Now that the weather has taken a turn for the gorgeous, I can fantasize about all things vernal and actually drop some tips about, ahem, wine.
The ultimate spring wine, for me, is rose. And actually, Tavel. Or Chinon rose. I'm not talking cheap White Zin here, kidaddios. I'm talking dry, full, lovely rose. I'm talking strawberry and mint. I'm talking raspberry and earth. And I'm talking all of this at 9:22am, so you know I'm serious.
Though, if I decide I need to go white, I go floral. Keep your buttered toast, please, and keep your cat pee as well. I'm all about viognier, chenin blanc, or... wait for it... greco di tufo. I once sassily proclaimed that if greco di tufo was a person, I'd marry it. And although I'm happily married, I'm quite certain my husband would understand if I had an affair with greco. It's that good. Viognier and greco remind me of each other, which could get sticky. I don't want to call out the wrong name.
Ok, so we've got two categories covered. That leaves reds. I can't think about Big Dumb Reds in spring, so this Wednesday is going to be tricky. I think I'll have to go weird: pineau d'aunis. Lean fruit with a big dose of pepper - perfect for your first barbecue or just a slab of buttery cheese. My god. I could even be persuaded towards a cabernet franc, but it would have to more on the St-Nicholas-de-Bourgueil end of things. Cab franc works in a variety of ways, but I'd rather a bright, fruity bistro incarnation right now to help celebrate the bliss of sunshine.
You do realize, of course, that all of the above goes right in the crapper if a bottle of champagne were to appear, don't you?
I stumbled across the thin
strip of beach between the laguna and the ocean. Walking in Yelapa at night
posed many challenges, not the least of which was the margarita I’d already
had. But that night, I was also contending with the threat of scorpions, wading
through still water, clenching a penlight in my teeth, and a big plastic bag
wrapped around me.
I was heading to a costume
party. I’d thought it was a joke at first, but no- in the middle of the Mexican nowhere, I was really going to a costume party. An artist-comrade grabbed a
clear plastic bag and ripped a hole for my head. He decorated my
plastic-wrapped body with quickly drawn kings and fish. “Don’t smudge,” he
warned. I stood carefully, waiting for the sketches to dry. I didn’t know what
exactly I was supposed to be, but that was irrelevant.
We made our way down the
stone steps from the borrowed palapa towards the beach, keeping our eyes and
penlights closely linked for potential scorpions. Once safely down, the
phosphorescent specks in the sand gave the beach an eerie glow. I lifted my
skirt and plastic carefully – don’t smudge! – to wade through the sweet water
that was trapped earlier in the day from the receding tide. Later, I’d have to
spray down my body to make sure nothing toxic attached itself to me during the
wade.
I got to the beach bar and
surveyed my surroundings. Lang, drowned royalty himself, was propped up against
the bar, draining his second bottle of liquor. He was wearing a linen suit, and
his long, greasy hair was combed back into a ponytail. By torch light, he
didn’t look half-bad; the puffy, alcohol-bloat was softened a bit and his
pitted skin smoothed from its normal orange-peel texture. Lang was on a suicide
mission and had a damned good start. He was American blue-blood, the direct descendant
of a founding father, but his family had long since cut him off. He didn’t
care. Once upon a time, he had built a beautiful palace perched high above the
beach with an incredible vista of the jungles and water. It was, however, empty,
because Lang’s denigrated body wouldn’t allow him to climb anywhere other than
into his bed. He instead lived in a shack on the beach, wasting away in a dirty
navy bathrobe, skin flaking off his ashy legs and yellowed eyes demanding more
liquor. But that night, you might not get all that at first glance.
Lang’s girlfriend was
already with him, and she was equally as drunk, a truly rare feat. Emelle was a
seemingly sensible woman, so I never understood her attraction to someone bent
on self-destruction. She leaned over sloppily to peck me on the cheek as I said
hi. I’d met her in PV and was staying at her palapa for the weekend. This gave
her a sense of entitlement with me, and she would say whatever came to mind,
whether appropriate or not. She pointed to my small chest, hidden
under the plastic and my black tank top. “S’a shame about those,” she said. “I
know a good surgeon.” Since I was 25 years younger than her, I let her enjoy
that. Her implants were the only part of her still perky.
