Highlander

LB makes another guest photographer appearance!

It's been a long, late winter with colds, sinus infections, ear infections and ruptured eardrums.  So there hasn't been a lot of desire to get the party on.  But Dilettante's hearing is back to about 90%, spring is springing, the Red Umbrella Rooftop has been reset for the approaching season and the shakers are chilling!

Over the years our neighbor friend, LB (of He Shot, She Shot fame!), and I have developed a bit of a tradition.  We call it a "shaker visit".  Shaker visits typically happen when one or both of us are so busy with work that we can't properly hangout together.  But we recognize the importance of a small break to be social, recharge our creative batteries, and then get back to matters at hand.  It works this way:  I go to the bar, select a cocktail, and mix it up in a shaker or mixing glass.  Then I grab two glasses and hop the elevator to her floor.  A short walk down the hall and I knock on her door.  When she opens the door I flash a smile and say, "Shaker visit!"  LB invites me in and I pour two servings from the shaker.  The visit lasts only as long as the cocktail, which is a necessary constraint if there's work to be done because we have exactly zero problem hanging out for hours and hours being silly and solving the world's problems.  Then it's back to work whether we like it or not!

LB is my inspiration for my own photography.
Here she captured "my process".

Even though last night was Date Nite, with all the sickness and end-of-winter doldrums, I've been missing my LB (& my buddy, Rocky!) and thought a shaker visit was a nice work-around.  So I snuck down to their place a bit early and squeezed one in before The Husband got home from work.  I selected something to kick Friday night off right and proper.  In the past few weeks, when I've been in the mood for hard liquor, I've been in much more of a traditional vein.  PDT and Death & Co. are great books and all.  But they can be a bit hipster fussy.  So I've been mixing from The Bible again.  The Highlander made the cut to take down to LB's place.  I must have been drinking already, because I swear the recipe said rye.  So that's what I used.  But when I got home and looked at the book again, turns out it calls for scotch.  Though the rye worked quite nicely.  The Highlander is as smooth as butter with a respectable sweetness.  The first one I made sans cherry.  La douxième avec.  Frankly, I could distinguish no difference in flavor.  Though it did add to the Highlander's already jewel-like quality.

I'm sure in some corners folks call this a rye Manhattan.  But a rose by any other name....  And speaking of roses, it was most excellent hanging out with you, my dear LB...and of course, Rocky!  xoxo


Highlander
1 oz. whisky (or, as it turns out, rye makes for a tasty variation)
1 oz. sweet vermouth
2 dashes orange bitters

Stir in a mixing glass with lots of ice.  Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.  Garnish with a maraschino cherry.

And with my photo, it's officially
a He Shot, She Shot shaker visit!

Flor de Jalisco

I come from a family that loves food.  We enjoy cooking and baking.  We like eating too.  But I think what it's really all about is everyone getting together around the table to laugh and enjoy each others' company.  Luckily, we have many good cooks in the family, so the eating ain't nothing to complain about!  And with a number of funny storytellers the laughter is constant and the company good company to keep!

After finally giving in to the Dark Side and signing up on Facebook a year ago, I've come to regret that decision more often than not.  But the one way FB has been a pleasure is the group to which my sister signed me up.  It's our Cousins Cooking Club.  We cousins are spread all across the country and the globe.  From out ancestral New York & New Jersey all the way to New Zealand, with stops in Pennsylvania, Chicago, Denver, and Seattle.  (Holler, because I'm sure I missed some!)  A virtual schmear across the planet.  Sadly, geography separates us.  But food and the joy of cooking maintain the connections.  And as much as I'm loathe to admit it, Facebook has facilitated some fun connections among a bunch of people who are related but spread way too far apart.

Since Dilettante has resurfaced yet again, I've been posting on Facebook and on the Cousin's Cooking Club.  Last week's post caused a cuz to speak up.  So this week's featured spec is courtesy of cousin Mary Anne who generously suggested another use for our new coupes.  Y aquí está: Flor de Jalisco.

In a word, num!  In The Husband's words, "It's a margarita!"  (Ok, kinda.  But flor de jalisco sounds more... elevated.)  Since we don't like sweet drinks I initially thought I'd try it without the agave.  But I believe in a baseline, so I always start with a recipe as it's written before I go monkeying with it. But as it turns out, no monkeying required.

