Last night, ElMarko and I
went to UB to see Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orhcestra. They
began with three pieces by other composers, but the bulk of the performance
consisted of a work by one of their own called “Portrait in Seven Shades.” Ted
Nash was inspired by works he’d seen at MoMA in Manhattan and set about to describe the
artists musically. His focus varied – for some, he captured their art, for
others, he used their life stories – but every one was wildly inventive.
This, naturally, got me
thinking about the very same artists. Specifically, I began to wonder what they
drank. So, here’s my very own Portrait in Seven Slugs:
Claude Monet surely stuck
with French wine, but even then, he leaned to more subtle styles. He enjoyed
Muscadet with fresh oysters and Vouvray with strong cheese. When leaning
towards red, he went for lighter wines like Beaujolais
or St-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil. He always steered clear of clobbering Bordeaux, or any other
flavor that conquered others.
Salvador Dali drank
gasoline. Or urine.
Henri Matisse was a bold
bugger. He wasn’t shy about enjoying the buzz as much as he enjoyed his drink. He
was all about Bordeaux.
A big believer in la vie boheme, he also was the first to pop Champagne
corks whenever possible.
Pablo Picasso was fiercely
nationalistic. He was also fiercely masculine. He stuck to deep, rich reds from
Rioja, at least until he made money. Then, he went with Priorats and never
looked back. None of that sissy French crap for him.
Van Gogh was a pretty notorious
Absinthe drinker, but I’ll guess that he also dug on Ricard and Pernod. When he
was really broke, he hit the cheap gin. That never seemed to work out too well.
Marc Chagall was a man of
contradictions; although he enjoyed Burgundies, he also had a soft spot for
vodka and slivovitz. He could put on the show of being decidedly French in his
palatial decisions, but in secret, he slurped borscht.
Jackson Pollack stuck to good
ol’ American bourbon: effective and quick. Fuck wine.
The inaugural Tipsy Abroad column. This
category came to me one day whilst driving around for work (yes, my job drives
me to drink). After being told I needed to write a book for the umpteenth time,
I began to replay the many nonsensical escapades in my mind, little of which
had been captured on camera. Mercifully.
So, grab your passport, stow your tray
table, and return your seat (or yourself) to the upright position: Welcome to
Tipsy Abroad.
In 1998, I went to Venezuela. I
hadn’t planned to go there; I believe I was meant to be heading to Antigua, but my cheap tickets fell through last-minute.
After a full 36 hours in the Newark
airport, I freaked out and bought a ticket on the next available flight heading
south. Caracas
it was.
After a mapless week wandering the
streets and slums of the capital, I got on a bus and headed to Puerto La Cruz
on the coast. There, I could get a ferry to Isla Margarita, and from there, I
planned to go on to Trinidad & Tobago. The bus rumbled through the dusty
countryside, blasting past tiny shacks that miraculously managed to have fresh
looking Coca-Cola vending machines. Capitalism at its finest.
I arrived at Puerto La Cruz and, for a
lack of Spanish, drew a picture of a big boat and said “Donde esta…?” while
pointing to the picture. It worked and I got on a huge ferry that crept through
the water for the next 8 hours. We arrived on Margarita deep in the night.
Again, mapless, I wandered around town
until I found what seemed to be an area with hotels. I rang the bell of one hotel and woke up an elderly man who ushered me through his house, into a back
courtyard, and up a fire escape. He showed me to my room: one light that didn’t
work, a mattress, and a toilet with stagnant yellow water. Perfect! AND, it was
only $7.
Although the elderly man was wonderful
(he and his wife plied me with coffee in the morning and pointed to the map,
babbling in Spanish that I didn’t understand), I changed hotels the next day to
be closer to the action. Porlamar is the capital of Margarita and is a bustling
tourist area. Over the next few days, I figured out which bus to take to get to
the gorgeous Playa El Agua, where to find the best café marron in town, and
located the perfect grimy ex-pat bar.
Amsterdam Café was on a side-street.
Owned by a Dutch man who simply went by “The Duke”, Amsterdam was a haven for seedy Europeans and
the local hookers that loved them. Kas, another Dutch man, worked the bar, and
you could tell Kas had seen way too much. Francisco, the Danish foreign
legionnaire, would pound hard liquor and threaten any and everyone over
nothing. Neil, the retired Brit, would laugh at the antics of the others,
always maintaining his head. And I somehow fell into this fold a little too
easily.
