Forget the history books: The Aqueduct has nothing to do with ancient Roman waterways. Nor does it have anything to do with the modern race track of the same name - other than that all bets are off when an individual orders this classy cocktail. The Aqueduct adds a relatively modern, suitably warped twist to a very old form of spirits - vodka.
The origins of vodka date back to the 12th century and the need for perplexed farmers to do something with a surplus of grain and potatoes. Voila! Hooch!
It seems appropriate to also mention that vodka was conceived of as medicine, specifically a painkiller. And so it remains today, particularly when doled out in the form of the Aqueduct, which combines a wallop of high-end vodka (by all reports, a must) with curacao (a liqueur made from the peel of bitter oranges), apricot brandy (not from a backwoods still and aged in a tool shed) and the squeezin's of a fresh lime. It's a manly drink, aye, but it's good for the lassies, too.
This cocktail has been described as the ultimate party drink, thus, is a perfect tipple for any holiday hootenanny. And given its fruity ingredients and medicinal base, the Aqueduct is also a handy deterrent to scurvy (no doctor's note required). It is sweet, tasty, goes down easy and has a kick like a five-legged mule on a six-day bender - thus, it is relatively deadly, in a call-me-a-cab-OK-you're-a-cab sort of way.
Shake ingredients with ice, strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with a lime twist
St. Patrick's Day is the day the Irish set aside to celebrate the driving of snakes from Ireland - and it is also a grand excuse to have a cocktail. Alas, the choices of cocktails to hoist in honor of St.
Patrick's Day remain frustratingly few. In American bars, there is the annual drawing of the green-colored draft beer - a heinous excuse to sell lousy beer under the cloak of shamrock-inspired pride. For an Irishman, this simply will not do.
The Irish can drink. It is a matter of national pride. They drink either Guinness Stout or Irish whiskey.
Irish whiskey, a delectable spirit, can be a dodgy, if not dangerous, proposition for the novice. Fights tend to follow the partaking of Irish whiskey, traditionally poured by the shot. There is no reason for this peculiarity.
It just happens. Leave the Irish whiskey to the Irish, who are trained in its consumption. Turn instead to Guinness Stout, that darkest and heartiest of stout beers.
Author James Joyce once wrote that the Guinness family were "Lords of the Vat." (Now, that would make for an Irish Broadway show that the boys at O'Malley's could stomach.) According to the makers of Guinness, there were 1.
8 billion pints of Guinness sold worldwide last year - which explains much about the state of the world. Guinness should be served well-chilled, 42 degrees Fahrenheit. The makers of Guinness claim that the stout, first brewed in Ireland in 1760, is not black, as is widely believed.
Rather, it is a roguish ruby red. That's a wee bit of malarkey. Guinness is black.
The only thing blacker is death. Guinness is also thick, and bitter. Really bitter.
A friend visiting Ireland was instructed to fortify his pint with a shot of Chambord (raspberry liqueur). The sweetened taste was a delight. He was less thrilled when, hours later, he found that multiple shots of Chambord had put a proper thumping on his wallet.
The Irish love a good joke. Which brings us to The Black Velvet, the only semblance of a cocktail suitable for St. Paddy's Day.
Its origins are a bit foggy - the most common story dates to Dec. 15,1861, at Brooke's Club, England. A hung-over patron asked the barkeep for a flute of dry champagne and received a snooty glower.
Only then did the suffering patron notice the black-velvet armband worn by the barkeep - a sign that royalty had died. Prince Albert had expired the previous night, and the bars were not serving. Blast it.
The barkeep, not wishing to offend, offered that a bit of champagne, hidden by a soaking of Guinness Stout, might be handy. Hence, The Black Velvet, named after the armband, was born. (Go ahead and insert the Prince-Albert-In-The-Can joke here, if you must.
) The Black Velvet has persisted. Drink historian Charles H. Baker, in his book The Gentlemen's Companion, described it this way: "It will save life, nourish and encourage, and induce sleep in insomniacs" - noble truth, indeed.
Bennacht nas feile Padraig ort, or "Happy St. Patrick's Day." Float (pour slowly over a flipped spoon) iced champagne on top of Guinness so as to not bother the fizz.
Ahhh. Breathe deeply. Now, again.
That whiff of musk wafting through the air is testosterone, for the most sacred of Sundays is again upon us (trumpet fanfare, please): SUPER BOWL SUNDAY! Upping the craziness this year is having Charlotte's Carolina Panthers squaring off against the New England Patriots. Not that the opposing team matters.
This is North Carolina, the Panthers are in the Super Bowl, so whom the Panthers are playing isn't relevant (unless you live in New England). With kickoff just days away, it is time for all good men and brave women to get in touch with their Lower Slobbovian ancestry and revert to a pre-game primal state. Strip down to the bare essentials and paint yourself blue and black.
Go to the grocery store and get snacks that fulfill three requirements. One, they must easily spill and crumble to leave the most hard-to-handle mess, not unlike Christmas tree needles that pop up in July. Two, they must arc nicely when thrown at the screen.
And finally, under no circumstances can these snacks have any health benefits - zip, zero, nada, nyet, none. The traditional tipple for Super Sunday is beer - cheap, American and lots of it. It must be in cans, so when a Panther scores, said container can be crushed against the forehead of the delirious drinker.
Or ...
you can join the relish gang in our specially created commemorative drink -The Cat Scratch Fever. Hours were spent in the secret relish lavatory, er, laboratory, in quest of the true blue heavenly experience - manly, yes, but also a drink that can appeal to more dainty sensibilities. There were fumbles, some bungled plays, but in the end, our panel of brave experts and unsuspecting dupes agreed - The Fever is not just drinkable, but it's also pretty darned tasty.
Mix 'em up, enjoy the game and the cocktail; just don't get too excited. You don't want to crush this against your forehead. The reception is horrible on emergency-room TVs.