Delish.  Make this, like, now.  Thanks, Mary Anne!  I'm thinking "Mary Anne's Flor de Jalisco" could be the featured loopy juice on the 2017 Red Umbrella Rooftop!

Flor de Jalisco
2 oz. blanco tequila
3/4 oz. lemon juice
1/2 oz. agave
1 t. orange marmalade

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice.  Add all the ingredients and shake well.  Strain into chilled coup and garnish with an orange twist.

Southside

Seems there's always something that gets in the way of a return to blogging.  This time it was the fact that the electoral college is about to put an authoritarian Cheeto with the expressive capacity of a 9 year-old, tiny hands, and a bad comb-over in the White House.  After waking up on November 9th to find we'd slipped into an alternate quantum reality, I simply didn't feel like doing frivolous things, like blogging about booze.  Drinking to escape seemed about all I could muster.  But a month on in this new bizzaro world and we're starting to find respite in the quotidian...for as long as that lasts.

So, on to it....

As the second snowfall of the season came down last night, I booted up Netflix on the ol' 60-inch to settle in and watch a movie.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed The Husband rummaging through the growing pile of UPS boxes collecting around the front door.  Next thing, he's standing in front of me holding one out.

"What's this?"

"Merry Christmas, a little early.  I figured you should open this now so you can enjoy it."

I've been saying how much I love coups -- which are all the rage lately on the trendy bar scene.  So I was totally stoked when I opened up the box to find a black Waterford box inside.  And inside that were two huge lead crystal coups.  Strong, deep cuts form a ring of diamonds and rays around the bottom of a massive bowl so big you could serve soup in them.  With a smooth base and stem this vessel sits nice and heavy in the hand.  All very masculine for cut crystal.

I passed them off to The Husband to rinse out while I sprinted to the bar to leaf through PDT.  The only requirement on this bev were the words "serve in a chilled coup glass".  The first one I landed on was Southside.

I didn't expect to like this at all.  I am not a gin fan and there were not enough other ingredients to mask it.  And we all know how The Husband feels about too much citrus in his tipple.  But hey, it was all about the coup, so we were prepared to suffer through it.  Yet on the first sip we both looked at each other, eyes wide and said in unison, "Wow!  This is good!!"

A perfect, smooth, balance of all the ingredients.  Truly, liquid satin in a glass.

Then the three ultimate raves from The Husband:  "Oh, you're definitely doing this one again.  I could drink these all night!  Put it on the blog!"

Et voilà!  Un autre retour....

Southside
2 oz. gin
.75 oz. lemon juice
.75 oz. simple syrup
4 mint leaves

Muddle the syrup with the mint.  Then add the rest of the ingredients and shake.  Serve with no garnish in chilled coup glass!  (PDT suggests double straining, but I like the flecks of mint confetti in the finished product!)

Flor de Jerez

For a fraction of a second the ice cubes went completely airborne -- having left the scoop and not yet landed in the martini shaker.  When they did land, they did so as a single mass and clattered into the bottom of the tin.   Scoop buried to the hilt in the ice bin at the same time the shaker hit the bar at the end of a line of six bottles.

"AND THEN HE STARTS CALLING ME BARBARELLA!  BARBARELLA!!!  BAR-BAR-EL-LA!" Katie smacked out each syllable on her side of the bar.  The bartender just looked at her and nodded.  The corners of his mouth tugged upward in a small polite smile that never made it to his eyes.

"You're kidding," he said.  "And were you in a bar at the time?"

"YES I WAS IN A BAR --WE WERE IN A BAR.  THASHOWISTARTED...STARTED THE STORY..."  Katie took another pull from her margarita straw.  It took her two tries to get her hands to grab the heavy glass goblet.

"You were shouting in a bar, and he called you Barbarella," shaking his head, he put both hands on the bar like a couple of buttresses and locked directly onto Katie's eyes.  The sincerity was way over the top, walking right to the line of sarcasm.  "Men can be so cruel."  Then as if someone threw a switch, he went right back to his crafting.

"I KNOW!  RIGHT?!

"Katie, dear.  You're shouting.  The room just isn't that loud."