One night, The
Duke insisted I try his favorite vodka, appropriately called Sonovavitch. I’m
not a vodka drinker, but I indulged The Duke. Every time someone would have
some, he’d yell “SONOVAVITCH!” The locals didn’t get the joke, but I thought it
was hilarious.
I joined a
heated poker match between Neil, Francisco, and another drifter. I agreed to
deal. After a few hands, a card flipped over mid-deal. I picked it up and
shuffled the cards again and kept dealing. Francisco grabbed my wrist. Everyone
froze. “Never… NEVER… stop a deal…” I didn’t know what to do. He was very
drunk. He was a nasty guy to begin with, but worse when he drank too much. I
looked to the other guys for help. Just the night before, Francisco told of how
he’d killed men with his hands. Whether it was bullshit or not was not
something I cared to find out. The dude was fucknuts insane. Neil, the Brit,
gently patted Francisco on the shoulders. “It was an accident,” he said calmly.
“She didn’t mean to…” Francisco didn’t quite believe him, but he let go of my
wrist. “Uhm… I think I’m done for the night, boys…” I said. I was losing money
anyway.
As a little
post-script to the story, I was once telling it to coworkers and said “I
thought he was gonna kill me! It was crazy!” There was a slightly uncomfortable
silence until someone piped up with “What I find crazy is that you didn’t find
it crazy to play poker with a hired killer to begin with.”Touche, my
friend. Touche.
So as I've explained, I invariably seek out a Big Dumb Red every Wednesday. Actually, 'seek out' isn't quite the verb needed to fully express what happens; more like 'fantasize about since 9am.'
Like yesterday? After stressing about a paper that was due all weekend, I finally - FINALLY! - finished it Tuesday evening, thereby saving myself the inconvenience of calling in to work to hastily write it. We celebrated by taking a leisurely walk in the unseasonably warm Buffalonian air. Normally, my celebrations include lots of imbibing, but I wanted to save it up for the - you guessed it - Big Dumb Red.
Apparently, I'm not alone. One of my classmates confided that, when faced with giving up something for Lent, she chose sweets. "You can't give up booze?" her husband asked in disbelief. "No," she replied firmly. "No."
While that MAY seem like we have, ahem, a problem or something, I like to think of my BDRs as Mommy's Little Helpers. Except? They're not quaaludes and I'm not a mommy. Semantics, y'all.
Anyhow, last night's lucky candidate was Pepperwood Grove's Syrah. I used to scoff at Pepperwood. Cheap? California? Do you think I'm that base? I have since fallen off my viniferal high-horse and have come to realize that yes, by God, YES, I am indeed that base. Especially for under a $10 spot.
So, how I can detail the delights? Well, it's B I G. And fruity. But in a really dark, thick, viscous kind of way. It could be used as paint, no doubt. It's not [yellow tail] because it's not nearly as sweet. Dusky black fruits prevail. Is there spice? Kinda. Any sort of secondary characteristics? Not really. But since I'm searching for a BDR, who cares?
The last time we were together, I must admit, it wasn’t the
best of times. To help me refresh my own memory, it was a respectable brunch in
late January at La Carbonara on West 14th Street in Manhattan. For
an additional $12, I could indulge in as much of you as I could – for two hours
anyway.
And indulge I did, commencing before I even ordered my eggs
Benny. This might have been the first mistake in our relationship. But Mary,
you were just a starter and you got me primed for the playoff games at
Ainsworth around the block. Liquor before beer, have no fear? Yeah…, no.
After that scene, Mary dear, I swore I would stay away from you.
Not that it was entirely your fault, you see, but I don’t really think I was all
that into you anyway. And then I met your sister, Square Mary. Not only does
she reside much closer to me than you - at The Grey Horse Tavern in Bayport -
but there was no need for over indulgence either.
Now maybe I just wasn’t on a mission this time around, or
maybe I just wanted to savor her. She is much pricier than you, $11 for just
one crystal quilted Ball Jar full. Yeah, I definitely couldn’t afford to
overdue it this time.
So I am thinking, darling, you should take some pointers from
your sis. First off, the garnish. While the celery stalk makes quite the fine
stirrer, a pickled green bean is just so much tastier.The sweet brine clears the palate and
compliments the savory taste of spicy juice. Tabasco? Uh-uh, dash of cayenne is
all you really need. Horseradish and lemon? Most definitely. But will any old
vodka do? No way José. This is where you and your sister differ entirely.
