One Hell of a Whiskey Sour

If you are not careful, your life can take on a life of its own.  I woke up early on a Saturday morning not long ago and realized I had spent a good portion of the month talking about molly bolts and plaster walls to anyone who would listen, or pretend to.  I do not want to be the kind of person who, when asked how she is doing, starts talking about the problems she is having with her drapes.

But a lot has been going on lately.  My grandmother, the matriarch of our family, passed away just shy of her ninety-fifth birthday. 

My little brother got married. 

Brett and I also bought a condo in Boston. 

If I had to sum up the process as a first-time home buyer in a city without ample housing, I would liken it to looking for lodging on the island from Lord of the Flies after getting a partial lobotomy.  You are forced to use a new set of vocabulary you do not understand. Advanced degrees and personal triumphs become meaningless. Other buyers become the enemy.

In the end it just feels like you are lighting money on fire.

Suffice to say thinking about food, and then writing about it, has not been at the top of my list. I recently started cooking again and will have actual meal suggestions soon, but in the meantime I have more booze for you. 

Almost six years ago to the day, on my old site, I offered up a bourbon sour recipe.  It involves shaving the skin off a couple lemons with a surgeon’s precision and then letting those skins sit in sugar, while you bash them every so often to release their essential oils.  The result is lovely.  It also takes a while.

I have not had an exuberance of time, so the world’s most technical sour recipe is not going to cut it theses days.  Also, we prepared this new version in batches after my grandmother’s funeral as a tribute to her love of whiskey sours. It more than got the job done.

This is not an overly precious cocktail.  But it has a nice citrus backbone, uses ingredients that are easily procured, and avoids those premade mixes that arrive in a parakeet-like hue. It can also be made and drank quickly.  The original instructions included an egg white, which these days I leave off.  Mostly because I feel too fragile for the threat of salmonella.  I suspect this is how my grandmother would have preferred the drink anyway.

Cheers to you, Grammie A.

Whiskey Sour

Ingredients:

• 2 ounces whiskey (I still prefer bourbon), see notes
• 1 ounce fresh lemon juice
• ¾ ounce simple syrup, see recipe below
• ice (at least 5 cubes)

simple syrup

In a medium saucepan, combine equal parts water and sugar (I typically use a ratio of 1 cup sugar to 1 cup water). Set on medium heat and stir occasionally until sugar dissolves.  Allow to cool to room temperature and then store in the refrigerator until needed.

Instructions:

In a cocktail shaker, combine whiskey, lemon juice, and simple syrup with two or three ice cubes.  Shake vigorously (count to 10 while shaking).  Strain into a glass with more ice.

Makes one drink

Notes:

1. Two ounces of whiskey makes a cocktail that is on the stronger side.  If you prefer a more modest drink, use 1½ ounces of booze instead.  Regardless, ice is an important component in this drink, as it helps with dilution.  If you are making a big batch of sours, instead of shaking drinks individually with ice, you will want to use the following ratio: 2 ounces whiskey, 1 ounce lemon juice, ¾ ounce simple syrup, and ¼ ounce water per person.
2. Recommended bourbons include: Noah’s Mill (note this is slightly higher in alcohol than the others), Four Roses, and Bowman Brothers.
3. Occasionally, I make this recipe with a rich simple syrup, which uses a ratio of two parts sugar to one part water.  Just depends which version we have in the fridge.  Both are good.
4. The pictures from my brother's wedding are from Calypso Rae Photography. Please be advised they look even better on her site.

Don Swan and the Presidential Tiki

In a corner of my kitchen there is a crinkled drink recipe that looks like it was shoved into a wallet during the Bush administration.  It is covered with blurred blue inkblots, a casualty of errant droplets from cocktail shaking. The instructions have been asterisked and annotated.  In truth it has only existed a couple of months, though its worth could easily expand to cover decades of presidential destruction.  The paper is already well worn.

Its inspiration came from Blossom Bar, one of my favorite Boston-area restaurants.  I have wanted to go to its sister location, The Baldwin Bar, in Woburn. Mostly because they sell a large drink served in a giant smoking swan.

