Originally Published in the New School Free Press, 4/27/2009
With the temperature up and the economy down, we alcohol admirers have to figure out how to survive the long summer nights, and impromptu house parties are the choice of the season. A few weeks ago, on the first day of spring, my roommate and I decided to invite our friends to the roof of our building for a little warm-weather celebration.
But throwing a successful last-minute party is a delicate art. First, by its nature it must be unplanned, so inviting guests can be difficult. The wrong selection of mass-text-message invitees can leave you with a mismatched group of guests or, worse yet, none at all. Facebook is always an option, but beware, it will inevitably end in a rager.
While the invitations may be difficult, the drinks are easy to come by. Sangria is top on this lush’s list and for balmy nights, white wine makes a refreshing option. Unlike punch, there’s no vodka mixed in—the cheap liquor and high sugar content of vodka and wine will often result in broken furniture at the hands of rowdy guests, and guarantees a painful morning. Punch can be a cheap, though grueling, mode of suicide. Instead, stick to the Spanish specialty and you’ll survive the next morning.
Take four bottles of your favorite cheap wine (I recommend Trader Joe’s $3 Sauvignon Blanc, house blend) and a bottle of triple sec, a generic orange liqueur. Normally it takes something with a higher alcohol rate to get me tight enough to have a dance party of two, but there’s something about the triple sec that makes me act…well, like I’m drunk on triple sec. Pour in a cup to a cup and a half of the sweet liqueur and two sliced apples, oranges, and limes (and half a cup of lime juice), along with a handful of grapes. Stir it up and let it chill in the fridge.
This has been the recipe for many a foolish night, though it can sometimes go awry. You see, last time we forgot to wait for the quests to arrive before we got started; Sangria is deceivingly potent. Bu the time we realized that no one was coming, we were too drunk to notice. But who cares if this wasn’t an utter success? There’ll be plenty of time all summer for impromptu parties.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Bitter Battles
Originally Published in the New School Free Press 4/13/2009
Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of receiving an invitation o the King Cole Bar Lounge at the St. Regis for cocktails with my uncle.
I quickly accepted. I’d been trying to find someone to pick up the tab for its notoriously expensive drinks and elaborate atmosphere. I knew what I was getting out of it, but what would a CEO want from a tippling niece?
Confused as to the nature of the visit, I made sure to look adequately respectable—though I stumbled a bit in my stilettos—when I entered the midtown hotel’s back room.
There he was, in an expertly tailored suit, standing in front of the classic Maxwell Parish mural. Surrounded by businessmen trying to get his attention, he spotted me and waved as I traversed the small, dim room.
“We saved you a seat,” he said, pulling coats off a plush stool. The businessmen happily surrounded me instead.
After a failed attempt to get a gin fizz (“No eggs,” said one confused barkeep), I ordered a gin martini, up with a twist. The businessmen murmured their approval, bathed in flattery but my uncle offered a bit of advice.
“Here, try this,” he said, pushing a brownish liquor in immaculate stemware towards me. “A Cynar Negroni.”
Now, I’ve had my share of experience with Negronis, a cocktail traditionally made of equal parts gin, vermouth, and Campari—which ends up tasting mostly like the last ingredient, an Italian aperitif made from the infusion of herbs and fruits.
The first time it was offered to me was at the restaurant where I was working, by a particularly flirtations manager during a tasting meeting in what I believed to be an attempt to impress me. I think that, after my sip the face I made discouraged any further experimentation on my behalf.
You see, to call a Negroni an acquired taste would be putting it lightly. I suppose you could say the result is… mouth puckering? However, the exchange of Campari for Cynar, and artichoke-based liquor—even more bitter, to the point of discomfort—makes the brown cocktail seem to suck the moisture out of every saliva-producing part of your mouth. “Dry” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“I can’t drink sweet drinks,” he said.
Neither can I, I told him I want my alcohol to taste like alcohol! The only flavoring I like is ice! This was not only not sweet, but painfully so. I tipped my rhetorical hat to him. The lush, it would appear, had finally been out-lushed.
Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of receiving an invitation o the King Cole Bar Lounge at the St. Regis for cocktails with my uncle.