"AUNT GIIIIINA!" Katie squealed and tumbled off her barstool.  She bounced a bit in the knees, finding the floor a moment sooner than she anticipated.  Gina grabbed Katie just above both elbows and held her at arm's length to fix her with a reprimanding look.  "SORRY!  Sorry!" she staged whispered.  "Aun' Jjjina, I love you so much.  You are susha dear, dear friend.  Najus'to mom.  But tawallavus."

"I know, dear.  Now -- " Gina put an index finger to her lips and returned to her stool on the other side of Emma.  Katie mirrored the gesture.

The bartender picked up the stained bottle of Angostura bitters and shot it twice into the iced shaker.  Next he picked up the translucent plastic bottle, pointed it into the shaker and squeezed in some cane sugar syrup -1-2-3.

Gina slid back up onto to her stool.  More stage whispering.  "Wuzzeye shouting?"

Next the large plastic juice jug.  1and-2and- of fresh lemon juice.  "A little bit."

"Who is he to be calling me Barbarella, anyway?  He wasn't so hot.  I mean, really?  Lookh at me.  I don't lookhlikea... CAVEWOMAN!"

From the tall, slender bottle the bartender dispensed a quarter ounce of apricot liqueur into the shot glass.    Then he picked up the bottle of sherry.  He preferred the higher end Amontillados for his sherry-based bevs.  A full jigger splashed over the ice.  Finally, the half ounce of reserved rum.  He put the lid on the tin and began shaking.  "You have no idea who Barbarella is, do you?"  She giggled into her margarita which meant no.  "So what's up with your mom?  Why is she so sad?"

"Tchh," Katie rolled her eyes so hard he practically heard them thunk against the back of her skull.  "She and my dad finally split.  She acts like she's entitled to lifetime happiness or something.  So now her life is over and we all gotta stop what we're doing and take care of her.  Like my life is so perfect I need to take care of hers?  Spsh!"

"How long were they married?"  He strained the shaker contents into a coup.  Instantly, the glass generated a film of condensation that perfectly aligned with the liquid in the glass.  The cocktail glowed with the ambient tea lights like an amber jewel.  Flecks of ice floated to the top and coated the surface in miniature, glistening constellations.

"Idunno.  Something likh fortyears."

Another switch was thrown in the bartender, a tightly controlled mask sliding over his face as he intentionally avoided eye contact with anyone.  "That's a lifetime with someone.  I can understand how she might have a hard time adjusting."  He slid the coup with the jewel-like amber liquid towards Katie.  "Here, take a break from the margaritas for a minute."

"What's this?"

"It's called a Flor de Jerez.  I like to pair a drink to the customer's personality."

Katie concentrated to lift the delicate glass to her lips.  A stringent flowery vapor hit her nostrils well ahead of the glass touching her lips.  She took a sip and recoiled.  A curl wrinkled her nose and pinched her eyebrows.  "Oh my god!" she sputtered.  "What is this?" Suddenly she was more sober than only a second ago.

"I told you.  It's called a Flor de Jerez."

"It's so bitter."

"Really.  Guess I nailed it."  Katie looked at him, cocked her head and blinked.  She giggled into her Flor de Jerez which meant she didn't get it.

"Men can be so cruel."  The bartender looked in the direction from which the sarcasm flew.  A smiling Emma sat with her elbows on the bar and her fingertips gently grasping the top of her Brandy Alexander.  He smiled sadly.  She gave him a wink.



Flor de Jerez
1/2 oz. reserved rum
1 1/2 oz. Amontillado sherry
1/4 oz. apricot liqueur
3/4 oz. lemon juice
1/2 oz. cane sugar syrup
1 dash Angostura bitters

Pour all ingredients in an ice-filled shaker and shake until cold.  Strain into a coup.  No garnish.

Gin Ricky

Scott’s eyes opened with the sunrise.  They usually did.  Each morning his first thought was to roll over and wrap around Katie as she slept.  It was always a calculation though. He longed for the response of every other girlfriend he ever had.  How they yielded to the warmth of his body.  He loved, too, when they wrapped around him in the middle of the night.  His consciousness surfaced just long enough to sense that entwining and then submerge again, feeling strong and protective as well as safe and protected.  

