cocktail review no. 72 - Gin Rickey

Okay, let's step away from vodka for a moment. I'll use the last of that godawful cheap bottle from Bucheon in my special penne-with-tomato-and-vodka sauce later this week. Then it'll be gone and I'll just have the lovely, quality Parliament-brand vodka that I got in the Russian quarter near Dongdaemun. I have nearly a full bottle of Gordon's, so it's time for some gin recipes.

The rickey was wildly popular back in the day, you know. It was invented in the 1880s, reached the height of its popularity just after the turn of the century, and remained prevalent enough into the 1920s that it was mentioned in several prominent works of literature, most notably The Great Gatsby. That means that F. Scott Fitzgerald knew about this drink, and likely drank a few. Awesomeness by association? Here you are.

But let's talk about the drink itself. Where'd the name "rickey" come from? And why are there so many variations?

Well, I'll tell you: drinks with names like "rickey," "flip," "crusta," and "sour" are actually written in code. "Rickey" is a codeword for a specific cocktail recipe, where the only variation is the spirit. The rest is just stock ingredients. There are gin rickeys, whiskey rickeys, rum rickeys, vodka rickeys, and bourbon rickeys.

In fact, the original rickey was made with bourbon: the Joe Rickey.

From Wikipedia:

In 1883, Colonel Joe Rickey was purported to have invented the "Joe Rickey," after a bartender at Shoomaker's in Washington, D.C. added a lime to his "mornin's morning," a daily dose of Bourbon with lump ice and Apollinaris sparkling mineral water. Some stories place the exact day as a Monday after Col. Joe Rickey celebrated his wager with a Philadelphian on the successful ascension of John G. Carlisle to Speaker of the House. Col. Joe Rickey was known as a "gentleman gambler" and placed many bets on the outcome of various political contests.

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Now, the gin rickey:

• 2 ounces desired liquor (in this case, gin)
• 5 ounces club soda (or mineral water, if you so desire)
• 1 lime wedge

Pour the liquor and club soda into a highball glass almost filled with ice cubes. Stir well and garnish with the lime wedge.

A few quick things before I get to my review.

Firstly, don't mix up highball glasses and rocks glasses (also called lowball glasses or old fashioned glasses). Capisce?

Second, if you live in a benighted, uncivilized country like South Korea that hasn't the faintest clue what a lime is, then you can just do like me and squirt some lime juice into the drink and call it even.

My diagnosis:

My goodness, I thought gin-and-tonics were refreshing and summery! The gin rickey blows every light, fizzy highball I've ever had right out of the water. It's easily the most cool, frosty, smooth and stomach-settling cocktail I've ever had.The mineral water does wonders for indigestion, the gin gives your head that pleasant, warm, humming feeling, and the hint of lime rounds the whole effect out. If you need to cool off, cool down, kick back or chill out, this here's your drink. And it takes roughly ten seconds to make.

You're welcome.

cocktail review no. 69 - French 75

You thought I was going to do something dirty for this review, didn't you?

Admit it, you perverts, the only reason you even clicked over here is because of the number in the title, am I wrong? (I'm sure the word "French" doesn't hurt either.)

Well, my apologies. If you crept in here hoping to see a couple of French chicks doing something kinky, you're out of luck. This is the dirtiest you're going to get: the French 75 cocktail.

It's a classic one...or perhaps I should say a vintage one. You remember that coffee table book Vintage Cocktails I keep raving about? The one Miss H and I picked up at the Anthropologie in Victoria Gardens nearly two years ago?

The French 75 is one of that book's most prominent constituents. That is to say, it's got an entire two pages devoted to it (as do all the other drinks in the book)—a gorgeous color spread and a recipe written in crayon. There's some debate about whether the primary ingredient should be gin or cognac, but I'm sure you could use either one and still make a damn fine beverage.

I've heard that the drink was created in 1915 at the New York Bar in Paris by a fellow named Harry MacElhone. Rumor has it that ol' Harry (who would later come to own the New York Bar) created the drink specifically for returning WWI fighter pilots. It was so powerful, Harry said, that it felt like being on the receiving end of a French 75-millimeter howitzer. 

On that note, here's the recipe (as found in Vintage Cocktails): 

• 1.5 ounces V.S.O.P. cognac
• 1 ounce simple syrup
• 3/4 ounce lemon juice
• champagne

Shake the cognac, simple syrup and lemon juice together and strain into a flute. Fill the flute the rest of the way with champagne.

Just so you know, "V.S.O.P." stands for something. "V" is "very"; "S" is "special"; and "O.P." means "order of the prince." At least that's what this bartender has heard. A cognac may be "O.P." or "V.S." or just plain "S," but if it's "V.S.O.P.", then it's special stuff. Fit for a king (or a mighty good drink)!

And the French 75 is mighty good, I must say. I've had more powerful cocktails, but boy, this thing must have been a killer in 1915. I didn't think brandy and champagne would mix well, but they do.