I quickly accepted. I’d been trying to find someone to pick up the tab for its notoriously expensive drinks and elaborate atmosphere. I knew what I was getting out of it, but what would a CEO want from a tippling niece?
Confused as to the nature of the visit, I made sure to look adequately respectable—though I stumbled a bit in my stilettos—when I entered the midtown hotel’s back room.
There he was, in an expertly tailored suit, standing in front of the classic Maxwell Parish mural. Surrounded by businessmen trying to get his attention, he spotted me and waved as I traversed the small, dim room.
“We saved you a seat,” he said, pulling coats off a plush stool. The businessmen happily surrounded me instead.
After a failed attempt to get a gin fizz (“No eggs,” said one confused barkeep), I ordered a gin martini, up with a twist. The businessmen murmured their approval, bathed in flattery but my uncle offered a bit of advice.
“Here, try this,” he said, pushing a brownish liquor in immaculate stemware towards me. “A Cynar Negroni.”
Now, I’ve had my share of experience with Negronis, a cocktail traditionally made of equal parts gin, vermouth, and Campari—which ends up tasting mostly like the last ingredient, an Italian aperitif made from the infusion of herbs and fruits.
The first time it was offered to me was at the restaurant where I was working, by a particularly flirtations manager during a tasting meeting in what I believed to be an attempt to impress me. I think that, after my sip the face I made discouraged any further experimentation on my behalf.
You see, to call a Negroni an acquired taste would be putting it lightly. I suppose you could say the result is… mouth puckering? However, the exchange of Campari for Cynar, and artichoke-based liquor—even more bitter, to the point of discomfort—makes the brown cocktail seem to suck the moisture out of every saliva-producing part of your mouth. “Dry” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“I can’t drink sweet drinks,” he said.
Neither can I, I told him I want my alcohol to taste like alcohol! The only flavoring I like is ice! This was not only not sweet, but painfully so. I tipped my rhetorical hat to him. The lush, it would appear, had finally been out-lushed.
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Magic of the Margarita
Originally Published in the New School Free Press, 3/30/2009
As the weather gets warmer, it’s time to inch away from the whiskey-laced winter and slip into something a little lighter. Gin and tonic? Reminds me way too much of my dad. Fuzzy navels? Gave those up at 16. Vodka soda? I prefer when my alcohol tastes like alcohol. If I wanted to drink water and black out, I’d just do roofies.
No, the summer months call for only one thing: the margarita. There are many myths surrounding its origins, but one thing is clear: the right combination of lime juice, tequila, and triple sec are the recipe for an unforgettable evening—pr at least that’s what you’ll think after a few. But where to go for una buena? While it’s not hard to find a decent Jack and Ginger, a margarita isn’t something you can leave to an amateur.
First off, only 100 percent agave tequila will do. On that note, Jose Cuervo is a hack and should be ashamed of the second-rate crap he sells to unassuming housewives and college students. A couple of shots of that pungent mess will leave even an experienced lush useless the following day. Who has time for a walk of shape before 10 a.m.? Patron will do in a bind, but Herradura or Don Julio will usually result in a smoother night at a better price.
Some prefer Couintreau or Grand Marnier to triple sec, the former making it sweeter, and the latter adding a hint of orange to the mix. Wither way, only freshly squeezed lime juice is acceptable as a finish. If you see a bartender pull out a bottle of Rose’s, cancel the order and exit immediately. Nothing good can come of the encounter—you won’t be able to stomach enough for the evening to get interesting.
Keep in mind that the amount you imbibe will be in direct proportion to the amount of crazy shit that happens to you . Now one should wake up in her own bed only to find her wallet, keys, and purse—but missing her pants. Keep in mind, one is fun, two is better, and three, you may wake up a nit disoriented. Como se dice, who paid for the penthouse?
As the weather gets warmer, it’s time to inch away from the whiskey-laced winter and slip into something a little lighter. Gin and tonic? Reminds me way too much of my dad. Fuzzy navels? Gave those up at 16. Vodka soda? I prefer when my alcohol tastes like alcohol. If I wanted to drink water and black out, I’d just do roofies.