In a shaker filled with cracked ice, add the following: 1/2 shot Goldschlager. (Keeping the bottle capped, turn upside down so gold flakes settle in the neck of the bottle. Tilt, uncork and pour.
) Two drops, no more no less, of Tabasco. Shake, then strain into martini glass. Add a twist of lime and a blue glow stick in lieu of a swizzle stick.
Sip, don't guzzle.
Two rules: The Smart Drinking Man does not, in the course of an evening's spirituous hijinks, mix dark spirits with light spirits. To do so inevitably brings forth the Ralphing Drinking Man, who is frowned upon at most social occasions - frat parties excluded.
The Smart Drinking Man also does not mix political conversation with the consumption of fermented spirits. It's hard to truly enjoy a social cocktail when using a straw to sip your tipple through a jaw that has been wired shut after Your Face repeatedly hit His Fist, egregiously and with politically provoked malice. With that in mind, let us explore the muddled world of the Cuba Libre (correctly pronounced "koo-bah lee-bray").
It is the most Cuban of all Cuban drinks in that it translates to "free Cuba." It is a simple drink to make. Why, a small child could do it - right before the tot is hauled off by Social Services.
The cocktail connoisseurs who invariably lurk at the end of the bar, aloof in their sophistication among the misunderstood and misplaced, regularly dismiss it as a drink of convenience, not complexity. Yeah, yeah. It is also a remarkably refreshing drink.
It trips light on the tongue when southbound in the gullet, but it finishes with a subtle, almost playful jostle, not unlike physical tousling between friends. The Cuba Libre (remember, no politics) may seem a lowly libation, a fanfare for the common man, but it is one that delivers a sense of pride in those consumptioneers who relish its regal impertinence. What it is not - and this is a common misperception - is a rum and Coke, although said ingredients do constitute the body of the cocktail.
The original Cuba Libre (remember, no politics) was a mixture of Coca-Cola and light rum, with added zest gained from the juice of half a lime and the discarded hull. Perfect for a warm, summer day spent lolling on a pristine beach, palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze. It was born at the end of the Spanish-American war, in which The Home Team sided with Cuba - a Caribbean island, oddly enough, discovered by Christopher Columbus while sailing oceans blue in 1492.
Semi-official documentation filed in 1965 by purported eyewitness Fausto Rodriguez - as official as any document in Cuba can be - has the drink being invented in August 1900 by a mysterious "Mr. X," aka "John Doe," at an undisclosed bar in Havana. A member of the U.
S. Signal Corps - a captain, to be specific - ordered a rum and Coke with a twist. The mysterious bartender complied, the captain liked it and bought a round for his troops.
The troops then raised their glasses in toast to the newly liberated (at least from the Spanish) Cuba: "Por Cuba Libre," or, roughly translated, "free Cuba." A cocktail was born, and eventually became wildly popular among the Cuban population and among the visiting Americans who, in an effort to beat Prohibition, began traveling to Cuba. Havana was subsequently turned into a jet-set playground, a sexually liberated environment where the drinks flowed freely, the gambling was easy and the music was powerful.
Then came a revolution. Castro. The Bay of Pigs.
The embargo. Remember, no politics. There are variations on the Cuba Libre, all served under the same name.
One that will never again see the light of day was the original drink, as the Coca-Cola of the day gained extra zing by including in its ingredients a bit of a then-legal pharmaceutical - cocaine. Talk about a pick-me-up. Another variation, still mixed, combines rum, gin, Coca-Cola and a dash of bitters.
Whatever. It is a drink made to enjoy. Babaloo!
Just remember - no politics. Squeeze a lime in a Collins glass, add three ice cubes. Drop in the lime hull, and fill with Coca-Cola.
Stir. Then stir the drink.
Is primary medical care not alleviating your pain?
Paging Drs. Bombay, Gordon, Gilbey, Tanqueray and Schweppes. Please report to mixology - stat!
Take no chances. With the advent of mosquito season - that vile vampiric pest - it pays to be on the medicinally safe side of malaria. You would think that it was running rampant through the suburbs of America each summer, given the hot-weather consumption of gin and tonics - a drink once perceived as the medical answer to the disease.
The drink, distinctly British, is now hailed as a refreshing, aristocratic carrier of good cheer and a genteel contribution to The Cocktail Hour proper. Research reveals that the G T boasts not one, not two, but three ingredients originally conceived as having medicinal properties. As such, the sipping of a G T brings fresh perspective to the ritual of taking a precautionary dose of daily medicine.
The recipient will feel better, particularly if partaking of the adult dose, and do so with no loss of poise, equilibrium, reputation or civil liberties. Start with the double-secret ingredient - quinine. Quinine was and is quite bitter, but it was thought to help reduce the fever associated with malaria.
The ruling British colonials in India knew well that malaria could be a bit of a sticky wicket. They eventually figured out that quinine, which did not dissolve well in water, did a smashing job when mixed with a nip of gin - a tipple invented in Holland in 1650 that contained up to 10 botanical ingredients, most prominently juniper berries, hence the name "gin." In no time at all, once-stoic Englishmen were drunk, naked and running amok in the Indian moonlight, riding the odd elephant while extolling this wondrous new drink.
Exported back to Blighty, gin became so popular that in 1850, Londoners guzzled 11 million gallons in 5,000 gin palaces. In the 1880s, everything lined up. The Schweppes Company produced the first tonic water made with quinine.
On its own, this fizzy carbonated libation was quite unpleasant. But when mixed with gin and a twist of lime, a cornerstone of cocktail culture was born. Pip, pip.
Cheerio. Good show. The amount of quinine in a gin and tonic did nothing to prevent malaria.
No one cared. The fly swatter had been invented - and the drink was simple, not so manly as to intimidate the female tippler, and gloriously tasty. It still is.