Even so, brandy does go harmoniously with sugar and lemon juice. (Without the champagne, the French 75 is basically a Between the Sheets cocktail.) The addition of something sweet, tart, and fizzy like champagne does wonders for this libation's flavor and texture. We're given something to offset the sourness of the citrus and the dark spice of the brandy, and a lovely textural counterpoint in the carbonation. We've already seen that brandy mixes well with fizzy things (I think I reviewed a brandy and soda at one point, didn't I?). The French 75 bears that impression out. Even though this drink has four ingredients and therefore violates Dad's Golden Rule, it's still worth your while. So drink up!Wait, what's that?

You came here for something sultry, and by God you're not leaving without it?

Oh, all right. Here:

Now shut up and drink, you lecher.

cocktail review no. 54 - Tidal Wave

If the Zombie made you feel like one of the undead, this drink will make you feel like you've been hit by a—

Well, figure it out for yourself.

Spring is here, and summer's right around the corner. It's finally getting warm here in the desert (seriously, I thought it'd be cool and windy forever). In light of this fact, I reckon I'll start reviewing more tropical drinks. Something for you schmucks to sip while you sit on your back porches (or in your Sky Bus, if you're the Pollinatrix).

• 1 ounce light rum
• ½ ounce dark rum
• ½ ounce gin
• ½ ounce vodka
• ½ ounce tequila 
• 2 ounces pineapple juice
• 1 ounce orange juice
• 1 teaspoon grenadine
• 1 cup crushed ice

Pour all of the ingredients into a blender. Blend well and pour into a collins glass. (The Bartender's Bible adds "Stand well away from drinker!")

How's that recipe shake up your spinal column?

Of course, me being the adventurous lush I am, I doubled the recipe. I'm not content to sip out of a collins glass; I filled up a tumbler with this concoction, six ounces of hard liquor in total. And man, I started feeling it on the third sip. It's a power-pack, and it kept me happy the rest of the evening. The taste was redolent of the Zombie, only with less fruit juice and more booze. The orange juice was well backed by the sweetness of the pineapple, with just a hint of syrupy cherry supplied by the grenadine. The vodka and gin took on these fruity flavors, with the rum providing some sugary spice and the tequila a bit of fire. The result is a fruity drink which any red-blooded American man might not consider too feminine for his tastes.

You might need a glass of water afterward, though. Or possibly a tidal wave.

cocktail review no. 52 - Silver Bullet

Again, you think I could pass up a tipple with a name like that?

Not likely.

• 2½ ounces gin
• 1½ teaspoons Scotch
• 1 lemon twist

In a mixing glass half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and Scotch. Stir well, strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the lemon twist.

This is going to sound crazy, but the result tastes like tequila. Really. Somehow that measure of Scotch and gin (well, I may have accidentally used one-and-a-half ounces gin rather than teaspoons) forms a hot, spicy flavor redolent of cactus juice.

Add the citrus counterpoint of sour lemon and...well, you have a drink that is most definitely a challenge, but is extremely rewarding to the fatigued mind and the jaded taste buds. And that's about all I've got to say on that subject. (hic)

Now, the term "silver bullet" invariably reminds me of two things: the Lone Ranger, and werewolves. Of the two, I prefer the latter. So here's a Lon Chaney, the original Wolfman, to see you off to the bar:

Sleep tight...

jaguars and spring rolls

April 7 was a fine day: clear and cool with a fine breeze blowing. So fine, in fact, that our hair was lifting off from our foreheads and tugging at our scalps, trying to fly away. The trash cans kept falling over and a fine haze of aerosol hung in the desert air, obscuring the horizon.

Nevertheless Miss H and I decided to venture some 100 miles to the southeast, to the town of Palm Desert, California...and the singular zoo and botanical garden which hides itself there. Tucked into the rocky hills behind the city, behind the golf courses, country clubs and gated communities, lies the Living Desert.

One of Southern California's little-known gems, the Living Desert showcases plants and animals native to the world's deserts. Here you will find all the major players from the hot and arid regions of Planet Earth: the Sahara, Arabian, Gobi, Atacama, and even our own Mojave, Colorado and Sonoran. (For some reason,  they left Africa's Kalahari and Australia's Great Sandy and Simpson Deserts right out.)

From the black widow spider to the zebra, the oryx, giraffe, ostrich, bighorn sheep, Ankole-Watusi, peccaries, badgers, mountain lions, coyotes, fennec foxes, ringtails, coatimundis, servals, sand cats, rock hyraxes, chorus frogs, Gila monsters, meerkats, golden eagles, roadrunners, Mexican wolves, ravens, pronghorn...all manner of desert denizens reside here. Heck, the only thing they don't have is...

...well, I take that back. They have 'em now.

Now, my girlfriend had never been to a zoo. Her parents are homebodies. They don't really go anywhere. Miss H has been to Disneyland (with her friends, or the school band), but not the thousands of parks, museums, zoos, beaches, or other attractions Southern California is famous for. She hadn't even been to an aquarium until she went to Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, near where she went to college.

I consider this a travesty.

Zoos were central to my childhood. I still consider them one of the few places I could spend an entire 12-hour day, along with libraries and arcades.

So I elected to rectify this inequity.