But Kate was not like that.  He suspected that she came to completely as his body molded to hers.  A threat response.  Her neurons firing Warning! Danger!  Rather than melting into him, she solidified.  No observer would ever see it – the imperceptible stiffening that happened on a cellular level.  But he felt it.  It humiliated him.  He felt spurned.  Undesirable.  Ego-crushed.  But then there were the occasions when she pulled his arms around her, backed up and pressed into his pelvis.  On those mornings he soared.  He felt whole.  His senses buzzed, yet he was completely relaxed.  The world was a perfect place.  In these moments Scott believed Katie did want to be with him.  Did, in fact, love him.  Desire him. 

But with so much risk, it could never be spontaneous.  Each morning it was a decision.  An unsafe moment in what ought to be a safe place.  Should he take the chance?  What is the cost-benefit ratio for his ego today?  This morning he felt strong enough to absorb likely rejection.

“Uuunnh,” she groaned, and rolled out from under his arm and as close to the edge of the bed as she could get.  She grimaced.  “Don’t….”

He laid there, looking at her back.  “What time did you get in last night?”

“I have no idea.  I think we hit every bar in the Viagra Triangle.”  

“Wow.  Cheryl and her daddy issues.”

“Tell me about it.”   Katie groaned again as she flopped her legs to the floor and hauled herself up to sit on the side of the bed.  She stood slowly and, holding her head, lurched towards bathroom.  She looked a wreck.  “We wound up at The Lodge where some fifty year old with a bad toup kept buying us gin rickies.  Round after round after round.”

“Well, I suppose you could’ve just said, ‘no’,” he called towards the john.

“If I wanted a father, I’d bar hop with Cheryl more,” she half yelled back.  “Besides, they went down way too easy.”

Scott got out of bed, pulled on his pajama bottoms, and followed her.  “I thought you don’t like gin,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“I don’t.  But this didn’t taste like gin, exactly.”

“Rickies are good.  Very bright and citrusy.  We should make it this year’s summer cocktail.”

“Do you mind terribly if we don’t talk about booze right now?”  Katie pleaded, head hanging, elbows on either side of the sink.  Her hair fell every which way to completely hide her face.  She grabbed her temples.  “I just need to get through this day so I can come home and collapse after work.”

“Ok,” Scott lilted as he turned around and headed off towards the kitchen.  “But remember,” he called back, “you have that intervention tonight with your mom & Aunt Gina.”

He couldn’t contain the smirk as he heard the words oh god slide into the sounds of a night’s overindulgence coming to its rightful conclusion in the sink.

Schadenfreude.


Gin Ricky
2 oz. gin
1oz. lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
club soda

Short shake all ingredients except the soda with a few ice cubes -- just enough to put a chill to the ingredients.  Pour into ice-filled highball glass.  Top with soda and garnish with a lime wedge.

Mulled White Wine

“Look kiddo, we love that you want to hang out with us and that you’re comfortable enough to just drop by.  But you really need to get out more.”

“I am out.  I’m not home, I’m here.”

Mickey smirked, raised an amusedly irked eyebrow, and looked over the tops of his readers at his son on the other side of the kitchen.  “You’re handsome, young, and single.  So, when you show up on your parents’ doorstep on a Friday night with a thermos of mulled white wine, yeah, we gotta think there are better places for you to be.”

“What?  Where else do I have to be?  Besides, I feel so English and lord-of-the-medieval-manor when I drink mulled wine.  It’s a payoff of your investment in my MA.  Plus, you have the best goblets to drink it from.”  He clinked is father’s chalice and sipped.  “What do you think about the pear in it?”  

“Ok, let’s quit dancing around this elephant here, shall we?  So it didn’t work out with Theo.  That was Theo —“

“Here we go!”

 “ — You have tons of talent and love to give someone —“

“— ‘And we know there’s a guy out there who will connect with you and you with him.’”  
                                                      
“That’s right.  But you’re not going to find him hanging out with your folks on prime club nights.  Get your ass out of here and out on Halsted!” 

“Really, dad?  Get my ass out on Halsted?”

“Yeah," he winked, "get your ass out on Halsted.”

“Boundaries.”

“Oh, look who’s here.”  Gina came into the kitchen adjusting a bangle earring and kissed Christopher on the cheek.  “Is it Friday already?”

“Perfect.  Take your son with you.” 

“Nope.  It’s girls’ night with a mission.  I can only handle one broken-hearted depressive at a time."

“Nice,” said Chris, and raised his glass in a sarcastic air toast to his mother.  “Besides, I do not want to spend an evening with that Trixie bitch, Katie.”