Pour into a Collins glass filled with ice, add a twist of lime. Sip and let the sun shine in. (In a pinch, you can whip up the Gin Poovie, named after Lou Ann Poovie of Gomer Pyle fame.
This drunkard's dream substitutes limeade for tonic. Yee-haw!)
An axiom springs to mind each New Year's Eve, an evening of intense merriment and excess known in drinking circles as "amateur night.
" "Everyone should believe in something. I believe I'll have another drink." And why not?
Everybody else is doing it. "A martini? Why, sure.
Those Chocolate Grasshopper liqueur shots taste yummy, just like candy. I'll have a couple while the bartender makes me another Old-Fashioned. Time for champagne?
I'll have two - and another chocolate martini with a peppermint twist while you are at it. Say, is that my beer?" Please remember, as Dean Martin once said, "When you drink, don't drive.
Don't even putt." And also remember that no dawn cracks so cruelly as that of New Year's Day. The price of merriment must now be paid in full, and a terrible toll it is.
Meet The Hangover - fully equipped with pounding headache, lethargy and nausea. And one peculiar thing about New Year's Day - the law of gravity is often reversed. What went down so easy suddenly must come up, and quite violently.
The answer to this misery? Don't drink. But if you must, there are legions of purported cures, but as Robert Benchley once said, "There is no cure for the hangover, save death.
" And frankly, death is probably sounding pretty good to you right about now. There are (slightly) less lethal alternatives. There is the hair-of-the-dog remedy ("Take the juice of two bottles of whiskey, mix.
..").
There is the odd voodoo-like elixir (bourbon, raw eggs and Tabasco). There is the act of desperation (rub the juice of half a lemon under each armpit and drink a flat beer). Rocker Alice Cooper used to blend tuna fish, pistachio ice cream and milk.
It should also be noted that Cooper has been sober for 20 years. Nothing will repair the carnage but time. Sorry.
So grab a tall glass of water and mix up ...
some Alka-Seltzer. Do not add vodka. Follow the directions on the box.
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is. It's tradition. It won't cure a hangover, but it won't hurt, either.
So give it a try. Guzzle it down. Plop on the sofa.
Pray if so inclined. Turn that frown upside down. Then recline.
Good luck. You will need it.
Ah, the margarita, the saltiest of musical muses.
The late Warren Zevon ended his 1976 album Warren Zevon (the title is no reflection of his ingenuity) with a song called "Desperadoes Under The Eaves." The tune was the sort of typically wry portrait of and for the romantically despondent loser in which Zevon specialized - and this bit of zippy misery remains one of his best efforts. In the telling of this story of personal woe, Zevon, ensconced in a hotel bar, proclaims, "All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles, I'm gonna drink 'em up.
" He was a man of his word. He drank many, many margaritas - along with vodka, scotch, beer and gin - then liked to play with firearms. OK, the man had a problem.
But he eventually cleaned up, only to die last year of a non-margarita-related malady. There is a lesson to be learned somewhere in there. Then there was songwriter Jimmy Buffett, who immortalized the margarita as a state of mind - Margaritaville, in which the perpetually potted resident's ultimate quest was to find a lost shaker of salt.
Margaritaville is also Buffett's multimillion-dollar restaurant chain, the home of the $7 Cheeseburger in Paradise and, of course, a margarita, poured in its own suitable-for-purchase glass. Tequila, the foundation of the margarita, was as much an accessory for musicians in the 1970s as the barely disguised, ornamentally worn coke spoon. Margaritas were omnipresent and bottomless, the potable of precision drinkers.
It must be noted that The Eagles did try to ruin the good name of tequila by writing and popularizing the song, "Tequila Sunrise," a song that is as treacly, gimmicky and dubious as its namesake drink - the Earth shoes of tequila tipples. Few things are better than a cold, properly prepared margarita. And few things are worse than one made with cheap tequila and store-bought margarita mix.
Hi, boys and girls, can you say, "Vomit?" The proper margarita is made with 100 percent blue-agave tequila, also known as silver tequila. Don't waste the pricey high-end aged stuff - anejo tequila is meant to be sipped and savored, not slammed or chemically altered.
Store-bought mixes should be avoided. Consider yourself warned. Some people enjoy frozen margaritas, which is fine and dandy.
Just remember, to make a frozen margarita requires the use of a blender, which requires the use of electricity. As a general rule, mixing two volatile charges - tequila and electricity - should be avoided unless supervised by a trained (and sober) technician. Margaritas can be made by the pitcher or by the glass, which is infinitely easier and less dangerous.
They should be served in a chilled glass rimmed with lime juice and sea salt. Enjoy - and Happy National Margarita Day (Sunday). Place ingredients in shaker and strain into chilled glass that has been rimmed with lime juice and salt.
Straight, no chaser: By the honor of Jefferson-by-Dixie-Davis, no scoundrel or carpetbagger who is not from the Lord's glorious garden of these Southern United States - we're talking about Yankees, son, pay attention, now, I say keep your eye on the ball, boy - shall ever mix, or even contemplate serving, a Mint Julep. Ulysses S. Northerner may drink a Julep, but only to the glory of the superiority of Southern ingenuity.
The Mint Julep is a drink that is regarded as the most Southern of all cocktails. This tipple is so fly-swattin' Southern that you can't even read about it unless doing so while drawling at the speed of sap seeping from a Georgia pine. A Mint Julep is no mere intoxicant.
It is part of the heritage of the Old South, a libation emblematic of hospitality and genteel behavior. The making of a proper Julep - and that discussion alone can end in gunplay - is a ceremony to be undertaken with proper reverence for the ingredients and for the occasion for which the Julep is being made. The Mint Julep is not for everyday consumption.
It is a cherished symbol of a Grand Southern Event - the running of The Kentucky Derby, the annual equestrian competition between a select gathering of tiny men, clad in sissy clothes and bearing riding crops, astride large, galloping, snorting thoroughbreds. They are all competing for the Sacred Honor of the South - and a substantial cash award. This jocular peculiarity will happen Saturday at Churchhill Downs in Louisville, Ky.