No, the summer months call for only one thing: the margarita. There are many myths surrounding its origins, but one thing is clear: the right combination of lime juice, tequila, and triple sec are the recipe for an unforgettable evening—pr at least that’s what you’ll think after a few. But where to go for una buena? While it’s not hard to find a decent Jack and Ginger, a margarita isn’t something you can leave to an amateur.
First off, only 100 percent agave tequila will do. On that note, Jose Cuervo is a hack and should be ashamed of the second-rate crap he sells to unassuming housewives and college students. A couple of shots of that pungent mess will leave even an experienced lush useless the following day. Who has time for a walk of shape before 10 a.m.? Patron will do in a bind, but Herradura or Don Julio will usually result in a smoother night at a better price.
Some prefer Couintreau or Grand Marnier to triple sec, the former making it sweeter, and the latter adding a hint of orange to the mix. Wither way, only freshly squeezed lime juice is acceptable as a finish. If you see a bartender pull out a bottle of Rose’s, cancel the order and exit immediately. Nothing good can come of the encounter—you won’t be able to stomach enough for the evening to get interesting.
Keep in mind that the amount you imbibe will be in direct proportion to the amount of crazy shit that happens to you . Now one should wake up in her own bed only to find her wallet, keys, and purse—but missing her pants. Keep in mind, one is fun, two is better, and three, you may wake up a nit disoriented. Como se dice, who paid for the penthouse?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Back in the Sack with Mr. Beam
Originally published in the New School Free Press 2/23/09
Now don’t drop your highball, but I need to tell you all that I’ve fallen in love. I know that I appear to be a woman without discernible emotions—what with the revolving door in my bedroom, and all—but it’s entirely untrue.
I’m officially off the market. And I legitimately believe that Mr. Beam and I are going to be very happy together.
It all started about a month ago. The temperature had dropped to the teens, and I had sobered up long enough to realize that the economy had tanked. News to me, though later I found out that I’d written several articles on the subject; funny how these things can slip by you.
But I thought, perhaps, this could be a good time to go on a budget. Sure, it’s nice to drink single malt scotch and decadent cocktails, but the pool of witless investment bankers usually so willing to pick up the tab has, in recent months, pretty much dried up.
It was time for me to lower my standards.
I found myself one evening in Warehouse Wines and Spirits, over on Broadway and Waverly, a lovely place if you have a high tolerance for fluorescent lights—and the kind of customer base that would frequent a discount liquor store.
It was there that Jim and I reconnected. We’d had a brief fling during high school—several three-ways with Coca Cola, actually—but I’d long since left him behind. Gave him the fade-out, if you will. He wasn’t as glamorous as his artisanal counterparts, and after a couple weeks of passing him over for Bookers and Basil, we had a little chat. It just wasn’t working out. It wasn’t his taste or his presentation, I assured him, but I was just looking for something that would leave a stronger taste in my mouth.
But that was years ago, all water under the bridge. When I saw him that height in Warehouse, his white outfit no longer looked outdated, but pleasingly retro. I took him home that night—a bit quick, I know, but sometimes that’s how these things happen. Don’t judge. We pent the entire evening together alone in my bedroom, and I haven’t looked back. I talk, he listens, and I fall asleep with him in my arms.
I was so excited to tell my friends I was ready to settle down, but my roommates weren’t nearly as supportive as I would have hoped. When they discovered me alone one night sitting in bed, with my tongue stuck down my Jimmy’s throat, they looked concerned. We can get over the age difference, I assured them. They insisted that the relationship was inappropriate. That it wouldn’t last and, if it continued at this pace, it would be the end of me.
I screamed at them. Told them they were wrong. They couldn’t understand how deep my love was for Jim! They tried to take him away from me, but I cried that I’d be left all alone. I’d already abandoned Sir Hendricks—though I still missed his crisp cucumber taste. I told Mr. Oban that he was a bit too precious, and I wasn’t going to be able to make it to our late-night rendezvous anymore, though I’d always remember his smoky aroma and spicy finish.
My roommates and I eventually came to a compromise. I’d share my true love and they wouldn’t tell my parents how serious it had become. It broke my heart a bit to see him passed around like a common whore, but I suppose we can share—as long as he keeps coming home with me at the end of the night.