I've already spoken to you about the wonders of Old Highway 247, so I'll say no more about it here. But the wonders of the CA-62 deserve honorable mention. The chaotic descent through Morongo Valley (little more than a glorified canyon, narrow and steep-sided, houses clinging to the hillsides like mountain goats) is followed by a sudden drop through through a perilous gorge, which opens out into the Coachella Valley. Mount San Jacinto looms up in front like a great blue-gray god preaching to his minions—the white and many-armed masses of windmills which line the valley floor. A few miles later and we merge onto Interstate 10, which stretches from Santa Monica to Jacksonville, Florida, thousands of miles to the east.

A few miles later we get off in Palm Desert.

Palm Desert (and the neighboring borough of Indian Wells) is the slightly shabbier cousin of Palm Springs. Only slightly shabbier, mind you. If Palm Springs is the equivalent of a thirty-room mansion, Palm Desert manages at least a fifteen-room hacienda. Green lawns, red-tile roofs, stucco walls, golf courses, country clubs, classy restaurants, and more palm trees than the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. It's a haven for the wealthy, where the comfortably-well-off go to golf and get away from the hustle and bustle of the beach and metropolis. It gets blasphemously hot here; even a 90-year-old wouldn't need to pack a sweater or track suit.

This is also the perfect environment for a zoo with desert animals.

Miss H and I had to dodge a few stupid drivers on our way through town (unfortunately, you can't lose the dumb people no matter how far you go). We parked, took a last swig of water, and marched on the gates. About $28.50 later we were inside.

Thankfully, in early April, it was still quite equable in the Coachella region. If this had been a normal spring, temperatures might've been in the upper 80s; but as it was, a cold front was blowing through and it was a balmy 67. That same stiff breeze was blowing, cooling whatever wasn't already cool enough. The train diorama was in full swing, and so were the billions of schoolchildren surrounding it. 

(Photo credits go once again to my beautiful and talented girlfriend.)

I won't spoil the multitude of exhibits awaiting you inside this fantastic place. As always, I invite you to see for yourself. I will say, however, that Miss H and I strolled through it with languor and abandon, picking out the zoological attractions we'd most like to see on the map and sallying forth to peruse them. Aviaries, paddocks, sprawling pastures, quiet tree-lined paths...arm in arm, hand in hand we walked, gazing into each other's eyes and sharing a quiet giggle between us. Once we paused beneath an ironwood tree to snatch a quick, passionate kiss. We were in love and we didn't care who knew it, not the oryx, nor the meerkats, nor the warthogs or cheetahs or...

...the jaguar.

Whoa, wait, WHAT?! A jaguar? What the—?! They didn't have jaguars the last time I was here!

It was with awe and wonder and no small enjoyment that Miss H and I beheld the Living Desert's newest attraction, a grade-A genuine jaguar. Set in a newly-built habitat simulating a Mexican silver mine, the jaguar dozed contentedly on his patch of dirt, in the shade of a spreading mesquite tree. I was stunned. I'd never seen a jaguar in the flesh, not in any zoo. Up until this point I'd been content with the Living Desert displaying species which were unique, unutterably suited to their environment, but nonetheless familiar, and therefore slightly mundane: golden eagles, mountain lions, coyotes, giraffes. A jaguar...well, that was a cat of a different color.

After enjoying the park to the fullest (including the unexpected proximity of bighorn sheep), we made our egress from the Living Desert and went in search of our next conquest.

The Elephant Bar.

A charming little African-themed place on the CA-111 in Palm Desert, the Elephant Bar had lots of dark, carved wood, brass fixings, bamboo inlay, and some rather unusual ceiling fans. We arrived during happy hour, and seated ourselves at the 60-foot bar, where appetizers and well drinks were half-price until 4. The food, which the menu had claimed to be an Oriental-Occidental fusion, was just that—only in wondrous abundance. We dined first on artichoke dip and Vietnamese shrimp spring rolls, both of which were more delicious than anything we'd yet sampled. For the main course, I selected the teriyaki chicken, while Miss H chose the chicken marsala. Between the two of us, we'd try both sides of the coin. Both dishes were exceedingly flavorful and succulent, and served in amazing proportions. We didn't even have room for desserts, even though there were at least four pages of those in the menu: the bartender recommended the crème brûlée, but it was the chocolate-chip cookie sundae that caught our eye. We waddled out of that place.

It was but the work of an hour or so to traverse Palm Desert and Indian Wells in the fading daylight, view the fountains and green fairways tinged orange by the red desert sun, regain the CA-62, climb the torturous road back into the Mojave, and travel homeward with the warm evening breeze fresh in our faces.

Another field trip bites the dust.

cocktail review no. 45 - Cajun Martini

Is it humanly possible not to relax, kick back and feel at peace with the world after listening to a good solid round of Jimmy Buffett?

No, it ain't. And if you want the full tropical flavor, as so many parrot-heads do, then you have to have a margarita.

But margaritas aren't the only thing Jimmy drinks. If you listen to his tunes, he mentions other libations in his lesser-known songs. Daiquiris are given a plug in "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Hurricanes are part of the chorus of "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere."

And in a largely unknown tune called "We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About," a passing reference is made to something called a Cajun martini.