Filthy rich honorary Kentucky Colonels, regal in their old money, white suits and Foghorn Leghorn accents, abound at this event. In the course of a single race, mere horses are suddenly transformed into stars, and winners into studs worth millions in moohlah (think a four-legged, more-intelligent, less-hairy Ron Jeremy ..
. on second thought, don't). Gawkers cheer on these mighty steeds by consuming healthy servings of deceptively potent Mint Juleps, traditionally served in silver Julep goblets (but in these trying times, the drink is served in everything from martini glasses to plastic goblets bearing a sponsor's name).
For all the Southern stars-and-bars hoo-hah that accompanies the creating, serving and gulping of the Julep - which is actually a kissin' cousin of the Cuban Mohito - it is interesting to note that the drink's basic origin dates back to ancient times. The Arabs called it "julab" and used it medicinally. The Portuguese called it "julepe" and the Latins called it "julapium.
" The origin of the true Southern Mint Julep is a matter of considerable debate. There is evidence that the drink was served in Georgia, Virginia, Maryland or North Carolina in the late 1700s and was made with rum, rye and other available spirits, which may or may not have come from rusty radiators. Some recipes call for shaved ice.
Others call for cracked ice. Some say to leave the mint leaves unmuddled in a glass in which sugar as been dissolved in pure spring water. Others say to freeze the glass/goblet, and lightly muddle the mint sprigs with sugar.
Either is correct, at least in our opinion. Whatever the recipe, 80,000 of them a year are served at Churchhill Downs. And that ain't just a-whistlin' "Dixie.
" In a bowl, place several fresh mint sprigs, I tablespoon of sugar and 1/4 ounce of water. Muddle, or lightly crush, mint leaves with a spoon and stir well. Pour the strained mixture into the chilled glass, then layer with more crushed ice.
Stir, place mint on top and enjoy before being put out to pasture.
Author Ernest Hemingway - "Papa" to a stable of friends, family and bartenders - was a disciple of "El Mojito," a rum drink that fueled his stumbling about Cuba. Of course, Papa would also guzzle, oh, rubbing alcohol, in a pinch during a particularly parched Happy Hour.
Happily, rum was and is plentiful in Cuba, so such drastic measures were presumably unnecessary. The mojito, or "The Mo" as the Abercrombie Fitch crowd call it, was named neither after the Stooge nor the tavern owner in The Simpsons. It probably does mean something in Spanish, but our English-to Spanish dictionary was confiscated at customs - not that we were anywhere near Cuba.
Honest. And the cigars were, um, Jamaican. At any rate, the mojito is the most Cuban of all Cuban cocktails, a mighty fine tipple, the perfect accompaniment to smoking a fine "Jamaican" cigar - or falling down a flight of crumbling Cuban steps.
(See plaques: "Ernest Hemingway fell down here.") The drink is a bit of a mongrel. In Cuba, as throughout the Carib-bean, drunken desperation is the mother of island invention.
The mojito washed up on our shores somewhere around 1910 - and speaking of washed up, no, there is no direct link between Hemingway and the drink other than his copious consumption of said potable. The drink is in part the zestier cousin of the Cuban daiquiri (the rum martini) and it is essentially The Draque (named after Sir Francis Drake), a tall drink once popular with the Cuban working class and made from rum, sugar, lime and mint. The mojito is relatively easy to make.
It has genteel Southern appeal in that it uses mint. And guys like it because they get to smash stuff - even before they drink the thing. Take a smallish Collins glass and muddle the juice of 1/2 lime with 1/2 teaspoon of bar sugar.
(Note to guys: "Muddle" is a fancy Big City Bartender word for mash. A muddle is actually a wooden bar tool, similar to a mortar, that is used to grind together ingredients. What fun!
) Take a few mint leaves and mush them against the side of the glass. Fill glass 2/3 of the way with cracked ice, then add two ounces of white rum. Toss in the squeezed lime, top with club soda or seltzer and, if feeling saucy, float a touch of aged dark rum on top for color and aroma.
The resulting drink is so tasty that, if consumed in copious quantity, it is possible to awaken at sea, floating toward Cuba on a raft made of inner tubes and refrigerator boxes. Just don't forget the rum.
North Carolina is famous for a few things: Tobacco, textiles, stock-car racing, Andy, Barney, Goober, Gomer, Otis and all the other good ol' boys of Mayberry.
...
Now, some of the men who made moonshine were farmers trying to make a little extra money. It was the entrepreneurial spirit of supply and demand, quenching the thirst of a discerning public. So, making moonshine could be looked at as a public service.
It could be - but it's not. Making moonshine was and is illegal. In the 1800s, Congress imposed a tax on whiskey, and North Carolinians took particular exception to it.
By1896, the government reckoned that up to 10 million gallons of 'shine were being sold annually in the North Carolina mountains. A special agency - unpopularly know as the "Revenuers" - was created to rustle out and arrest moonshiners and do away with their rocket fuel. Moonshine is pure alcohol.
You do not want to smoke and drink moonshine (which may explain the mystery of spontaneous combustion). And there was a time when the quality of moonshine was a little, well, troubling. Early on, kickapoo joy juice was extracted from stills constructed from old car parts, among other things.
The "mash" (the fermenting ingredients) often contained questionable ingredients including paint thinner and embalming fluid. Combined with the very real possibility of lead poisoning (you just never knew where that car radiator had been) an unwary tippler could be literally left blind and paralyzed. That's not likely to happen these days.
High-tech copper stills and carefully controlled ingredients - corn meal, sugar, water, yeast and malt - can yield a safer product. Just remember: There is a reason that moonshine has been called Liquid TNT. If inclined to try 'shine - and relish does not condone it - know its origins.