Square Mary is made with a cucumber-infused vodka. Yum!
The Grey Horse Tavern uses Square One Cucumber vodka, Square
Mary’s namesake. Square One is organically produced in North Dakota from an
organic rye. It is infused with cucumber essence, which produces a subtle yet
clearly defined smooth-heated vodka. Paired with a perfectly blended tomato
mixture, it leaves you with a surprisingly refreshing twist. A twist I just did
not experience with you that day in January. Or ever before actually. I even
found myself craving Square Mary on Monday afternoon…
So Mary, I don’t think we can hang out anymore. I am sorry
to say, but I am leaving you for your zestier sister.
I am neither Catholic, nor Irish, but I know a good thing when I see it. St Pat's is a day for swinging from rafters, and although I am a gentleman to the last, I'ma swing from a rafter now and then. But Saint Pat's falls on a Wednesday this year, so most of us "made our observances" this past weekend. I, for example, imbibed in an apartment overlooking the parade, beguiling the revelers with some of my finer "blue" material. Last year I wondered through the warren of fist-fights that surrounds my favorite dive bars. I'll probably do that again next year.
Do these adventures mean we can't observe the holiday on it's proper day? Heavens no! Instead, we should invite some of the lads and ladies by, and reacquaint ourselves with some of Irelands least expensive finest whiskeys, and cocktails.
But no "Irish Car Bombs" here; no green beer; no mint martinis. We are far too familiar with those. If my column has a unified purpose, it is to be smug. But, if it has a second one, it is to elevate the palate. But let's not go crazy; the following recipes builds on the previous one. Even the first one.
The first three cocktails have the same base:
2 oz Irish whiskey - It's St. Pat's, Jameson's is on sale, so use that.
Ginger beer - ginger ale blows.
15 oz highball glass filled with ice
Highball:
Pour whiskey into glass, top with ginger beer.
Irish Buck:
Pour whiskey into glass, twist a lemon peel into glass, drop in peel, top with ginger beer.
Irish Ale:
Pour whiskey into glass, squeeze 3 lime wedges into glass, drop in wedges, pour in 3 oz ginger beer.
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Now, lets mix a Whiskey Sour. A real one. "Sour mix" is pedestrian. This little beauty is beautifully balanced when mixed properly.
Whiskey Sour:
2 oz Whiskey
2 oz Lemon juice
1 oz Simple syrup*
1 Maraschino cherry -for the ladies
Boston shaker
Rocks glass
*Simple syrup: put equal parts sugar and water in a glass jar and shake till completely dissolved. Use a microwave if need be.
Combine all liquids in a Boston shaker filled with ice, swirl well, strain into a rocks glass, garnish with the cherry.
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Ready to go sick-house behind the bar?
Irish Kilt
2 oz. Irish Whiskey
1 oz. Scotch
1 oz. Lemon juice
1 oz. Simple syrup
3 Dashes of Orange Bitters
Boston shaker
Cocktail glass
Combine all the ingredients in a Boston shaker filled with ice, swirl well, strain into cocktail glass.
Good luck finding the Orange bitters. Sub with Angostura Bitters and a twist of orange peel.
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Listen people, Tipsy loves you, be safe, drive safe.
This is my first "blog", so please be gentle. I am a manager of a liquor store here in Buffalo, I am blessed with working nights and weekends. I wear a silly polo shirt and go home covered in filth and God knows what else after 8 hours of dealing with "the great unwashed". My job has a lot of stupid and ridiculous moments that make me feel like shanking a bitch, but then I remember why I do it: I really, really, love wine. And I get dental.
After suffering the usual indignities that go along with any retail job, I get a big, fat perk: I get to taste and learn about some amazing and beautiful wines. And then somehow, it is all okay. Wines from obscure regions in particular tickle my fancy. I am a big fan of the underdog, the unloved wine with an inch of dust on it, just begging for a chance to be paired with a lovely meal. For example: HUNGARY!