A couple appeared decked out
as Poseidon and a mermaid. I recognized them from Puerto Vallarta. They were married but not to
each other, and each would leave their respective spouses for their annual
month-long fling in Mexico.
But after eleven months of long-distance pining, they’d fight by Day Two and
spend the rest of the month alternately bickering, cheating, and making up.
Tonight, they were on again, and she’d crammed her menopausal frame into a
bustier and fishtail skirt. She held it well, considering, and Poseidon looked
proud to be at her side until a younger, prettier model would catch his eye.
The mermaid would glare at him angrily every time his attention strayed. She
said hello to me and asked who I was. I’d never formally met her before and
this felt quite intrusive, but I’d noticed such inquisitions would often hail
upon those considered outsiders. I answered politely, and she immediately
pressed me for details: where was I from, how long was I down there, who did I
know, how did I get there, although she offered none of the same information about
herself. Finally, she smiled haughtily and said “Exactly how old are you?,” implying I was a lost waif,
pathetically flitting about. “Twenty-four” I smiled. “And you?” She scowled and
turned her attention back to her Poseidon, who was already drifting towards a
finer fish.
As I worked on another margarita,
I watched the personal politics among all these gringos who’d fled to Mexico to
escape the dramas they were now recreating. They considered themselves more
cultured than the PV set, and much more adventurous which was clearly evidenced
by their presence in Yelapa. Never mind that there were generators hidden away
to churn out the electricity they demanded, or that they paid locals peanuts to
cart their stuff to and from Vallarta; they enjoyed boasting that there was no
power to be found, and that only a water taxi could get you there.
Emelle
stumbled back over to me and I felt her eyes watching my face. “I know what
you’re thinking, and you’re right,” she declared. And with an imperial sweep of
her arm, she indeed spoke my very thoughts: “You can travel the world – and
believe me, I have – and you won’t find anywhere as stupid as this.”
I have something I need to talk about. I have this little hobby... no, more like compulsion. I really, really, enjoy pairing wine with junk food. It just makes me so damn happy! I'm not talking half-assed thrown together pairings, I mean really analyzing flavor profiles of potato chips and candy and finding the absolutely perfect wine to go along with it. Throw in a horror or sci-fi flick, and dammit, that is a moment of Zen in my world! What can I say? I am a woman of simple needs. Let me elaborate, and maybe you kids can try this at home.
I luuuuurv Cotes du Rhone like it's going out of style. I've had lovely wine from this region with coq au vin, boeuf bourguignon, and many other lovely and complex culinary delights. But, lemme tell you, get some jumbo chicken wings from Mike's subs in Kenmore, a bottle of Perrin and Fils Cotes du Rhone, throw the first "Alien" film (director's cut) in the DVD player, and, in most cases, this can beat a fancy night out. The fruit of the Syrah, Granache, Cinsault, etc. blend pairs perfectly with the spice of the wings.
Spain makes some of the best and most reasonably priced wines on the market. One of my biggest guilty pleasures is a little number called Don Ramone. Don and I are great friends because he's a versatile fella. He's a saucy blend of Grenache and Tempranillo. My favorite pairing after a tough day is Butter Lovers Popcorn and my beat up copy of "Army of Darkness" (starring the dashing Bruce Campbell!). Hail to the king, baby.
Rosemount Shiraz and Tyson's "Fun Shapes" chicken nuggets: Ok, even I really can't explain this particular bizzare pairing. Maybe it was the joy of coming home to good friends, the comfort of a squishy chair and some yummy wine and junk food. It just worked. I think the fact that it was "fun shapes" had something to do with it. They were dinosaurs! Who doesn't love dinosaurs?