Now don’t drop your highball, but I need to tell you all that I’ve fallen in love. I know that I appear to be a woman without discernible emotions—what with the revolving door in my bedroom, and all—but it’s entirely untrue.
I’m officially off the market. And I legitimately believe that Mr. Beam and I are going to be very happy together.
It all started about a month ago. The temperature had dropped to the teens, and I had sobered up long enough to realize that the economy had tanked. News to me, though later I found out that I’d written several articles on the subject; funny how these things can slip by you.
But I thought, perhaps, this could be a good time to go on a budget. Sure, it’s nice to drink single malt scotch and decadent cocktails, but the pool of witless investment bankers usually so willing to pick up the tab has, in recent months, pretty much dried up.
It was time for me to lower my standards.
I found myself one evening in Warehouse Wines and Spirits, over on Broadway and Waverly, a lovely place if you have a high tolerance for fluorescent lights—and the kind of customer base that would frequent a discount liquor store.
It was there that Jim and I reconnected. We’d had a brief fling during high school—several three-ways with Coca Cola, actually—but I’d long since left him behind. Gave him the fade-out, if you will. He wasn’t as glamorous as his artisanal counterparts, and after a couple weeks of passing him over for Bookers and Basil, we had a little chat. It just wasn’t working out. It wasn’t his taste or his presentation, I assured him, but I was just looking for something that would leave a stronger taste in my mouth.
But that was years ago, all water under the bridge. When I saw him that height in Warehouse, his white outfit no longer looked outdated, but pleasingly retro. I took him home that night—a bit quick, I know, but sometimes that’s how these things happen. Don’t judge. We pent the entire evening together alone in my bedroom, and I haven’t looked back. I talk, he listens, and I fall asleep with him in my arms.
I was so excited to tell my friends I was ready to settle down, but my roommates weren’t nearly as supportive as I would have hoped. When they discovered me alone one night sitting in bed, with my tongue stuck down my Jimmy’s throat, they looked concerned. We can get over the age difference, I assured them. They insisted that the relationship was inappropriate. That it wouldn’t last and, if it continued at this pace, it would be the end of me.
I screamed at them. Told them they were wrong. They couldn’t understand how deep my love was for Jim! They tried to take him away from me, but I cried that I’d be left all alone. I’d already abandoned Sir Hendricks—though I still missed his crisp cucumber taste. I told Mr. Oban that he was a bit too precious, and I wasn’t going to be able to make it to our late-night rendezvous anymore, though I’d always remember his smoky aroma and spicy finish.
My roommates and I eventually came to a compromise. I’d share my true love and they wouldn’t tell my parents how serious it had become. It broke my heart a bit to see him passed around like a common whore, but I suppose we can share—as long as he keeps coming home with me at the end of the night.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Make Mine a Manhattan
Originally Published in the New School Free Press, 2/9/2009
Late one Tuesday night I was perched at my usual bar stool, watching the snow come down on the SoHo streets through the foggy window. Thomas had been pouring me shots of Talisker 15-year Single Malt for so long that he’d given up and left the bottle on the bar.
Buy the time I drained the last drops into my glass, the room seemed to be morphing. Details I’d never noticed began to stand out. I lit a smoke and tapped it into the large crystal ashtray on the bar—funny, I hadn’t even realized they had ashtrays. Thomas’ bow tie was a little off, so I leaned over the wide bar and tried to adjust it, but missed the stool on my way back down.
The snow was coming down harder. I adjusted my hat and tried to smile for Thomas but it must have looked more like I was holding back a sneeze. The door opened and a slip gentleman sauntered inside. “Excuse me barkeep, I’ll have a Manhattan,” he said as he took the stool next to me. I could feel his eyes on my neck and turned to meet his gaze. His weathered British accent sounded uncommon yet familiar.
“A Manhattan? You’re a man with good taste,” I said, trying hard to sound intelligible.
"I prefer an Old Fashioned,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trust that man to make it well, what with the cocked bow tie. Manhattans are simple, and long overdue for a revival.” His love for drink intrigued me and I gave him my name. He introduced himself as Kingsley Amis and after a brief chat I ordered a Manhattan of my own. Thomas asked me for the specifics (Sazerac rye with a twist, please) and got down to work. I watched him with a genuine smile as he strained the amber mix into a chilled glass.