That piqued my interest. I knew Cajuns were renowned for their spicy foods, and I was already a fan of your regular run-of-the-mill dry martini. I'm also developing a fascination with spicy drinks (be they flavored with capsaicin or some other agent like nutmeg).

Donna Hole is going to hate me for this.

What the hey? I asked myself.
What the hey, indeed? I answered myself.
So I decided to go for it.

The recipes I discovered, though as various as a macaw's plumage, all had some common themes: gin (or vodka), vermouth, and jalapeño pepper for garnish. So I just decided to mix up a regular martini and garnish it with pepper slices.

• 1½ ounces gin
• ½ ounce vermouth 
• two or three slices of jalapeño pepper

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the jalapeño.

I wasn't expecting much. I couldn't see how a few puny slices of jalapeño could make much matter in a double martini. Boy, was I wrong. On my first sip I was punched in the face with olfactory and gustatory sensation. It wasn't heat, oh no: the capsaicin was, in my father's estimation, being metabolized by the alcohol in the gin. No, it was pure eau du jalapeño. A whack of peppery flavor hit me in the taste buds and filled my mouth with a fiery, exotic ambience, backed by the tang of the gin-and-vermouth duet. Moreover, the peppery flavor only increased the farther in I plowed. Beginning with a combustive, intense explosion of pepper flavor and finishing with a sort of mellow, inchoate zest, with overtones of coriander and lemon peel and the aromatic herbal redolence of the vermouth...well! I'll tell you what, this drink is like chewing your way through the best bits of your back garden with a hefty gulp of alcohol for a chaser. Sounds like something a hard-bitten Cajun might do anyway.

I can really see why ol' Jimmy likes 'em, Gulf-Coastal boy that he is. It's a cool, summery afternoon sort of a drink, with an extra kick to it, a challenge as well as a refuge. Something for a round of contact golf with the guys, or an opening volley in the evening's first drinking game.

Drink with caution. And have a chaser ready when you reach the bottom (the time's come to eat your garnish!).

And now, a little tune we can all enjoy with our drink, no matter what that drink may be. Bottoms up!

the law firm of Strongbow and Jameson

Quick recap:

Me. Jeff. Dublin. Ireland. June 16. Twenty-ten A.D. Just finished the walking tour. It's about, oh, two o'clock in the afternoon or something. Cillian (our tour guide) has released us at St. Stephen's Green. We've been told to come to the tour-sponsored pub crawl at 7:00, starting at the Purty Kitchen in Temple Bar. ("If you don't have plans, come out," he said. "If you do have plans, cancel them.") We've toured St. Stephen's Green and Grafton Street with Harry, our Australian roomie. We've split from Harry and are now on our way west, through Temple Bar, to explore all the stuff we saw on the tour that we want to see more of. Plus we're trying to make up our minds whether we want to pregame with Guinness or Jameson before going to the pub crawl (meaning we're trying to decide whether to tour the Guinness brewery or the Old Jameson Distillery). That yellow-hued DUKW with all the screaming Viking tots is still driving around, yelling at pedestrians.

Got all that?

Okay, on with the show.

I wanted to see the inside of Christ Church Cathedral. I'm ain't the religious type, but I've got a thing for churches. The bigger and older they are, the more I like 'em. Nothing beats standing 'midst the pews in an ancient cathedral, the holy light of ages beaming down from the stained-glass windows above the worn pulpit...even if the pews, windows and pulpit are just replicas. There's a quiet sort of grandeur about a place of worship, one which I like to sample even if I don't buy into it.

Jeff wasn't in the mood to stump up the requisite €6 to get inside, however, so I went in by myself. The ticket agent took my money, politely ordered me to take my cap off, and handed me my pass.

And then I was in.

It was something else in there, folks.

The cathedral has some pretty intriguing history. It was originally built by a Catholic Viking king, about a thousand years ago. It was made of wood. A couple hundred years later, the Normans showed up, led by a fellow named Strongbow (there's a cider named after him; we drank heavily of it in Newcastle). Strongbow and his buddies oversaw a complete rebuild of the cathedral, including the construction of a choir, transepts (whatever the heck those are), the crypt, and chapels to several saints. Strongbow himself has a tomb now in the upper chambers of the cathedral.

No, I wasn't whistlin' Dixie: I said "crypt." This cathedral has a crypt. How cool is that?

After I got done touring the main complex, I went down into it.

Besides having some breathtaking tombstones (speaking of "quiet grandeur")...

...the crypt also houses a golden tabernacle and candlesticks used by King James II; the oldest-known secular carvings in Ireland; and "the Cat and the Rat," the mummified bodies of a cat and a rat which a janitor found stuck down an organ pipe.

I wish I could show you pictures of these goodies, but they didn't allow photography in that bit of the crypt.

I don't know about you, but I think that was well worth the six euros. Damn skippy.

I emerged into the bright Dublin sun (man, did Jeff and I get lucky or what? It was sunny the whole time we were in Ireland, gorgeous weather), rendezvoused with Jeff, and together the two of us struck out again. We decided that we'd had enough Guinness for the nonce; me being a hardcore whiskey fan, we elected to check out the Jameson distillery.