And finally, one of my most favorite happy accidents involves bubbly and sweets. I had a bottle of Lucien Albrect Brut Rose. I am a big fan of Alsatian wine, and throw in the fact that it is a sparkling rose? I am sold. This cheeky little guy went awesome with Turkish Delight! No, really - it was like a crazy carnival of flavor, but in a good way, not the wierd way. The bubbles and subtle fruit of the wine just mingled with the rose and almond powdered sugary goodness of the Turkish Delight. I was so high on sugar that night that I went out dancing at Marcella's for the first time. It was one of the best nights ever.
Last, but not least, my absolute favorite junk food and wine pairing. Brooklyn pizza and Bordeaux. One of those little inexpensive '05 bottles is soooooooo amazing with New york style pizza, extra cheese and pepperoni. In order to really enjoy this one, I really need to be back in Brooklyn, though. And if "Dawn of the Dead" is on, even better (the original, not that craptastic remake). Pure bliss.
So, there you go, there is my dirty little secret. If you try some of these pairings, I won't judge you. Want to know my ongoing project? Trying to find the perfect wine to drink with a bag of Dorito's. The search continues...
I have the mentality of a 300-pound woman. Fortunately, for
bathing suit sake, I don’t particularly care for the typical American fare. I
would prefer to eat Thai, Turkish, Japanese, Afghani, or even Spanish any day.
Since my preferred comestibles are not at my immediate
disposal, nor do I yet have a personal chef, I do not eat as much as I would or
could. While there is some diversity in restaurants around my zip code, they
all seem to be watered down variants. So when I learned about Choice Eats, my inner glutton got really excited.
The Village Voice has curated Choice Eats for three years
now. It is a tasting event that features over 60 restaurants (64 this year)
from the five boroughs of New York,
handpicked by the food critics of The Village Voice. The restaurants represent
35 different ethnic cuisines. This is so
my thing. Then I found out there would also be an array of beer, wine, and
liquor to be sampled. This is SO my thing.
As soon as tickets became available, I purchased two.
Tickets were $35 each, not bad for an all you can eat expo
paired with alcohol samplings. For an additional $30, one could get in an hour
early with no wait and access to the VIP area. A bit pricy for a perk but VIP
included a few more tasting areas, unlimited Stella, Leffe, and Hoegarden, and
mixed drinks from Dinner with The Band host Sam Mason. There was also a goody
bag. The rockstar that I am, I went for VIP.
I traveled to the 69th Armory on Lexington with my fellow food lover Lucy.
Upon entering the VIP area, we started with dessert, why not? I sampled a
mini-cupcake from Kumquat Cupcakery
of NYC. The heavenly little chocolate cake was topped with vanilla frosting and
a sprinkling of roasted pistachios. It was the perfect size to eat in one tasty
bite. We then headed over to the special host Sam Mason who was pouring rhubarb
gimlets. I like a gimlet and I like sour, but this concoction did not appeal to
my palate. I switched to Leffe Blonde, an amber colored and fresh and fruity
Belgian with a hint of caramel. Much yummier than the gimlet. My favorite
sampling in VIP was from Tiffin Wallah,
a vegetarian Indian restaurant located in Murray Hill. Much to my vegetarian
friend’s delight, and to my taste buds, sweet rice with currants was topped with
a spicy curry and savory yogurt sauce. I think I could have possibly eaten this
all night.
But alas, we moved upstairs for the main event. Another
advantage to VIP is that we got in earlier than the non-rockstars and were able
to visit many tables before the place packed out, as it surely did. By 8:00 it
was becoming hard to navigate a full belly through the crowd. I suggest if you
attend next year, go VIP or get there early. So here are some of my tops,
restaurants I look forward to visiting soon:
Patacon Pisao: A
Venezuelan restaurant with a location in Inwood and another in Elmhurst. They served the Cachapa Sandwich,
which was made of a sweet cornmeal bread wrapped around melted mozzarella and
parmesan with a smothering of sour cream on top. Sweet and cheesy goodness.