No one in Buffalo is asking for Hungarian wines, so I try to sell the crap out of them, because they rock. Monarchia Cellars Olivier is elegant, with floral notes and a bit of spice, reminiscent of Vouvray or Gewurz. The grape varietal is indiginous to Hungary, trust me, it's yummy. There is also Nyakas Pinos Gris. I call this the Poor Man's Alsacian. It has all the elegance and acidity, but won't clean you out financially. A great crisp finish, this wine would be perfect with seafood or grilled chicken. I have been meaning to try it with sushi. Finally, there is Takler Regnum. This one takes the cake. It's like a Bordeaux style blend with a gnarley attitude. Merlot, Cabernet, Cabernet Franc and Kekfrankos (indiginous varietal) make up this cheeky blend. This wine is full and lush, with loads of deep fruit. If you kids find these wines, please snatch them up, you won't regret it.
I stop off at my local discount wine and liquor store “Viscount” to pick up some wine. Being on a very tight budget and also in a bad mood, I walk in and immediately see a bottle of wine "entitled" Bitch, a 2008, South Australian Grenache. I turn the bottle around to see the description and it simply says Bitch repeated over and over. At the bottom of the label it says 15.5% and it’s on sale for $9.99. Hmmm, seems to fit the bill. And I am feeling a bit bitchy so I purchase the green bottle with the bubble gum pink label.
I get home, open the bottle and pour a glass. A lovely cranberry color in the center with a pinker cast along the edges, light and fruity scent with slight hint of spice. Hmmm, I think again, only this time a little suspiciously, as the thought of Kool-Aid popped into my head. I go for it and take a swig – Whoa!!! I am totally B-I-T-C-H slapped by sugar and alcohol and think yes Kool-Aid flavored alcohol. I knew Grenache wines could be a bit sweet but it had been awhile since I had one and didn't remember it being this sweet and strong. It reminded me of a slightly watered down port.
Since I stick to the principal of never wasting alcohol, I force myself to slowly polish off the glass. The great thing about a bad tasting, highly alcoholic wine is that it starts to taste better and better as you reach the bottom of the glass. I must say I am quite warm, cozy and totally relaxed after one glass. In the end, one glass is enough though. It is way too sweet for me to drink more.
I am not looking forward to the first few sips of the glass that I will no doubt have tomorrow night, but know that half way through the glass it will be just fine. I won’t buy this wine again but I think I may have to try their Bitch Bubbly only because I love the name.
Later that night:
Ok so maybe it's not THAT bad. It's starting to grow on me and tasting less sweet. Note to self: do not write review while drinking. Am now having an additional 1/2 glass of this wine as I'm editing. I will certainly regret this I'm sure.
So, I’ll launch the Dustbin Confessionals by professing my
love of the dive bar. Perhaps this hearkens back to a time in which dive bars were
the only places that would serve my 19-year-old self. Perhaps I just had such
fun times playing entire Madonna albums on the dive jukes and dancing away with
my girlfriends. Or perhaps the smell of stale Coors Light is somehow
comforting. Whatever the reason, no matter what poshness I’ve experienced, my
heart belongs in a dive.
I had a few standards in New York that I loved. Holiday Cocktail
Lounge on St Mark’s Place is fantastic – small, dark, with stinky loos and a
no-nonsense barman. As if all that isn’t charming enough, the black leather
booth seats were proudly repaired with duct tape. Ah, yes, many a morning did I
find the sticky remnants on my ass. Milano’s is another gem. Located on Houston, it’s a surprising little haven from the hustle
and bustle of SoHo. But don’t mistake calm for
class: Milano’s is the real deal. The walls are jammed with beer signs, band
advertisements, whatever. Dim neon barely lights up the interior – not that
you’d actually want to see what’s going on, mind you. Pop in sometime mid-day
for enlightening barfly conversation. O’Connor’s in Brooklyn
taught me not to drink bourbon. Well, I still do, but O’Connor’s taught me that
I shouldn’t. It was my post-tattoo bar of choice back in the day, and I still
long for its grit.
Thankfully, Buffalo has many
a dive bar – so many, in fact, that several friends and I entertained the idea
of creating a Monopoly using Buffalo
dive bars. Although we’re far too lazy to actually do it, I think I found the Park Place of Buffalo dive bars: The
Rendezvous.