For the record, I think Jameson is tasty stuff. And their commercials are hilarious.

So, following the map (Jeff's Lonely Planet guide, no two-bit tourist map this time) we marched over to that part of town. We stopped off for a bottle of water at a nearby supermarket (it was actually quite warm outside). While I waited for Jeff, I perused a nearby fence, which had this mysterious missive attached to it:

And thence we strolled boldly into the distillery.

The tour was costly...I think it was twenty euros each or something. The next tour didn't start for about twenty minutes, so Jeff and I killed the time by browsing around the gift shop. Such treasures you've never seen: Jameson hats, Jameson overcoats, Jameson hip flasks, Jameson golf balls, Jameson pens, even a charming collection of tweed driving caps. But the worst was the booze. They had every single Jameson variety in that gift shop. Signature reserve, twelve-year-old special reserve, gold reserve, eighteen-year-old limited reserve...even the coveted rarest vintage reserve, one bottle of which costs more money than Donald Trump makes in a day and comes with its own serial number. The buyers put their names down in a master registry, along with the number of the bottle they bought. Seriously, a bottle of Jameson RVR is more like a pedigreed dog than a measure of booze. I was just sorry I didn't get to taste it, and judge for myself. It was sheer torture being in that room.

The tour fortunately started before I went totally stir-crazy. Our guide, a handsome girl named Georgina, plunked us down in a small theater and has us watch an introductory video. It explained (a little) about the history of the Jameson family (their family motto is Sine Metu, "Without Fear," because the early Jamesons made a name for themselves fighting pirates) and the uniqueness of John Jameson's whiskey. It didn't go into too much detail, but it sure got the juices flowing.

Then we went on the tour. Each exemplary piece of equipment used in the distillation process had been preserved. Some (like the wash back) were still in operation, eternally sloshing some display wort around a big wooden tub so we could see how it worked. We learned some surprising things about the creation of the spirit. As the whiskey matures, a surprisingly large amount (thousands of bottles' worth) is lost through the casks to evaporation. This has been nicknamed the "angel's share." (There's only one way it goes, after all: up.) I'll bet St. Peter's job satisfaction went through the roof once John Jameson started up his stills. We were able to sample this effect ourselves. There was an upended cask with a hole cut in the top for us to sniff. We took a whiff and BOY, a hefty punch of whiskey goodness wafted out of the barrel and into our nostrils. That was cool.

I won't say too much more (a) because I don't want to spoil the tour for you, and (b) Jameson representatives, clothed in black, will probably come banging on my door, and (c) I'm lazy. So I'll just say that it was an interesting tour. The creation of Irish whiskey is a much more intricate process than I'd imagined. The big thing that Georgina tried to impress upon us was that Jameson's (and other Irish whiskies) differs from Scotch whisky in that it's lighter and smoother, and better-tasting, due to the grains being merely baked in the kiln instead of having the devil roasted out of them.

And just to prove to us that she meant what she said, Georgina gave us a taste-test. She asked for eight volunteers at the start of the tour, and (well, you know me, don't you? I'm a booze-hound) my hand was one of the first in the air.

Georgina took us upstairs to the tasting-room (which looked like a rather classy restaurant, except instead of kitchens, there was just a bar and a whole lot of tables and chairs). She sat the eight of us down at a table and brought us each three plastic shot glasses. One was American whiskey, one was Scotch, and the third was Jameson's. We weren't blindfolded, and we were told which was which. Then we were invited to taste each whiskey in turn. First we took a sip of the American; then a sip of Jameson's to compare it with. Then we had a swig of Scotch, and a swig of Jameson's to chase it. Then were asked to slug that last bit of Jameson's back and make a final decision: which was best?

The vote was 7-1 in favor of Jameson. We all got signed certificates with our names printed on them that said we were now qualified, bona fide tasters of Irish whiskey. (That old gentleman next to me in the picture said he liked the American and Scotch whiskies better, just to be contrary. Georgina gave him a certificate anyway, telling him that there was "plenty of room for improvement.")

Now, before you accuse me of being a suck-up, I answered the survey honestly. I said before that Jameson is good stuff. It is rather smooth and easy and flavorful, I'll give it that. But the American whiskey used in the test happened to be Jack Daniels. I HATE Jack Daniels. I have no earthly idea why Jack & Coke is the most popular cocktail in America right now. I honestly don't know why it gained prominence over all other American whiskies. Over bourbons, for Pete's sake. I think bourbon is a lot better than Tennessee whiskey. (Old Crow and Wild Turkey 101 are my two picks.) The Jack Daniels company has a few good brands, like Double Barrel, Single Barrel and (to some extent) Gentleman Jack, but their Old No. 7 is barely passable. I wouldn't drink it straight.