El Almacén: Located in Williamsburg, the
Argentinian chef/owner served up a delectable Peruvian sweet potato puree
topped with melt in your mouth short ribs. The blend of meat and potato was
superb. When I visit this establishment, I will be sure to try the avocado
fries and chorizo and eggs for brunch.
Am-Thai Kitchen:
Also in Brooklyn, this inexpensive and casual
restaurant of Kensington served up two tasty Thai treats. The first was so
delicious but I cannot remember the name. It consisted of a large soft noodle
topped with vegetables and a delicious peanut-chili sauce. It might have
possibly been the Dumpling in Peanut Sauce that is on the menu for $5, but I
will have to go sample to be sure, woe is me. The second item was a crispy rice
crepe filled with coconut, tofu, lime leaves, and cilantro cucumber salad. The
crepes were quickly prepared right in front of us and made a wonderfully light
finger food.
Fatty Crab: Last
but not least was Fatty Crab. This Malaysian fusion restaurant has three
locations. The Upper West side, the WestVillage, and a third just opened in Williamsburg which is
called Fatty ‘Cue. Fatty Crab first got my attention in VIP where they were
serving chocolate Fatty Bars. With two types to choose from, dark chocolate
with chilies and roasted almonds was my favorite. On the main level, Fatty Crab
was serving up deviled eggs. These were not your typical Sunday luncheon
deviled eggs, but with a zingy Malaysian twist. This perfect two-bite treat
could make one wonder what else this restaurant has to offer.
April Fools Edition, With Mischievous Cocktail Recipes
Originally, I planned to write an "April Fools article" with a fake, disgusting cocktail, like a Bourbon Banana Julep. Then I realized that I just don't have the street cred to get away with it. Instead I'll tell you about a practical joke skirmish I witnessed, and include the diabolic recipes.
One
day in college, I came home, (not from class I assure you) to find my
girlfriend at the time, Renée, and one of my housemates, Rich, standing
inches apart, quietly giggling like 6 year olds. They waved me over and
told me of the trickery afoot. Our other housemate, Sean, was a
dedicated Coca-Cola drinker and earlier, Rich had replaced his two liter bottle of Coke with Seltzer and Soy Sauce.
They showed me what the concoction looked like. It was amazing. It was
beautiful. The foam from the carbonation was the exact color. Sean had
spent his day doing homework, a strange practice that eventually landed
him a gig with N.A.S.A., and Renée and Rich spent their day bringing
Sean salty snacks. I assure you, if my housemates brought me anything,
I would be suspicious. But not Sean. He'd poured himself a Coke and was
upstairs working diligently, his right hand inches away from a tall,
ice cold glass of salty, smokey, mayhem. I had joined the conspirators
standing inches apart, quietly giggling like 6 year olds. About a
minute later, we heard the urgent and muffed "PBmughagh!" sound as Sean
reeled in horror, trying not to spit the dastardly brine all over his
computer. Oh, Christ, we laughed until we cried. Then we ironically
celebrated with drinks.
Sean,
being a good sport, seemed to let it go, but in fact, he was quietly
plotting. In those days, Rich figured himself to be a bit of a
sophisticate and had purchased a $4 bottle of wine. "Table," I believe.
Now, a bottle like that, you don't finish all at once... you savor it.
Rich put the unfinished bottle in the fridge and never noticed it grow
slightly fuller, having been "livened up" with vinegar. A few days
later, with all the style and grace befitting of a college student with
a leftover bottle of $4 wine Rich drank it, never pausing for
complaint. While Sean felt thwarted, I say it still counted. That's
some embarrassing shit, drinking vinegar.
As
for the recipes, I'll let you work out the ingredient ratios on your
own, to allow you the time to asses the risk/reward ratios. Sean, Rich,
Renée and I are still close, but you might not be so lucky. Are the
potential consequences truly worth it to you?