But The Baldwin exists outside the bounds of public transportation.  I feel very strongly that no one should drink and then drive—and also believe no one should have to forgo the pleasure of consuming aperol from a communal copper swan vessel—so I have not yet determined how to make that dream a reality. 

No matter: Blossom bar to the rescue. The restaurant is a magical place where Sichuan food and thoughtful cocktails come to vacation. The decor is awash in sea foam green, wood paneling, and stone.  Everything is both intensely pleasurable and fun.

Though it does not come in waterfowl glassware, they have a drink called Angie Valencia, which features both aperol and aguardiente—a Columbian liquor that I have previously drunk only once. The slightly sweet licorice-tasting spirit is colloquially called firewater and often taken as a shot.  So I obliged and behaved like a native.

This aguardiente was a little more mild-mannered, served as a tiki with the inclusion of papaya and kaffir.  It was very good but still gone in 60 seconds. Since it quickly became apparent slamming thirteen dollar-drinks would not be a sustainable habit, Brett agreed to try and replicate it at home. We tested many versions and ended with a cocktail that contained a similar herbal, slight anise flavor with a tropical backbone.

Our drink does not require the creation of specialty syrups, nor the procurement of produce that cannot be commonly found in grocery stores across the country.  Though I am someone who purposely singles out black jellybeans, I am confident even the anise-haters that walk among us will welcome this cocktail. We used Herbsaint, which is higher in alcohol than aguardiente, but any variety of similarly flavored spirits should work.

To make it you will need two fistfuls of ice and something to smash it with, so the cubes break into classic tiki-sized shards.  Then shake together a variety of liquors you might not currently keep around, but will soon require on a regular basis.  Garnish with a small bouquet of mint—Brett recommends thwapping it on the table to release its fragrant oils.

Naming a cocktail is nearly the best part about making one.  It turns out Angie Valencia was a Colombian lingerie model and infamous drug smuggler.  Our namesake is similarly paradoxical and a bit of a long story. Suffice to say it involves dressing up a pink metallic swan to look like our current president, complete with his classic orange hair and scotch-taped red tie.  The rest, well, speaks for itself.

It is a peach-hued drink that tastes of spring.  Like the season, it won’t last long.  No problem.  Just go ahead and pour yourself another. Unlike the president, it is quite palatable.

The Don Swan

Ingredients:

• ¾ ounce fresh lime juice
• ¾ ounce orgeat
• ½ ounce Montenegro amaro
• ½ ounce rum (see note)
• 1¼ ounces aperol
• 2¼ teaspoons anise-flavored liquor (e.g. Herbsaint or Pernod)
• Fresh mint leaves, for garnish

Instructions:

Place 6 or 7 ice cubes in a plastic freezer bag and bang with a rolling pin to crush them to no bigger than marble-sized pieces.  Pour into a 12-ounce glass and place into the freezer to chill.

Combine all ingredients, except the mint, in a cocktail shaker with 2 additional ice cubes.  Shake about 10 seconds.  Pour into the chilled glass.

Garnish with a bunch of mint leaves wedged into the side of the glass.

Makes 1 cocktail

Notes:

1. Plantation pineapple rum is fabulous here.  Mostly, you’ll want to use a decent rum—opt for one that has been aged in oak for a richer caramel flavor.
2. If you can find aguardiente, I am sure it can be substituted for the other anise-flavored liquors though it will be less potent.

An Italian Greyhound in California

In late September Brett and I took a trip to California.  I had visited the state twice before.  The first time was a brief excursion to Los Angeles with a couple friends after college graduation.  We stayed in a hotel that had an empty black and yellow library and a cabana where we could order sixteen-dollar martinis from our actress waitress and where I felt my breasts were under constant attack.

Then I went for my thirtieth birthday with some close work friends.  We spent most of our time in Healdsburg visiting wineries seemingly curated for thirtysomethings who are unimpressed by big Napa cabs and feel a deep gravitational pull to stop and eat sandwiches at a dusty general store. My breasts felt much more at home, although they were tipsy most of the time.