And the Scotch whisky they used in the test was Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now, Black Label's the first Scotch I ever had. It's one of my dad's favorites, and my dad is a picky, picky man when it comes to booze. He won't drink any gin but Broker's (maybe Bombay Sapphire will do, if there's nothing else). He's a martini-man, and never touches rum or vodka. Hardly ever trucks with tequila, even, unless Jimmy Buffett's on the stereo and it's margarita time. I'm rather ambivalent about Johnnie Walker. Doesn't taste bad. But the fact remains that it's blended whisky. Blended whiskies just aren't on the same level as single malts. I think it was kind of a cop-out by the Jameson company that they didn't pick a good all-'round Scotch single malt to test side-by-side with their product. Johnnie Walker really isn't up to the challenge.

Mmmmmmm...challenge...

So I answered honestly. Of those three whiskies, I liked Jameson the best. Scout's honor.

And I got a little certificate for my trouble, which says that I, the Postman (real name withheld) is now a qualified whiskey-taster. I'm going to frame it, but it's printed on metric paper, so I'll have to get a custom frame. Bugger it all...

And that was that! Jeff, who hadn't signed up for the free taste-test but was sipping his free cocktail at another table, managed to snag some pictures of me in hog-heaven.



Before I hear any smart remarks, I'd like to assure you that my face was that red BEFORE I started drinking. 

Then we got up and headed out. It was time to regroup at the hostel, get cleaned up and step out to Temple Bar for a pub crawl en masse.

What happened next is a bit blurry, but I remember it as being rather fun at the time. Don't miss dancing with the Australians, coming up next.

cocktail review no. 37 - Gimlet

It's May! Let's have a drink!

Yeah, I should've posted this yesterday, I know. I'm doing cocktail reviews on Fridays now, as per advice by Donna Hole. But you're all going to go out and drink on Saturday night too, right?

I've decided to try something different. I'm starting up a new tradition, here. I don't know how long it'll last, because I'm bound to run out of countries before I run out of drinks. But I've decided to "pair up" my random travel destinations with my cocktail reviews. Each shall pertain to the other in some pertinent way.

For example, you may notice that the most recent travel destination dealt with India. Gimlets, I understand, are thought to have originated in British India. It's a very British drink, in fact. It was likely first made with Rose's lime juice (a sweetened lime juice, bottles of which are now sold wherever respectable mixers can be found; I have some in my cupboard). Rose's, according to The Bartender's Bible, was conceived and created by a Scotsman named Lauchlin Rose in 1867. The stuff was so dang good that he sold it to shipping companies heading for the Far East as a remedy for scurvy. This had the added advantage of introducing Rose's lime juice all over the world. (That Lauchlin was a canny businessman, wasn't he?) Whether the settlers in India merely thought adding gin to the lime juice would make scurvy remedies go down easier, or the rowdy British soldiers wanted something sweet to add to their glass of gin...that much is unknown. We do know that gimlets were invented in India not long after the lime juice got there, and it's been one of the best darn highballs ever since.

• 2 ounces gin
• ½ ounces Rose's lime juice
• 1 lime wedge

Pour the gin and lime juice into a mixing glass half-filled with ice cubes. Stir well. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the lime wedge.

This is a subjective recipe. You can use whatever proportion of gin to lime juice that you want. I make mine the way my bartender's school taught me: one-and-a-half ounces gin, a half-ounce of lime juice. Tastes a bit better that way, in my opinion. And I usually forgo the lime wedge. No need for overkill here.

Now, I'm fully aware that gin is...unique, let's say. Either people love it or they hate it. And the people who've never tried it (FIE on them, I say) probably won't take to it the first time around. So if you're going to try this, sip with caution. This is one of my favorite gin drinks, simply because it's not quite as intense as a martini, but not as fruity as a Chelsea Hotel or a maiden's blush. It's right in between, plain and simple, nice and easy. Gin with a bit of lime. The sweet sting of the lime juice perfectly offsets the more bitter herbal flavors of the gin, leaving the ice-cold bouquet. (I'm not educated enough to know if gin has a bouquet, but if it doesn't, it's got something just like it.) At the same time, those same bitter herbal flavors take the elevator down a floor and give the limey sourness a boost.

So what you have is yin and yang, a perfect rivalry of sweet and bitter flavors, not overpowering, not underdone, warring for elbow room on your olfactory glands and taste buds. This libation gives whiskey sours a run for their money. Trust me. "But don't take my word for it..." as LeVar Burton used to say.

And in case you were wondering, the word "gimlet" is the name for a hand tool used for drilling small holes in wood without splitting it. "Gimlet eyes" is a common idiom for people who have peepers that bore right through you. Take this gentleman, for instance:

Major General Smedley Darlington Butler, U.S.M.C. You'd better not laugh at his name. His right fist would come rocketing out of his grave and deck you where you stood. A genuine grade-A hardass, he was. He was born during the Indian Wars and died shortly before the U.S. entered World War II. He was the most decorated Marine in the world at the time of his death in 1940. He was awarded 16 medals, five for heroism. He was one of only 19 people who was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor twice. He saw action in the Philippines, China, Central America and the Caribbean (during the Banana Wars) and in France in World War I.

Not for nothing was he known as "Old Gimlet Eye."

So sip on a gimlet and raise a glass to the old Devil Dawg. Or else.

cocktail review no. 31 - Fifty-Fifty

Whew! I think I need a drink after all this talk about family and ancestors.