I turned back to my new friend. The smile had left his face.
“I do believe that bourbon would have been a better choice,” he said.
“Bourbon’s too sweet for a Manhattan,” I replied. Sobriety suddenly swept in when my expertise was questioned. “Rye has more pepper. More bite.”
The bitterness of rye is too distracting for a Manhattan. Next you’ll tell me that you use dry vermouth instead of Italian sweet!”
“Preposterous!” I shouted—we were the only customers lift in the bar and the friendly conversation had quickly escalated into an argument. “Everyone knows that a dry Manhattan isn’t even worth the cherry!”
“I appreciate your passion,” he said, “but not your sentiment.” With that, he took his had and exited the establishment. As the door slammed behind him, a rush of cold air hit me and I became disoriented. Someone had taken away the ashtrays and when I tried to light another cigarette I was asked to go outside; Thomas had taken off his bow tie so I asked him where it had gone.
“Bow tie?” he asked, looking down at his t-shirt. “I wasn’t wearing one. But how was your nap?”
Late one Tuesday night I was perched at my usual bar stool, watching the snow come down on the SoHo streets through the foggy window. Thomas had been pouring me shots of Talisker 15-year Single Malt for so long that he’d given up and left the bottle on the bar.
Buy the time I drained the last drops into my glass, the room seemed to be morphing. Details I’d never noticed began to stand out. I lit a smoke and tapped it into the large crystal ashtray on the bar—funny, I hadn’t even realized they had ashtrays. Thomas’ bow tie was a little off, so I leaned over the wide bar and tried to adjust it, but missed the stool on my way back down.
The snow was coming down harder. I adjusted my hat and tried to smile for Thomas but it must have looked more like I was holding back a sneeze. The door opened and a slip gentleman sauntered inside. “Excuse me barkeep, I’ll have a Manhattan,” he said as he took the stool next to me. I could feel his eyes on my neck and turned to meet his gaze. His weathered British accent sounded uncommon yet familiar.
“A Manhattan? You’re a man with good taste,” I said, trying hard to sound intelligible.
"I prefer an Old Fashioned,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trust that man to make it well, what with the cocked bow tie. Manhattans are simple, and long overdue for a revival.” His love for drink intrigued me and I gave him my name. He introduced himself as Kingsley Amis and after a brief chat I ordered a Manhattan of my own. Thomas asked me for the specifics (Sazerac rye with a twist, please) and got down to work. I watched him with a genuine smile as he strained the amber mix into a chilled glass.
I turned back to my new friend. The smile had left his face.
“I do believe that bourbon would have been a better choice,” he said.
“Bourbon’s too sweet for a Manhattan,” I replied. Sobriety suddenly swept in when my expertise was questioned. “Rye has more pepper. More bite.”
The bitterness of rye is too distracting for a Manhattan. Next you’ll tell me that you use dry vermouth instead of Italian sweet!”
“Preposterous!” I shouted—we were the only customers lift in the bar and the friendly conversation had quickly escalated into an argument. “Everyone knows that a dry Manhattan isn’t even worth the cherry!”
“I appreciate your passion,” he said, “but not your sentiment.” With that, he took his had and exited the establishment. As the door slammed behind him, a rush of cold air hit me and I became disoriented. Someone had taken away the ashtrays and when I tried to light another cigarette I was asked to go outside; Thomas had taken off his bow tie so I asked him where it had gone.
“Bow tie?” he asked, looking down at his t-shirt. “I wasn’t wearing one. But how was your nap?”
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Return of the Fizz
Originally Published in the New School Free Press, 1/26/2009
Some saw the inauguration of Barack Obama last week as the beginning of a new era. I saw it as a prime opportunity to get a drink. Being that I’m an established lush—different from an alcoholic, who needs it, and a drunk, who isn’t picky about it—this was a chance I couldn’t pass up.
But, I decided, alcohol for Obama would be too easy. Why not toast the outgoing president instead, with a frothy cocktail that has the ability to turn an otherwise productive member of society into a bumbling idiot? What better occasion for a gin fizz?