Remember, it's your liver, not ours, and unless you are David Crosby, new livers are hard to come by.
It has been said that prostitution is the world's oldest profession. If that's true, then playing five-string rhythm guitar for the Rolling Stones - Keith Richards' job - is next in line.
In fact, a good case could be made that in the past 23 years the Stones have skillfully combined the two professions. It is Richards' desire to leave every customer well-satisfied who comes to partake of the Stones' services. He works hard at it.
And to work hard, Richards has to be well fueled. The fueling of Richards with various combinations of potent powders, pills and elixirs is legendary. His lifestyle is so extreme that wags have been predicting his demise since 1970.
A doctor recently hired by Blender magazine to project the life spans of certain rockers based on their lifestyles deduced that Richards, who is 60, should have died in 1996. His astounded explanation: "I'm not sure how he does it. He defies all conventional wisdom.
" Ah, good morning Mr. Richards. Will you be having your transfusion by the pool or in the library, sir?
One theory is that the vampiric Richards survives by sucking the life out of other musicians. Another claims that Richards has ingested so many pharmaceuticals that he is indeed already dead; it is the abundance of medicines that keep him going. When they finally wear off - poof!
By all accounts, Richards has cleaned up his act, at least by his own standards. That said, he remains fond of using the quote, "I've never had a problem with drugs. I had a problem with police.
" For Richards, the recreational gulping of drink and drugs, by definition, is different from what it would be for a regular mortal. He admits that he no longer takes LSD and no longer partakes of heroin. And he has largely sworn off brown liquor - a major lifestyle change in that for at least 30 years he was never - NEVER - without a bottle of bourbon or Southern Comfort.
His new omnipresent drink is one of his own creation - necessity once again being the mother of invention. Richards calls his cocktail the Nuclear Waste - a seemingly ludicrous lubricant created by mixing Sunkist soda with premium vodka. Here is Richards' take on his drink, direct from his Web site: "It looks innocuous or deadly, depending on how you look upon it.
It just happened one day. I had some vodka and nothing to mix it with, so I flung it and said, 'Well, yeah, I can hang with this.'" There is no specific recipe, as nothing is measured in Richards' world.
The relish research team has deduced that a ratio of one-part chilled vodka to two-parts chilled Sunkist, poured in a glass with ice, is surprisingly palatable. That is almost certainly not the way that Richards would mix his drink, but, hey, I don't know anybody with Richards' constitution. So play it safe.
It's not called Nuclear Waste for naught.
Call it a comeback - Pabst Blue Ribbon is riding a resurgence. It's an unlikely and, frankly, unbelievable resurgence, but a resurgence nonetheless.
Thirsty members of Generation X have discovered the beer that once fueled the Allman Brothers Band. PBR has Web sites dedicated to it. Rockabilly revivalists swear by it.
And Good Ol' Boys have always known that there is nothing better than "Red Necks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer." Go to any watering hole where Real Men drink Real Beer (not some froufrou, high-dollar designer beer from Aspen made with fruit) to unwind after a hard day of working for The Man. Chances are great that someone at, or under, the bar will be clutching a can of PBR, a smile plastered on his face.
Pabst was the first brewery to put beer in cans; the cans were adorned with a can opener and instructions on how to use it - not a reflection of the intelligence of the consumer, but a handy visual aid. Rumor has it that the formula for PBR has been tinkered with - probably because Pabst, an independent brewery since 1844, was sold to the Miller Brewing Co. two years ago.
For whatever reason, Pabst does suddenly seem to taste better. It's cheap, it's light and not too bitter. And it doesn't taste, as do many American corporate beers, as if it should be poured back into the horse whence it came.
Go ahead, join the trend. Crack open a frosty PBR, "The Misunderstood Beer."
Easter.
It's a time to celebrate life, creation, rejuvenation. Why, just look at the images with which we are bombarded and accustomed to embracing. There are eggs, a symbol of birth, of life.
These eggs, particularly on Easter, are traditionally hidden. Those who find the egg are rewarded. Then there are the rabbits who tote the eggs.
Hmm. The Drinking Man, when hearing the word "rabbit," automatically translates "rabbit" to "bunny." From bunny, it's one small hop to the fantasy world of Playboy magazine, with its annual Easter Bunny - the judiciously stapled Miss April - and its warren of smiling, come-hither Bunnies.
For the uninitiated, the Playboy Philosophy - and, yes, there is one, even if it is not as cerebral as those put forth by Jung or Plato - views the bunny as synonymous with beautiful, friendly women of bountiful construction. It is no coincidence that Hugh Hefner, for 50 years the founder and pipe-smoking, pajama-wearing philanderer behind the Playboy empire, holds annual Easter Egg Hunts on the expansive lawn of the Playboy mansion. It's a standard Easter Egg Hunt, in that bunnies hide their eggs, which must be found by randy guests.
Cocktails are served and consumed with Roman elan. Soon, kind-hearted people are, if not actually procreating, practicing for said activity with glee and gusto. It really all makes sense, if viewed in a twisted, watch-out-for-lightning equation for hedonistic Easter fun.
The math is relatively simple: Eggs + Bunnies x multiple cocktails = a prolonged celebration of life, creation and, in the cases of some participants, rejuvenation. After careful consideration, it has been decided that the perfect Easter cocktail is The Presbyterian. The Presbyterian is simple, yet austere.
It takes the edge off an otherwise potent source of potential discord. It is, like its namesake, a delicate balance of fundamentalist extremes, faith and a moderate acceptance of change. It is Scotch, ginger-ale and club soda.
Why, you may ask, is this a perfect Easter drink - a perfectly valid question for which we have the flimsiest of reasoning. Scotch comes from Scotland. There are plenty of bunnies in Scotland - and the Presbyterian Church has its roots there.