ElMarko was raving about how The Rendezvous was THE place to
go, albeit briefly. A series of mishaps and bad business decisions closed it
before its time. Located on the struggling Niagara Street on the west side of Buffalo, The Rendezvous
is now straight-up hood. We stumbled (literally) in one night after pretending to
be classy elsewhere and we were greeted by a frisk and a $3 cover. I wouldn’t
mind the frisk so much, but $3? For what? Apparently for the pleasure of blasting
hip-hop, which I actually didn’t mind at all. Had I been stone-cold sober, I
*might* have minded the security guard’s many guns strapped to his body, but
happily, I didn’t care. I also might have worried that we were by far the
whitest people in there, but no one else seemed to care, so neither did I. The
barman was really friendly and accommodating, and as soon as I heard me some
Jay-Z, I was good. ElMarko lamented the loss of the interior - apparently,
there’d been some great old booths and such – but I was blissful in my
ignorance.
Will I be hanging out at The Rendezvous on a regular basis?
Eh, probably not. But it’s good to know of yet another dive that I can crawl
into when the need presents itself.
Belated Washington's Birthday Edition. As always, a story and a cocktail recipe.
As the first stirrings of spring are in the air and the snow melts from the meadows, we are reminded that there is work to do. We must renew our vigor and resolve. But, it's still cold and dreary! What shall we do?
Well, pull up an old timey tavern chair and sit with ol' Johnny Lager by the fire, I've a tail to tell, and a hell of a cocktail with which to wake you from winter's spell.
The Father of Our Nation
By 1775, the American colonies were sick and tired of England's bull crap and went looking for a bad-ass to square things with the Brits. Willing to do his share, Washington, a militia leader, was appointed commander-in-chief of the American revolutionary forces. By 1783, he and his scrappy 13 colonies (plus France, but whatevs) pushed the British Empire out of their land. To learn more, watch Braveheart, pretend Mel Gibson is George Washington, and turn it off before Mel is betrayed. Oh, and Patrick McGoohan didn't kill Washington's wife.
At the end of revolutionary war, the defeated King George III, asked what Washington would do. When he learned that Washington wanted to return to his farm; King George III said, "If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world." Washington indeed returned to private life on his (ahem) hemp plantation and thus was (retroactively) declared the "greatest man in the world," by his enemy. Process that. My mom doesn't think that highly of me.
Thankfully Washington returned to duty, presiding over the drafting of the Constitution, becoming the (more or less) First President of the United States and avoiding further wars with England and France. And he did it all while wearing a jaunty powdered wig. With wooden teeth. Washington had the wooden teeth, not the wig.
The Otherside
Which brings me, of course, to modern day Boston. It was here that I first tried the cocktail that could only be named for the man who delivered us from the sinister English, and single-handedly co-founded this nation. Fittingly, I discovered it in the fiercely independent Otherside Café, hidden on the west-most block of Newbury St. This undeniably American establishment has a three-fold charm; 1) it is staffed by hip, friendly bicycle messengers, who are known for their ironically relaxed service - I have never gotten a spoon with my coffee. 2) Their gourmet panini, wraps and other fair are far better than the status quo. 3) They serve kick-awesome beers all the ding-dang day long and well into the night. Fortunately, one of the managers is an old friend, so my enthusiasm for Charm #3 (read: voracious consumption of curiously high proof lager) is tolerated. Anyway, on a cold, wet day like this one, stop in and order...
The George Washington:
1 Pint Guinness
1 demitasse espresso
The Prep:
You will need a 20 oz. imperial pint glass, a Guinness tall-boy and some espresso. Although I am a famous can-hater, use the tall-boys, they are close to a pint.
Some people like to brew their own espresso, and I salute them. They are the vigorous, can-do types that make our land great. But the how to's are a bit dicey, so I will not cover that here. Stop at a café and buy a few shots of espresso, you'll probably want the espresso to cool down anyway.
The Build:
1) Open a chilled Guinness tall-boy. Warm ones explode.
1) Pour the Guinness into the pint glass.
2) Pour the espresso into that very same pint glass.
3) Enjoy.
The Experience:
Like it's namesake, The George Washington is unexpectedly bold, smooth, purposeful and honest. I'm getting a little teary over here. It's flavor starts with the familiar, pleasant taste of Guinness. As you continue, it darkens into the rich coffee without tipping past its base component. The finish mellows back to the creamy, extra-stout, but leaves a sweetened coffee aftertaste. But enough of that foofery! Here's a cocktail that rolls up your sleeves and loosens your tie. Here's a cocktail that gets shit done!
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