“A master’s in English, the entire language at your command, and that’s the word you choose to describe a woman.  What did we get for our investment?”

“Mulled wine on a cold night delivered right to our door,” Mickey retorted, pouring her one.  "Served in goblets!"

Gina pinched Chris’s scruffy chin affectionately.  “Sweety, get your ass out on Halsted.”  


Mulled White Wine
2 t. black pepper corns
2 t. whole cloves
1 bottle pinot grigio
1/8 c. granulated sugar
1 small bunch sage
1 small bunch thyme
Rind and 2 T. juice from 1 lemon
1 c. pear eau de vie or brandy
1 firm, ripe pear, peeled, cored and thinly sliced

Place the peppercorns and cloves in a  medium saucepan.  Stir over a medium heat until fragrant, approx. 2 minutes.  

Add wine, sugar sage, thyme, and lemon rind and juice.  Bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring until sugar is completely dissolved.  Reduce heat to lowest setting and simmer for 10 minutes.

Strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl and discard solids.  Return mixture to saucepan and stir in eau de vie or brandy and pear slices.  Simmer over medium low heat until pears are fork-tender but still retain their shape, about 8-10 minutes.  Serve placing several slices of pear in each glass as garnish.

Brandy Alexander

“Evening, Ladies.  What’ll it be?”

Emma sat down on the bar stool.  The winter cold had set into the hardwood seat and seeped right through her skirt to the back of her thighs.  It made her shiver on this frigid night.  It didn’t help that the bar was directly across from the door and this place was so damned popular.  She just knew it would never be closed long enough for her to warm up before another blast of January slithered along the floor and coiled up her legs.  

“A Brandy Alexander.”

“A what?”

“Jesus,” Katie whispered, rolling her eyes as only a twentysomething can do when her parent does something so unbelievably stupid.  “I’ll have a gold margarita, please.”  She said it to the bartender, but was looking at Emma with a passive aggressive smile.  A mean girl.

This was a mistake, Emma thought.  And not for the first time since leaving the house.

“Emma, this is a Mexican place.”  Gina was Emma’s closest friend.  They met only one month after Emma moved to Chicago.  They had been through hookups, boyfriends, marriages, child birth, death, and now, divorce together.  There was no one Emma was closer to.  They cherished each other.  Closer than sisters.  But sometimes Gina could be utterly clueless.

“What’s in it?  Maybe I can make it for you.”

“No, you can’t,” snapped Katie.  “It’s a classic cocktail from, like nineteen-fifty-whatever, that she and my father used to drink like all the time.  And if you make one for her she’ll just wallow in it.”  She turned to Emma.  “We’ve come here - on a Friday night - with you - to get you out of the house and have a fucking good time.  You’re having a margarita like everyone else.”  

The bartender escaped awkwardly into his phone and slowly withdrew from the scene, wandering toward the refuge of the kitchen pickup window.  “Great!  Now you scared off the bartender!” Katie exclaimed and spun on her stool to pout at the packed dining room.  A moment later he was back.  Gina asked for a gold margarita as well and he started mixing.  

Emma sat, hands in her lap, staring blankly at the back bar, mirrored and up-lighted, bejeweled with glowing bottles of all shapes and colors.  Gina placed her hands on Emma’s and gently spun her stool so they faced each other.  “Em, it’s been five months since the paperwork was final.  You have to get out of the house.”

Emma sighed.  “Please, Gina.”  A divorce after 42 years of marriage.  She shouldn’t have to explain the grief and devastation to her closest friend.  So they sat holding hands, staring past each other.

“Ok, ladies, here you go.”  Katie jerked back around.  “Two gold margaritas and a Brandy Alexander.”  Katie grabbed her straw and rolled her eyes as she sucked.  He leaned in to Emma.  “I looked it up.  We just don’t have any nutmeg for the top.”  She looked at him.  She felt her lips catching his smirk.  “But we’ll call it a Brandy Alejandro so we don’t piss off la princesa over here," he said, nodding towards Katie.  He winked. His smirk nearly broke into a full blown smile as he walked down the bar to another customer.

Gina looked at Emma.  What almost broke on the bartender had on Emma.  A smile spread gently across her face.  Tears brimmed but did not fall.  Her heart warmed so, that she didn’t even notice another winter gust blowing in the open door.