My quest for a big, dumb red
backfired this week. I still needed one, but I actually got a wooly for a wine
from my past. (An aside: an Italian uncle would say “I got a wooly” to mean “I
have a craving.” Has anyone ever heard of this before? It sounds so… so…
sordid. Which is probably why I use it.) When I was still slinging wine, I had
one called “La Huella de Adaras” in my portfolio. It took a while before I
actually tasted it, but my god! When I finally did, there was no going back. I’d
look forward to the days when I’d pour it as a sample. I’d make sure to taste
it as well, just to make sure it was still showing well. I was professional
like that.
Anyway, I knew of one store
in the greater Buffalo
area that had it and I just happened to be over that way during the week. I swear
I did NOT make a special trip, but now I’m thinking I will have to.
“La Huella de Adaras” means
“the thumbprint of Adaras” because the deep minerality is brought to us
directly from the soils of Adaras. Actually, Adaras isn’t even the name of it
anymore – the Ancient Romans called it that. It’s Alamansa in Spain now. But
enough geography. Made from 60% Tintorera, 30% Monastrell, and 10% Cabernet
Sauvignon, this wine definitely fed my big, dumb monkey without being dumb at
all. It’s deep, rich, and delicious. Dark cassis and plum fruit and smoothed by
smoky coffee notes and dusty earth.
Sadly, La Huella doesn’t
fall into my $10 and under category that I usually like to stick to for big,
dumb reds. But at $15, it’s well worth the extra five spot.
Every now and then, When I can't think of anything to write, I'll present to you this series of How-to's.
Equipping Your Home-Bar, Vol. 1; Blowing the First of Several Pay-Checks:
Booze, uh, I mean, Spirits:
There
are many, many types of cocktails, never mind the number ingredients
and their varying qualities and characteristics. And of course, every
drinker has their own idiosyncrasies. So how can we build or fine-tune
our humble home-bar to accommodate everyone's prima-donna, persnickety
needs?
Well, we have 4 options:
1)
Just hanging with your college friends? McCormick Vodka and any blue
colored syrup you can find at the grocery store will do. Even cough
syrup. Maybe get a lime.
2) If you have classier friends, like I pretend I do, go to your local liquor store,
head straight to the bottom shelf and get one of everything; vodka,
gin, blended whiskey, bourbon, light and dark rums. You can buy more
expensive signature bottles as you scrape together the loot. Next, you
need dry and sweet vermouths. Vermouth is cheap, so always buy the best. As I always say, "Martini & Rossi, FTW."
Liquor: $50
Vermouth $12
3) My favorite option: For a few dollars more you can get some pretty tasty stuff; Sobieski vodka, Gordon's gin, Canadian whiskey like Seagrams
and Evan William's bourbon. Rum? I know fuck-all about rum. Help me out
in the comments section, wouldya? Anyway, as far as
bar-bang-for-your-buck, these are cheap yet high quality liquors you
won't mind mixing. Cocktails made with these carefully selected bottles
will put you in good stead with the hoi polloi.
Liquor: $65
Vermouth $12
4)
What's that? You make a killing working for VanDeLay Industries? Well
excuse me, Lord Swankington, go ahead, break the bank and buy the "top
shelf" shit all at once! I stock Belvedere vodka, Boodles gin, Tullamore Dew whiskey and Makers Mark bourbon and whatever rum I'm experimenting with at the time.
Liquor: $?? Sky's the limit, Homeschool.
Vermouth $12 seriously, Martini & Rossi, FTW.
Mixers:
Finally, you'll need mixers. A grocery store will have all the common mixers like juice and soda. I keep orange juice, pineapple juice, tonic, ginger beer
and Coca-Cola on hand at all times. Pepsi is for children. They'll also
have sweetened and unsweetened lime juice as as well as grenadine.
Mixers: $15-20
This will give you all you need to mix quite a few classic cocktails at a moments notice. For example, I often like to surprise myself with a dry martini
within minutes of getting home. Self love is key. And you can mix so
much more; a Dry, Sweet, or Perfect Manhattan, all the Bucks, Coolers
and Mules, as well as several standards like the Gin and Tonic, Screwdriver, rum or whiskey and Coke, etc. And, thanks to me, you did it all within your budget. Ain't I sweet?
