. And you’d be right. To jump back, however (jump back!) in case you’re not from Seattle, Delancey is the, in my mind, finest pizza place in Seattle, and run by some fine folks, and the Pantry is a dreamy class and communal dinner spot behind it.
But what does this have to do with drinks? Well, it involves another Seattle spot, the newish brewery Hilliards. Hilliards is a beer-lover’s bubbly utopia in two ways: first, they make great-tasting beer (especially the Saison, which is smooth but with a bit of layered flavors and hints of spice and orange), and second, they make beer in really sweet-looking cans. Some days, I just want a can of beer in my hand. It’s less dangerous than a bottle, and a can reminds me a whole heaping lot of the Midwest where I sprouted.
And now, I’m gonna blow your mind: they serve Hillards at Delancey. Amazing. The universe is a wonderful place sometimes (and sometimes awfully cranky), and one of those times is when you can have a local beer in a can and a pizza and have them both be well-crafted marvels of taste without an ounce of snoot. I love it. And when you’re in Seattle, you should love it, and them, too.
It’s Friday! Which means you should be thinking kick-up-my-heels and not clean-up-my-kitchen. But, but, but, with work schedules that are so packed, and weekdays that don’t seem to have a stitch of free time, often the weekends end up being a time to only shepherd the house back from chaos and into shape for the next week. Well, here’s an idea–track down a copy of Phyllis Diller’s Housekeeping Hintsand get some advice on how to keep a house clean with minimal effort. Or, no effort at all. Cause Madam Diller is much more about the yuks than the sweeps, being a famous comedian from back a-ways. So, the book is full of suggestions like, “leave your sink full of dirty dishes. It’s a good way to cover up the dirty sink.” Which are perfect for Friday, when you should be thinking young, wild, and free and not detergent, elbow grease, and bleach. She also talks a lot about her penny-grasping husband Fang, which leads to the below line, which I love for some odd reason, and which ties the book in to the booze blog.
When we have guests, he puts a cherry in a glass of beer and calls it a Manhattan.
In the above title, I did not mis-type. Neither did I mean I was drinking cold “soul” as if I were a demon thirsting for evil-doers or that I was drinking cold “Soul” as if David Soul were chilled down and liquefied. Oh, no. I meant was a drinking cold Sol, the light-on-its-feet beer made in Mexico that I sometimes fancy when it’s the height of summer (the other beer usually being Miller High Life, but when snacking on some cheese enchiladas lathered in mole, it’s Sol). And, strangely, here in September at this very moment seems to be Seattle’s height of summer, which has led me to Sol. Which sounds much deeper in thought than it is (but I can’t always be philosophical, in the same way that I can’t always be drinking only cocktails and mixed drinks. Sometimes, I just wanna pop open a bottle without any fuss):
PS: The above photo was taken with Hipstamatic on Nat’s iPhone, which I thought matched up the cantina feel of the Sol (and which was the only camera for miles at the time). If you really want to know the exact settings, let me know.
Or at least he thinks he can in the below video. But he is challenging you to prove him wrong. So, if you’re tough enough, film yourself and then let him know. I’m just happy I can have an open beer served to me really darn fast (and without even having to break the bottle’s neck off with a rock. Which is what I usually do).
Ohh, that title just makes me shudder: Death at the Bar. Perhaps the worst thing possible (well, okay, that’s a bit much—there are, in life, much worse things, but this is just a drinks blog, so give me some leeway), especially if it was a jolly evening. Which, in this book, by Ngaio Marsh (Ngaio is pronounced /ˈnaɪoʊ/ if you were wondering, and is a lady), isn’t 100% true, as the evening at the bar (a little English town bar called the Plume of Feathers. Which is fantastic, especially as it’s not a disco), is a tad contentious, with old fiesty relationships, and reds (in the commie way), and an arrogant lawyer, and more.
But it’s still a pretty good night (as the below quote points out, though it also has a bit of foreshadowing), until they decide to play darts. Because one of the characters is killed . . . by a dart. Or is he? You’ll have to read the darn book to find out, because I’m no spoiler.
Watchman had already taken three glasses of Treble Extra and, although sober, was willing to be less so. Parish, suddenly flamboyant, offered to bet Able a guinea that the brandy was not Courvoisier ’87, and on Abel shaking his head, said that if it was Courvoisier ’87, damn it, they’d kill a bottle of it there and then.
Was sent the accompanying photo (which I’m hoping was from outside a bar–I mean, it has to be, right?) from pal Pat Jalbert-Levine, who is the wonderful person that ensures that my books from Harvard Common Press get done up right and make it to the printers on time (as well as about a million other things). It happened to be a long day at the salt mines when I got it, so it made my day hugely better (she’s both a geting-books-done superstar and a makes-the-day-better person. That’s a sweet combo). Here’s what she said about it (she sent it to me and boy PR genius Howard Stelzer, who loves himself some beer):
“I don’t know why this made me think of you. Oh wait, yes I do! I’m working on In Their Cups right now, and I know someone who’s a beer fanatic…! My mother forwards “joke emails” she gets from her family in France, and a recent one contained this picture. You’d have to know how the Lord’s Prayer goes in French to really get the cleverness, but anyway, here’s my attempt at a translation which would do it justice in English:”
Our beer who art in vats
Hallowed be thy foam
Let thy glass come
Let thy distribution be done
On the table as it is in the bar
Give us this day
Our daily hops
And forgive us our hangovers
As we forgive those
Who drink coca-cola
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from thirst
For thine are the bubbles, and aroma, and freshness
Now and forever
Amen
Isn’t that swell? I think so, and if you do, too, be sure to raise a toast to Pat next time you’re quaffing a cold one (and for that matter, raise a toast to Howie, as well, and to all the folks worldwide who are also, at the moment, drinking a beer. Now isn’t that nice to think about?).
Oh, poor pouty Muffy dear–she’s run out of the most delectable beer. Schlitz. I like Schlitz okay (though it’s harder to find these days, or at least hard for me, thank you very much WA state liquor board), and a nice American lager in the lighter style. And, it’s the “beer that made Milwaukee famous.” But no one likes Schlitz as well as Muffy in the below ad. Look how sad she is–you’d think someone just canceled her deb ball. She does have a cute pout though. And look at those nails! And the dress, with sparkles. Schlitz is much more of a playa beer if it’s pulling Muffy’s lush lower lip down. I think I’m gonna go track down some Schlitz. Right now. And then track down Muffy, and turn that frown upside down with the healing power of cheap beer.
For those regular readers of Spiked Punch (a list which includes my dogs Sookie and Rory, the dread Dormammu, and you), you know that I’ve taught a class at the Pantry at Delancey, which probably might lead you to believe that I’d be fan of Delancey, the pizza parlor. And you’d be right. To jump back, however (jump back!) in case you’re not from Seattle, Delancey is the, in my mind, finest pizza place in Seattle, and run by some fine folks, and the Pantry is a dreamy class and communal dinner spot behind it.