I hope everybody had a good Superbowl Sunday. I sure did. It was weird to be home and watching the game with the folks. I haven't done it in two years, you see. I was away in Korea last season, and the Koreans aren't so big on football. (Excuse me, my non-North American readers; I mean gridiron.)

I also followed the season more closely than ever before. I watched as many Chargers games as I could and actually kept track of their wins and losses. And they almost made it, but not quite. Oh well, congrats to New Orleans on the defeat of those dastardly Colts.

To business! In the world of gin, there are martini drinkers, Gibson drinkers, gin and tonic drinkers, gin fizz drinkers, Dubonnet cocktail drinkers... And in the world of martini drinkers, there are straight martini drinkers; double martini drinkers; dirty martini drinkers; dry martini drinkers; extra dry martini drinkers; extra dry double martini drinkers; and even some dry double dirty martini drinkers (like me). There are also vodka martini drinkers, but we won't count them, because

they're dead inside

if brains were bees, there'd be no honey between their ears

they were born without tastebuds, genitals, or any sense of culture or refinement

they have questionable taste. Then there are the fifty-fifty folks. A "dry" martini is one that has a higher ratio of gin to vermouth; a dry martini will have, say, only three-quarters of an ounce of vermouth mixed in with the shot of gin, instead of an ounce. An extra-dry martini will have no vermouth; just gin. (Hardcore gin drinkers only!) The fifty-fifty is the antithesis of the dry martini. It possesses a more equal ratio of gin to vermouth. A fifty-fifty ratio, in fact.

• 1½ ounces gin
• 1½ ounces dry vermouth
• 1 cocktail olive

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the olive.

This isn't actually a takeoff on the martini. It's an ancient ancestor, a proto-martini, as it were. Time was, martinis were consumed with an equal ratio of gin to vermouth. Only later did folks reduce the vermouth-gin proportion, creating "dry" and "extra dry" martinis.

The fifty-fifty has now faded into obscurity. Nobody drinks them anymore, so far as I know. I mixed one up once, way back in Wyoming, when I was just starting down the road to bartenderism. At the time, I thought it was awful. I had just begun drinking, though. I didn't like martinis yet, and didn't even know what to expect from vermouth. Needless to say, the fifty-fifty wasn't up my alley.

On a whim, I mixed a second one just the other night. After sitting for Lesson 3 down in Riverside last week, and then taking (and passing) the test on Saturday, I was sick of hearing about martinis and Manhattans and Rob Roys, dry and extra dry. I wanted the antithesis of dry. And suddenly I remembered my old friend the fifty-fifty. MAN, it tasted good. The stellar tang of gin was still there still. But the vermouth finally got its day in court. It layered itself like a silken veil over the gin: a spicy, herbal purdah, easing itself past the tongue to the back of the throat, underscored by the coolness and the body of the gin. It was a precisely equal partnership. The two spirits formed a symbiotic relationship within the confines of the cocktail glass, creating a familiar but now more intense flavor. The drink is easy on the draw, pleasant on the finish, delicious all 'round. I like martinis a lot better these days.

I've fallen in love with gin (good gin, mind you, like Broker's). Still, it doesn't get too much better than the fifty-fifty, folks. Try it and see. 