No matter. This libation gives the harried adult something pleasant, refreshing and not too dangerous to sip as hordes of kids trample flowers and once-green lawns in search of cheap plastic Easter eggs, which will quickly be discarded so that you may better step on and stumble over them for the next three months until you hide them permanently in the trashcan. The history of the drink is a wee bit murky.
Its roots go back to 1885, when any good pub-bound necromancer in the British Isles would be mixing this elixir with brandy. Then came the invasion of Phylloxera vastrix, an insect with a taste for the grape - vine, that is. This insect version of Eliot Ness, chomping on the roots of the vines, virtually wiped out the grapevines of Europe, including those in the region where so-so wine is turned into fine cognac.
The ever-proud Scots, robbed of their brandy by the equivalent of a biblical plague, refused to embrace any of the swill from the Continent. They turned instead to Scotch whiskey. The somewhat odd name of the drink is no doubt a jab at the Calvinist-Puritan vigor of the then no-fun Presbyterian Church.
But The Presbyterian, a tall presence, represents a gentle spirit, a triumvirate, if you will, of intoxicating lure - perfect for Easter. Fill glass with ginger-ale and club soda in whatever ratio is pleasing to the palette.
It's Christmas Day.
Booze is gonna flow. There is no biblical precedence (but smart bets maintain that the Three Wise Men were packing full wineskins; they were, after all, wise). But permission is granted: "Making spirits bright," so goes the carol, virtually a command to liberate the liquor cabinet and serve 'em strong - with care.
Remember, this is a day of peace and good will - not an endless endurance test of drunken interfamily bickering, heaved crockery and dueling carving knives. OK, maybe it is. Still, drink responsibly and face the carnage with confidence.
Deny drinks that call for anything peppermint. Hurling is not a winter sport; that is curling. Demand tradition - homemade eggnog, the ingredients of which (raw eggs, whole milk, whipped or whole cream, sugar and multiple types of alcohol) will make your left arm tingle in anticipation.
Eggnog dates back to feudal England. The original grog was vile, a bad marriage of raw eggs and mead (think Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston). Valiant are today's variations on eggnog.
This recipe tastes great. It upholsters imbibers in a happy gauze of holiday tapestry. And it contains the word "Rappahannock.
" (Make guzzlers say it to get re-served.) Add sugar gradually; shot by shot, add the three liquors, followed by milk and whipped cream. Pour into serving bowl with attendant glasses.
Sprinkle with nutmeg. Shalom and Merry Christmas/Kwanzaa.
The sweaty pop singer, what's his name, Meat Ball, got it wrong back in the late 1970s.
Paradise ain't by the dashboard lights, baby - not unless your Buick is parked somewhere in the Bahamas. It's warm in January in the Bahamas. Think balmy.
Pink sand, brilliant blue sky and turquoise ocean. Cooling breezes. Vast expanses of palm trees.
Friendly islanders assure you at every turn that life, right then and there, is indeed not a dream, but every bit as grand as you think. Of course, you are also probably pleasantly plastered on some manner of tropical rum concoction that slides way too easily down lubricated gullets. But no worries, love.
You're on vacation! Rum is a tropical bounty built around fermented sugarcane and molasses. It is the perfect potable to recondition the human spirit in three sips, and to alter consciousness in three drinks.
There is no shortage of rum-based choices - from aged anjeo sipped with lime to such ominously named cocktails as The Antichrist to the versatile daiquiri. But in the Bahamas, bartenders urge improvisation. A dear friend - let's call her Bahama Mama - just returned from the islands.
While there, she and some friends, inspired by Freeport's random spirit of adventure and the expense of the bar, purchased their own rum and a variety of ingredients, and invented a cocktail. The ignoble drink was dubbed, after much experimentation and celebration, the Rum Cochina, the Hispanic title of which roughly translates, at least in this case, to the Rum Bad Girls. Such is the lazy giggle of Bahamian life that said drink was not made with a blender and readily available fresh fruits - such bother!
Rather, take various fruit concentrates - orange-mango, cranberry-tangerine - mix with rum, then add a splash of grapefruit juice. Exact proportions of juice to hooch were not maintained, but rough estimates call for one part rum to two parts fruit juice. Such bar math doesn't matter - that's the beauty.
The drink tasted great. It did its job. Bahama Mama and friends swayed in the breeze with the palms, smiles on faces, no worries on the horizon.
A good time was had by all. And that is what rum in the Bahamas is all about.
Desperate times often call for desperate measures.
The cash flow has dribbled to an all-time low. It's Friday night, Date Night No. 1, and there simply aren't enough shekels under the mattress for dinner and a nice bottle of wine.
What's a player to do? Turn the lights down low - real low - run down to the local convenience store, and climb aboard The Night Train. No corkscrew necessary, and you get enough change back from your $2 wine investment to afford that extra order of fries at the fast-food drive-through.
Cheap, screw-top wine. Serve not just chilled, but well chilled. And for God's sake, don't swish it around in your mouth.
This stuff is made for guzzling. Presentation? No problem.
All you need is the brown-paper sack it was sold in, and you're good to go. Why, back in the day, the imbibing of said liquid painkiller was practically a rite of passage. Get together with friends, turn up the eight-track - some songs by Canned Heat would be appropriate - and pass the sack.
Good times, good times. "What's the word - Thunderbird. What's the price - 50 twice.
" Thunderbird once had such a preferential reputation among bluesmen that the J. Geils Band, upon Making It Big in the 1970s, required all promoters to provide the band with a gallon of T-Bird and some grapefruit juice. Of course, you can also pet the Mad Dog, just beware of the bite.
Discover to your dismay that Stagger Lee is more than a classic R B song. Visit Boone's Farm. Embrace the Ripple effect.
This $2 elixir - Ripple was the drink of choice for Bubba, Grady and Fred Sanford - was once so popular as to inspire the Grateful Dead to write a song about its magical properties. (Never mind that the Dead's keyboard player, Pigpen, died of cirrhosis of the liver before the age of 30.) And for that extra-special occasion, splurge and spend, oh, $3, on a bottle of Champale, or a delicious Cold Duck.