Next installment, i.e., next time I can't think of a good article; Bar Equipment, on the cheap!
Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved French wine with all of her heart. But, alas, this poor maiden had limited funds. What is a lass to do? One day, whilst browsing the French section of a humble wine merchant, she came across an enchanted little bottle from the Southern Rhone. The label had two chickens on it and contained the magical words, "La Vieille Ferme Cotes du Ventoux". At that very moment, a love affair was born.
If there is one thing in this world that warms the cockles of my cold little heart (besides Kung Fu films) it's inexpensive and delicious French wine. Specifically, wines from the Southern Rhone. Affectionately referred to as the "chicken wine" by it's devotees, La Vieille Ferme Cotes du Ventoux is a cheeky little blend of Syrah, Grenache, Carignan and Cinsault. It has great soft fruit and spice with a touch of earth on the back palette. It isn't overly complex, but it is just damn tasty. It's one of my favorite "junk food" wines. Pairs excellent with chicken wings, barbecue ribs, burgers and/or Dorito's. And they make a white as well! La Vieille Ferme Cotes du Luberon is a blend of Grenache Blanc, Bourboulenc, Ugni Blanc and Roussanne. Aromatic, round, a little silky with soft peach notes. One night, my friends and I decided to have breakfast for dinner and I served the chicken white. It went awesome with scrambled eggs and chedder cheese, turkey sausage,and home fries. But wait, there's more! There is even a rose! A blend of Cinsault, Grenache and Syrah, I warn you, it goes down very easy. I just had it the other night with salmon cakes, and, alas, a romance was rekindled.
I'm sorry, but I just can't help myself. I have told every living being about the magic that is the chicken wine.I even joined the La Vieille Ferme Fan page on Facebook. It's my go-to wine when all else has failed me, my old reliable, my old flame.
If loving the Chicken Wine is wrong, well, then I don't want to be right.
Every year I have every intention of attending the Montauk
St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Yet somehow, the previous night’s activities eat up
those intentions and impede me from taking the 1 hour and 45 minute train ride
out east early on a Sunday morning. As I set my alarm Saturday night
(technically Sunday morning), it told me I only had 4 hours and 12 minutes to
sleep, I almost backed out again.
People have been traveling to the tip of the south fork for
48 years to participate in New York State’s 2nd largest St.
Patrick’s Day parade. The Montauk Friend’s of Erin Parade draws up to 45,000
people a year and has about 90 entrants, varying from fire departments, floats,
and performing acts. I quickly learned that my friend Jess lives for this day.
It has become bigger than Christmas for her and she takes this day to the next
level. Costume and all, Jess becomes Miss St. Patty herself.I also learned that rarely does one
survives a parade day with the lass, let alone return for a round two. I had a
mission because I was Jess’s ‘this-year-girl’.
We started the morning by smuggling a six-pack of tall boys
onto the train. There are 364 days a year that you can drink on the LIRR, but
this particular day happens to be excluded. There were cops all over the
platform, and I am not sure how Jess’s green hair didn’t make us a target for a
bag search. Nevertheless, we made it onto the train and started our St. Patty’s
day journey. We pre-gamed a bit with our stash and enjoyed the ride out east. After
being herded off the car and corralled like cattle out of the station, we made
our way to the first stop, The Old Harbour House.Here we were attired with green
beads and some sparkly green top hats by a friendly bartender. The bar was open and airy with Blue Moon
on tap, yum. With an outdoor patio and bar, it looks like a great place to
return to in the summer.
After a few beers and bathroom breaks, we realized the
parade was underway. We were near the end of the queue and we walked along the
route to make our way into town. The next thing I knew, we were in the parade. Jess’s brother and his girlfriend
hitched a ride on the wide chrome bumper of a fire truck. I walked arm-in-arm
with Miss St. Patty herself as she did the Ms. America wave. The cameras
snapped and the crowd ate her up. We had just had our 15 minutes of fame in
Montauk. We quickly dipped out when we saw a row of porta-potties and moved
onto stop #2, appropriately named The Trail’s End.