This trip Brett and I split our time evenly between San Francisco and Wine Country.  In Sonoma we overheard a Californian complaining about the muggy weather on a sunny 79-degree day with 60-percent humidity.  It was then that I decided I loved California and could probably live in one of those mid-century modern houses with floor to ceiling windows if I was less neurotic and not so preoccupied with The Big One.

One afternoon, we arrived to a wine tasting at Outland in downtown Napa to find that it was not yet open, despite their advertised hours suggesting otherwise. When someone finally arrived, I was won with generous—one might say too generous—pours and became convinced, at least for a little while, that California was the land of the carefree. 

A notion that has since been extinguished with the recent fires there. 

The whole world seems to be on fire these days and writing about food has felt like both a welcome distraction and also utterly inconsequential.  I thought about scrapping this post all together, but the recent events do not change that we were treated beyond hospitably on our trip and saying so seemed okay, necessary even. 

Our first night, we stayed at an inn in the Mission District in San Francisco.  It had a rooftop view of the city and free apertifs in the parlor, stored in glass bottles with silver port and sherry nametags.  Still on East Coast time, I was up at 6 a.m. and witness to the most ornate complimentary breakfast the world has ever seen.  Lit silver candlesticks sat on a corner piano surrounded by hardcover books and sepia photos.  Cured meats were rolled and arranged like a wagon wheel.  And there was soft salty butter the size of baseballs to be knifed and spread on banana bread.

Another morning we ate chilaquiles at El Molino Central, which is the only thing they serve before 11 a.m. This was a happy accident.  The avocado, sour cream, and beans that accompanied the crispy bits were so creamy and fresh and we ate at picnic tables with umbrellas that shielded us from that awful California 70-something degree sun.

On our last night in San Francisco, we had a pizza that I will now judge all other pizzas by. It came studded with small salami slices with just the right amount of oil pooled in their circular centers.  We also split an order of roasted cauliflower with a vibrant vadouvan spinach sauce and ended with a buttery chocolate panettone that our waitress assured was better than their raisin counterpart.

But the most tangible memory I took home was a blueprint for an Italian Greyhound from a bar called Trick Dog.  What you need to know about the place—aside from its recent win of World’s Best Cocktail Menu—is that it has friendly bartenders and a wide-open bar at 3 p.m., which is now my favorite time to drink because I am getting older and can actually hear my companion at this hour. They refresh their menu every six months and currently have a purchasable version written in the style of a children’s book.  The proceeds go to McSweeney’s, one of my favorite publishers and the host of this perennial classic.

As we sat, I watched the bartender pour three fingers worth of Punt e Mes into a highball. The cocktail has all of four ingredients, including accoutrements for the rim—which is a necessity—plus ice cubes.  This brevity meant it was a drink I could easily make.  And if you can procure the Italian aperitif and grapefruit soda you can too.

It is slightly bitter—both the amaro-leaning spirit and the grapefruit ensure that.  But it is also sweet and bubbly, plus a little salty, and this is the kind of drink I am after these days.  The cocktail is low in alcohol too, which is a refreshing option to ensure one is not easily anesthetized into drunkenness. This is not the time for that.

This is the time to feel alive.

Italian Greyhound

Ingredients:

• Sea salt (for the rim)
• Lime or lemon juice (for the rim)
• 2 ounces Punt e Mes
• 4 ounces grapefruit soda (see note)
• 2 to 3 ice cubes

Instructions:

Select a highball glass (be sure the one you select holds about 10 ounces).

Pour about a tablespoon or two of salt on a small plate (you won’t use it all, but you’ll need a generous portion so it easily sticks to the glass). 

On another small plate, pour a little lime or lemon juice (again about a tablespoon or so).  Hold your glass at a 45-degree angle and dip it so that the outer edge gets wet, turning it as you go until you are back where you started.  Repeat the process with the salt.  (This is a good guide.)

Add the ice cubes and your liquids.  Mix with a cocktail spoon (flatware will also work in a pinch).

Makes 1 drink

Note:

1.  I used Alta Palla soda (it contains actual grapefruit juice and hails from San Francisco). Trick Dog used Jarritos.