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.
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