The Trail’s End was a bit smaller and darker than the first
bar and had no Blue Moon. The bartender tried to pass off a rum and diet for a
vodka and diet to a friend, but made good on his mistake.The name of stop #3 was fuzzy by this
point and someone put a can of Coor’s light in my hand. Done. Food was soon in
order and Village Pizza was delicious. The service was quick and the pizza was
hot. The last stop was Memory Motel. This was more like a club and even had a $5
cover. It was dark and loud and there were at least two fights in our
short time there. When we emerged back out into the warm sunlight, most of the
crowd had cleared, leaving the sidewalks full of plastic cups and other litter.
Some drunks stumbled about the streets and it was clear it was time to head
back to the station. No fancy walk for us this time, just a somber cab ride
back to the mayhem of the 5:33 train. Oh yeah, you don’t want to miss the train
out. There is not another one out until 1 a.m. and I can only imagine how many
get stuck there, or rather, how many people Montauk gets stuck with.
Will I be Jess’s next year girl? Hell yeah! But next year,
look for Miss and Ms. St. Patty. I am ordering a green wig right now.
Although we strive for
anti-intellectualism here at Tipsy, every now and again, we do actually read.
And by that, I mean books. I know, I know… I’m ruining our reputation as
good-for-nothing lay-abouts. Sorry ‘bout that.
Par exemple,
just the other day, ElMarko surprised me with three books. I was stressing
mightily about unrelated issues, and the sight of three bits of entertainment
was most-welcome. When I had a moment, I cracked open “How’s Your Drink?” by Eric
Felten, and it’s been a delight to say the least. Mr. Felten has a popular
Sunday column by the same name in The Wall Street Journal, and this book is a
collection of those pieces.
Let me admit here that,
despite my booziness, my knowledge of cocktails is rather scant. I don’t think
I’d ever had anything beyond some sweet horror show until I was past thirty,
and since then, I don’t get too adventurous; I didn’t like the martinis that
I’ve had because warm gin is just plain nasty, but since they remain so highly
popular, I’ve decided that there is something gravely wrong with my palate that
prevents me from enjoying tepid swill.
However, I learned from Mr.
Felten that the reason I dislike most martinis is because they’re not proper
martinis! Wha….?!! (Of course, I could’ve just re-read Johnny Lager’s martini
column, but that’s neither here nor there.) Mr. Felten provides an overview of
the evolution of martinis from the Martinez
to the fruity sugar bombs that currently stink up menus. Pomegranatini, anyone?
Martinis should not,
apparently, be served in massive glasses. Mr. Felten made the point that the
three-martini lunches of yore were only possible because martinis were small.
Fancy that! So ad execs of Madison
Ave didn’t do their best work shitfaced? I demand
a recount!
Enough about martinis, though.
Let’s move on to other classic cocktails, shall we?
When I lived in New York, I would occasionally
treat myself to a drink at the Algonquin. Yes, I understand that the ghosts of
Dorothy Parker et al have long since fled, but I can’t resist a big, deep
armchair and a Sazerac on a cold night. Yes, you read right: a Sazerac. I’d
never heard of it either, but according to Mr. Felten, it originated in New Orleans which only
makes me love it more.
And speaking of Manhattan, I am now a
fully-versed expert on Manhattans. Again, I’d only had one or two in my life
and they were insanely strong. Mr. Felten notes that this once wildly popular
drink fell from favor right around the time “Rabbit, Run” was published.
Updike’s leading lady was a pathetic drunk who swilled sugary Manhattans all
day. Not being too sweet myself, I wouldn’t dig on that either, so I’ll have to
try out his recipe for THE way to make Manhattans. And then tweak it, of
course.
So run out and grab “How’s
Your Drink?” Even if you’re not the literary type, you can get a great lil’
book of recipes. And if you’re obsessive like me, you’ll likely fantasize about
the next Sazerac, preferably on a New
Orleans balcony.
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