Long John Silver

Resolved, that this faux hiatus I was supposedly taking be summarily abandoned in light of recent events. I am returning to the blogsphere. I've decided to discontinue the tattered remains of this hiatus. I know, you're thrilled. So am I; it's good to be back (legitimately). First on the docket is a progress report. I went down to Riverside on Friday and passed the time trial for Lesson #6, coffee and wine drinks. That's four tests down, three to go. I have martinis, shots, and blended drinks left. Shots are supposedly the hardest, since there are so many ingredients. I think I'll do that one after martinis, which are also kind of tricky. Blended drinks should be fairly simple, so I'll save it for last. After that, I'll just have the über-mega-massive final exam left (a time trial with drinks from all the lessons) and some further training, and then I can start using the job placement services and find a bartender's job somewhere. Fancy that! I'll be working nights, serving up drinks, listening to people's problems, getting hit on by cougars, making loads of money in tips, and saving up dough for my summer trip to England. There's nothing new to report on the flying front. I haven't scheduled a test date yet. I'm still studying (or rather, trying to find time to study) for my exams. I'm really, really worried about this. There's a huge amount to remember, most of which I've forgotten and will have to mash back into my brain on short notice. I'm also rapidly running out of money for the $500 examiner's fee. My folks have promised to stump up, but I hate to mooch off them so badly... On the good news front, my folks and I took a trip down to Rancho Cucamonga today to hit up a rather killer retailer that I never knew about (but can't imagine why): BevMo! It's like Costco or Sam's Club, but for booze. You walk in and there's nothing but bottles. Bottles, bottles everywhere, and every drop to drink. I was intoxicated (heh heh) by the very sight. I went straight to the rum section and behold! I found my favorite: Mount Gay, from Barbados. When I think of the word "rum" I think of Mount Gay; that's how good it is. And who'd a thunk it? They had my favorite bourbon too, Old Crow. Mom is so glad to have me home that I don't even need to wheedle anymore. She saw me looking at the Old Crow and offered to buy it right off the bat. She's such a dear. We got the Old Crow, some Johnnie Walker's Black Label (for Dad), a couple bottles of Broker's London Dry Gin (my parents are fiends for that stuff, and I can see why; it's damn good), a six-pack of Anchor Brewery's Liberty Ale, and some Irish coffee glasses (again for me). Why did the world not inform me about BevMo!? Oh...and speaking of good news... There's one thing I simply must report to you. I was going to try to hold it in until I had something more concrete, but I can't stand it any longer. I have to tell you. You, my friends, were not the only people who read the tentative summary I wrote for my novel. Somebody else did. Somebody who happens to be a New York Times bestselling author and co-founder of a small publishing company in the American South. Yes indeed. She read it, and thought my novel premise sounded good. So she sent me a personal e-mail and asked if I'd like to send her a synopsis and the first few chapters. She said she'd give me a free critique. If she liked the manuscript, she said her small press might even publish it, if that was all right with me. Can you imagine how that made me feel? Me, so feverishly dreaming of publication? I was naturally suspicious, of course. I come from a family that locks up the cars even if they're parked in the driveway, and believes every friendly e-mail from a complete stranger is a scam. I took steps to make sure that the woman who e-mailed me was indeed the author and publisher she said she was. I assured myself that she was on the level; then, trusting to luck and hope and good fortune, I sent off the synopsis and the excerpt to her. I am now anxiously awaiting her reply. To say that I am excited by all this would be the understatement of the geological epoch. I'll keep you posted. Hang on a minute! We've done the bad news and the good news. But what about the weird news? Not long after I first opened a Site Meter account, I began to notice something odd. I had a slow, steady trickle of visitors, but one visitor kept coming back, multiple times a day, day in and day out. Stranger still, that person's browser was located in Leasburg, Missouri. This according to Site Meter, at least. I couldn't figure it out. Who did I know in Leasburg, Missouri? Who wanted to read my blog that badly? I figured, based on the number of times they came to visit, that they must be an acquaintance of mine. But I didn't know who it could be, not for the life of me. Then I finally figured it out. It was me. I didn't know about setting Site Meter to ignore visits from my own browser. So there I was, editing posts and previewing them on my blog, with Site Meter recording every click and page view. Oopsy-daisy! Why does Site Meter record my firmly California-based visits as originating from Missouri? Tough to tell. My computer's been behaving weirdly ever since I came back from the Orient. It still thinks I'm in Korea, for one thing. My Google, Blogger, and Facebook homepages are all in Korean. I have to log in before they switch back to English. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for my computer to think it was in Leasburg rather than Apple Valley. Or perhaps it isn't my computer. Perhaps it's my Internet provider. It senses my foreign computer, shrugs its ethnocentric cyber-shoulders and interjects its own home base onto my browser. Bugger... One more thing. If you want to know why I named this post "Long John Silver," you can go whistle. I just felt like it.

cocktail review no. 23 - Double Standard Sour

And so, as the Eve of the New Year approacheth, I shall bestow upon thee the benediction of delicious cocktails. Let there be booze! Like gin and whiskey but don't want to limit yourself to one or the other? There's a cocktail for that.

• 1 ounce blended whiskey
• 1 ounce gin
• 1 ounce lemon juice
• ½ teaspoon superfine sugar
• ½ teaspoon grenadine
• 1 maraschino cherry
• 1 orange slice

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the whiskey, gin, lemon juice, sugar, and grenadine. Shake well and strain into a sour glass. Garnish with the cherry and the orange slice. This seems a good candidate for New Year's Eve because it's really like two drinks in one. It's a mildly evil combination of a whiskey daisy and a martini. You can taste the gin and the whiskey both. This is a sweet and sour cocktail, like the whiskey sour, but with the gin sting to remind one of the martini, and some grenadine to add some bizarre cherry flavor out of left field. Just be warned: thanks to the grenadine, this drink is pink. (And slightly cherry-tasting.) Guys: if you're comfortable enough in your masculinity to not care if you're drinking a pink drink, try this cocktail. Ladies: go for it. You might like it.

cocktail review no. 13 - Gibson

There are many fine lines in the world of cocktails. One of them separates this drink from the martini. First, peruse the ingredient list:

• 2½ ounces gin
• 1½ teaspoons vermouth
• 3 cocktail onions

Savvy partakers will observe little difference between this recipe and the martini's. The only difference, in fact (besides a subjective interpretation of the ratio of gin to vermouth), is the garnish. Whereas martinis are typically garnished with a green olive, a Gibson is garnished with three cocktail onions. Does that make a difference? I do believe it does. Just as the gin in a martini imparts flavor to its olive garnish, so does the olive (often marinated in vermouth or brine) impart flavor to the martini. The same is true with the Gibson. And cocktail onions (especially the Mezzetta brand, which I used) are particularly pungent, and strong in flavor. On the surface a Gibson may taste similar or identical to a martini, but trust me: it's all in the finish. Try downing three cocktail onions instead of a single green olive. I guarantee you you're in for a challenge and a treat.