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?