Oh, stop it. Cut the snobbery. We've all been there.
And guess what? Even if you are a namby-pamby connoisseur of fine wine, chances are you are heading back there again. A number of fine wines by legitimate wineries are eschewing the cork stopper and reverting to the venerable screw top.
The reasons for the switch are many - from the poor quality of cork to environmental concerns to a growing belief that screw tops are more air-tight, thus preserving the wine and allowing it to age with grace and dignity. And the screw top, as used by Boony Doon winery in San Francisco, actually has a trademarked name - the Stelvin. Who knew?
Face it - to open a screw top requires no complicated gizmos, no superhuman strength or dexterity. All you need is a thumb and forefinger - and intestinal fortitude.
The sweet taste of French seduction ("Your eyes are like the limpid pools of desire" - Pepe Le Pew).
The casually suave essence of George Clooney having a flirtatious barroom dalliance with a beautiful British vixen, say, oh, Miranda Richardson. A collision between a chauffeured Rolls Royce carrying Madonna, a chauffeured Bentley bearing Sir "Ellie" John, and a brand-new lime-green Toyota driven, on the wrong side of the road, by Britney Spears. A tangled mix of powerhouse elegance, temperamental sweetness and natural tartness.
Such is The Sidecar - classy, brash and sensuous, a post-Prohibition-era sip of a cocktail that marries the liqueur Cointreau, a choice cognac and fresh-squeezed lime juice. The French and the British argue, as usual, over who invented the drink, but it doesn't really matter beyond the legend of how the drink got its name. Supposedly, a dusty officer in World War I, traveling by motorcycle, was shuttled up to a bar while sitting in a sidecar.
He demanded a drink to warm his countenance, thus the creation of the trifecta known as The Sidecar. The drink is aromatic, the color of golden straw, and it tastes divine - a perfect marriage of sweetness and a love bite. 1 oz.
fresh-squeezed lime juice (this is crucial) Mix 3 tablespoons of sugar and three tablespoons boiling water together until sugar is dissolved. Add cognac, Cointreau and lime juice. Shake well with cracked ice and strain into a chilled martini glass that has had its rim rubbed with lime juice and dipped in sugar.
Serve with a lime twist.
Mexican legend has it that tequila was created when a lightning bolt struck the heart of an agave plant, cooking the succulent shrub and naturally fermenting its juice. A gift from Aztec gods, the subsequent distillate - thick, milky, crude, harsh but wildly intoxicating - was dubbed pulque.
This potent beverage, also called vino maguey, was at best a distant cousin of, say, lighter fluid. Drink too much of this sacred sauce, saith the legends, and visions of snakes and devils would dance in your head. In this regard, not much has changed.
As with any distilled spirit, the quality of tequila (named after the town where the first distillery was built) improved over time. Today, exquisite aged tequilas (the expensive ones) are judged the same as fine scotch or brandy - a drink to be sipped and savored. Then there is cheap tequila, generally found at any cantina where fisticuffs are actively encouraged.
The preferred method of imbibing among tequila barflies is by the shot. Place salt between thumb and forefinger. Lick the salt, toss back the tequila, suck a slice of lime, curse (optional), then shiver and/or convulse.
Do this one or two times, you are having fun. Do it three or more times, and you could be fighting. Do repeatedly as body shots - place the salt somewhere on the body of a willing and reclining partner, place the shot on his or her belly, place the lime between your partner's lips - well, you get the picture.
With a tequila shot, chances are great that you will end up blen pedo (blotto), at which point you will likely utter such slurred important pronouncements as, "No tengo ritmo; me ayudas a encontrar el paso?" (I have no rhythm; can you help me find the beat?).
Joughlin was in the galley when the Titanic danced dirty with an iceberg and was disqualified. In the time-honored maritime tradition, he took a dip with the sinking ship - not that he had any choice. Fickle fate.
Joughlin was the sole surviving shipmate plucked from the 28-degree water. The baker, sensing his biscuits were cooked, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, guzzled it, and prepared to head to the deep-freeze of Davy Jones' Locker in a relaxed, if not wholly dignified, manner. Doctors said that Joughlin survived because he was (a) plastered, and (b) rotund, which, when combined, kept him warm and afloat in the icy brine.
So there you have it: The invention of whiskey on the rocks - even if the whiskey did meet the ice ever-so-slightly after the fact. OK, OK, the drink had been around. But it was years of fine tuning that made it The Only Drink of Frankie "The Stick" Sinatra, a singing connoisseur of such matters: Four ice cubes, three fingers of whiskey - no water.
Period. If The Leader wanted water, as he famously told a hapless barkeep, he would stay home and bathe. Which brings us to the Whiskey Smash.
It is a well-named cocktail in that its brazen befouling of the sacrosanct sauce of the Rat Pack would have sent Sinatra reeling into a Chairman-esque fit of pique. ("Yo! Jilly!
Take this cuckoo drink out to the Caddoo and make sure it never returns, capisce? Dino, drop that broad, get up and smash something besides yourself, baby.") Sinatra was wrong.
(He's still dead, right?) OK, now it can be said, even repeated - Sinatra was wrong. There are plenty of Abercrombie Fitch libations that dishonor the good name of whiskey - the foulest being The Whiskey Milk Punch - but the Whiskey Smash is white-suit Southern elegant.
It is a miniature Mint Julep, a training exercise for Kentucky Derby Day, tweaked for individuality. It is a vivacious brunch cocktail, easy to make, and, yes, still manly in that it requires muddling (oafish smashing of ingredients). Ingredients vary, but, when using a quality whiskey - different from bourbon in that whiskey goes through a charcoal-mellowing process - less is generally more.