In honor of the exiting executive, I trekked through the cold city streets to find the classic cocktail. An old-timey drink would call for an old-timey venue, so I headed up to Midtown to locate an accommodating and appropriate spot. I found my way to the Algonquin at 59 W. 44th st., a building that has been preserved in memory of the round-table attendees who used to visit—a lobby notorious for its history, and it’s $17 drinks.
I found a plush chair and the waiter, and ordered my fizz with glee. After several confused looks from my server, and a comment that the bartender would have to look up the recipe, the drink arrived at my table—a thin concoction of gin, lemon juice, sugar and soda—complete with a surprisingly dark maraschino cherry as garnish. The ‘Gonk had atmosphere, sure, but for $20 I want the drink to delight me, get me drunk, and maybe even take me home.
Similar to a Tom Collins, the Gin Fizz is made with gin, lemon juice, orange flower water, simple syrup and cream—briskly shaken, strained and topped off with a splash of seltzer. Some recipes call for egg whites which, when shaken, give the drink a deliciously whipped and creamy texture. The result is a Creamsicle in a glass that can make the drinker, according to some accounts, borderline psychotic.
In 1887, a young, well-dressed (though slightly disheveled—but who isn’t?) man busted into the 13th Street station house. “Say, will you lock me up for a while?” he said, as reported by the New York Times. “I’ve been drinking gin fizzes, and I think one of them was drugged. I don’t know my name or where I live, and I feel as if I wanted to yell all the time Y-A-L-E—Yale, Rah! Rah! Rah!”
Sure, honey. It wasn’t the gin, it was a roofie. We’ve all used that excuse. Nevertheless, this account in particular stood out—a disheveled Yale graduate too incompetent to express basic thoughts, spouting worn-out cheers instead of intelligible information? Where have I seen this before?
Some saw the inauguration of Barack Obama last week as the beginning of a new era. I saw it as a prime opportunity to get a drink. Being that I’m an established lush—different from an alcoholic, who needs it, and a drunk, who isn’t picky about it—this was a chance I couldn’t pass up.
But, I decided, alcohol for Obama would be too easy. Why not toast the outgoing president instead, with a frothy cocktail that has the ability to turn an otherwise productive member of society into a bumbling idiot? What better occasion for a gin fizz?
In honor of the exiting executive, I trekked through the cold city streets to find the classic cocktail. An old-timey drink would call for an old-timey venue, so I headed up to Midtown to locate an accommodating and appropriate spot. I found my way to the Algonquin at 59 W. 44th st., a building that has been preserved in memory of the round-table attendees who used to visit—a lobby notorious for its history, and it’s $17 drinks.
I found a plush chair and the waiter, and ordered my fizz with glee. After several confused looks from my server, and a comment that the bartender would have to look up the recipe, the drink arrived at my table—a thin concoction of gin, lemon juice, sugar and soda—complete with a surprisingly dark maraschino cherry as garnish. The ‘Gonk had atmosphere, sure, but for $20 I want the drink to delight me, get me drunk, and maybe even take me home.
Similar to a Tom Collins, the Gin Fizz is made with gin, lemon juice, orange flower water, simple syrup and cream—briskly shaken, strained and topped off with a splash of seltzer. Some recipes call for egg whites which, when shaken, give the drink a deliciously whipped and creamy texture. The result is a Creamsicle in a glass that can make the drinker, according to some accounts, borderline psychotic.
In 1887, a young, well-dressed (though slightly disheveled—but who isn’t?) man busted into the 13th Street station house. “Say, will you lock me up for a while?” he said, as reported by the New York Times. “I’ve been drinking gin fizzes, and I think one of them was drugged. I don’t know my name or where I live, and I feel as if I wanted to yell all the time Y-A-L-E—Yale, Rah! Rah! Rah!”
Sure, honey. It wasn’t the gin, it was a roofie. We’ve all used that excuse. Nevertheless, this account in particular stood out—a disheveled Yale graduate too incompetent to express basic thoughts, spouting worn-out cheers instead of intelligible information? Where have I seen this before?
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