Notable exceptions aside, keep the fruit in the cereal bowl and out of the whiskey glass. The Whiskey Smash is a fine drink. But "The Chattering Charles" - or whiskey on the rocks ("neat" doesn't apply in this circumstance) - remains preferred when on sinking ships, literal or metaphorical.
4 mint leaves, one sprig of mint Add whiskey, then strain into an Old Fashioned glass. Add a twist of lemon if desired. Garnish with mint sprig.
(Some recipes allow for garnishing with a combination of cherries and oranges. Have some dignity. Don't.
)
To anyone who has seen the movie The Big Lebowski, the White Russian is no mere cocktail. The White Russian is the Food of The Dude, a vaguely Jesus-like hipster who beatifically stumbles through life, unkempt and in his robe, with this sweet, creamy libation perpetually in hand. As sayeth The Dude, "The Dude abides.
" The Dude also imbibes, constantly, consistently and casually. He exists for White Russians. It is a spiritual thing, the drink a religious icon.
When once being manhandled into a waiting car, The Dude, White Russian in hand and wisps of cream dripping from scraggly mustache, looks up at the goon shoving him into the car and says, "Hey, careful man, there's a beverage here!" Such is the grip of the White Russian. A White Russian can be different things to different people.
It is the name of a prize-winning botanical hybrid that won the 1996 Best Cannabis Cup (who knew?). It is also the name of a breed of dwarf hamster (who cares?
). For purposes of libation, the White Russian is a whistle-wetter that mixes, in malleable proportions, vodka, Kahlua and heavy cream (or milk). It can be served shaken and poured over ice in an Old Fashioned glass.
One school maintains that the vodka and Kahlua must be poured over ice cubes, the cream floated (poured slowly over a teaspoon turned bottom-side up) on top. Whatever. The results are the same - a gloom-lifter from the Land of Rasputin that is of questionable reputation and unquestionable yumminess.
The roots of the White Russian date to the 1920s and The Barbara, a sissified blend of vodka and creme de cacao. By the 1950s, Kahlua mercifully replaced the creme and the drink took on a more manly moniker - The Russian Bear. Then came the White Russian, with all its Cold War implications, tasty enough to fool a teetotaler, deadly enough to stun a lush.
According to Esquire writer Dave Wondrick, failing to take this drink seriously is more than stupidity - it is denial. Maybe so, but it is sweet and tasty denial. Add 2 oz.
vodka (preferably premium) and 1 ounce Kahlua, then gently stir. Float 1/2 oz. heavy cream (or milk) over the top.
Marvel at how quickly and smoothly it goes down.
It's Thanksgiving. Chaos reigns.
Extended family is due in. The bird is too big for the oven. No, no, no - canned cranberry won't do.
Nerves are frayed, the fuse is lit, meltdown is imminent. It's time to pick up the Turkey. Heed its sirenlike call, as it sits there on the shelf, gleaming, all golden brown and elegant, awaiting you, the soon-to-be-suffering holiday victim, to liberate it.
Oh mighty hunter and gatherer, have a word with the bird. Peace is but a shot away - if it's a shot of Wild Turkey 101. Wild Turkey is a gentleman's Kentucky bourbon whiskey.
An aromatic, rich bourbon, aged to perfection in charred white-oak barrels. It's perfect for Thanksgiving, as its origins date back to a turkey hunt held by distiller Thomas McCarthy. McCarthy's buddies liked his private stock so much that they demanded more, thus giving birth to the aptly named Wild Turkey in 1940.
Of course, bourbon can be used in any manner of distinguished drinks, but the sweetness and manly bite of Wild Turkey practically begs for it to be consumed by the shot - though sipped, perhaps with a splash of cold water or a cube of ice, is certainly acceptable. But on Thanksgiving ..
. Auntie Mimi arrives with Fidel, her chronically flatulent Chihuahua. That's worth a shot.
...
You walk by your recently divorced sister, who is talking about setting free her inner man - with hormones and surgery...
. No one would deny you two shots. Or three.
One shot glass. Fill with Wild Turkey. Open mouth and drink.
Shiver, if you must. Repeat as necessary.
The Zombie walks, the Zombie talks.
And if he drinks more than two of his namesake, the Zombie falls down - a lot. The Zombie is a ubiquitous mix of fruit juice, various rums and pure undiluted evil (thus its devilishly red color). It belongs to the genre of the "tiki" drink.
Judged by name and genre, it would be logical to assume that this high-test tropical tipple is native to Haiti, the Caribbean clearing house for all things voodoo-related. But it was actually cooked up in the late 1930s by Don the Beachcomber, a Hollywood restaurateur who evidently had some ax to grind. It was showcased and popularized by a numb nation at the 1939 World's Fair in New York.
It is easy to discern how this drink got its name: Mix a few and give to friends. Soon, they will be stiff, staggering and lurching, eyes glazed as a doughnut, arms outstretched - exactly like the undead extras in Night of the Living Dead. Gulping a Zombie (nobody sips one; it's impossible) redefines drunk.
Note: No two bartenders make this liquid time bomb exactly the same way beyond the overdose of rum. If you must play with Zombies, this really doesn't matter. If you decide to have more than two - not recommended and heaven help you - call for paramedics before imbibing.
Really. No kidding. Stir together 1 oz.
white rum, 1 1/2 oz. golden rum, 1 oz. dark Jamaican rum, the juice of one lime and 1/2 oz.
pineapple juice (or orange juice). Pour into a chilled Hurricane glass, goblet or a 14-oz. glass that is 3/4 full of cracked ice.
Float 1/2 oz. of 151 proof rum. To do this, pour the rum into a spoon and gently lower it beneath the surface of the drink.
If so moved, the drink can then be set on fire. Garnishes vary wildly. They include mint dipped in lime juice and bar sugar, and fruit (lemon slices, pineapple wedges and maraschino cherries).
Add straw and pray.
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