Brandy Alexander

3 oz cognac or brandy

2 oz dark creme de cacao

4 oz half and half

1 cup crushed ice

Nutmeg to garnish

Combine the cognac or brandy, creme de cacao, half and half and ice in a shaker.  Shake well and strain into 2 chilled highball glasses.  Sprinkle with nutmeg to serve.

Hot Buttered Rum

Christmas came down Friday.  Saturday we awoke to snow and freezing rain.  Thus begins the dreary slide that is Chicago between New Year's and  Memorial Day.  So we are definitely in need of something to cozify.  Having a new bar text specifically dedicated to winter cocktails is just what we need to warm our happy hour cockles!

Hot Buttered Rum.  It sounds so rich and comforting, doesn't it?  Honestly, it's just this side of gruel.   The specs for this was a starting place.  Tweaking was done.  

This bev is an exercise in delayed gratification.  It gets better as you get closer to the bottom and in the end, it's all about the last mouthful -- rich, fatty, and full of winter flavors. The trick is to get each sip to taste this way.




Hot Buttered Rum

The Butter
4 T. butter
1 vanilla bean
1.5 T. dark brown sugar

Using a knife tip, slice the vanilla bean open and scrape the seeds from the pod into the butter.  Add the sugar.  Stir it all together until the vanilla seeds and sugar are well mixed throughout the butter.

The Rum

Hot Buttered Rum is all about the butter.
Additions like vanilla bean and brown sugar make it special.

6 oz. dark rum
3 cups hot water

Divide (room temperature) butter mixture between 4 toddy glasses.  Add the rum mixture.  Enjoy*

* : Ok, so here's the tweaking.  To start, give the drink a few swirls with a spoon to break up  and dissolve the butter mixture throughout the drink.  It's not a bad idea to keep one handy and do it a couple times as you sip, as the butter fat will both float to the surface and settle to the bottom of glass.  In this state, the drink will be more gruel-like when first sipping and become richer as you get to the bottom of the glass.  

The first round I made with Mount Gay rum.  It's dark, but not as dark as Myers -- which I used in the second round.  Additionally, I only used about 2.5 cups of hot water to the 6 ounces of rum.  In the future, I'd try only 2 cups, all in an effort to get a richer experience from each sip and not just towards the bottom.  

Coffey Park Swizzle

The pic captures my mood this season.
Ambivalent and washed out when it comes to the holidays.
But the Coffey Park Swizzle is a bright spot of warmth and color.

The Holidays.  Or, the Holla-daze.  I'm finding myself a bit ambivalent about the season of light and gifting now that Thanksgiving is over.  So, I thought a cocktail that tasted like a North American Christmas would help me rally.  Isn't it funny how the flavors of a northern winter are downright Caribbean?  All those warm spices like nutmeg and clove and allspice and ginger.  I don't know whether I want to build an edible house, bake cookies shaped like amorphous little men, or make jerk chicken.

The Dilettante sat down with Death & Co. over morning coffee to cruise the text looking for just the right sipper to suit the mood.  (At this point I'm feeling the need to reassure that even though he was looking at a mixology text while enjoying his morning cuppa, the Dilettante does not have a problem.  Well, let's qualify that.  The Dilettante does not have a problem with booze.  Several other categories are up for grabs!)  Leafing through the pages I came across a whole section of swizzles.  Interesting, but not necessarily what one thinks about as a winter beverage since swizzles are typically served in pilsners filled with crushed ice.  Think adult snow cone.  That's summer rooftop, right?  But then Coffey Park Swizzle caught my eye and the taste buds began to imagine.  This could be just the cocktail to jump start my mood for the winter season.  But first I needed to do some shopping and then just a bit of advance prep before Happy Hour!

Such an interesting mix of ingredients -- both familiar and new.  Even as we were taking our first sip, I really didn't know if this was gonna play out.  All the ingredients -- sherry (recalling that classic short story, "The Cask of Amontillado"), French Caribbean rum, lime juice, ginger syrup, the exotic new Falernum, bitters -- each on its own was so good.  But mixed incorrectly, this could easily wind up being a tall cold glass of soap.

There is a lot to sort out in that first sip.  The words "interesting" and "I don't know" immediately followed it.  The Partner and I stood in front of the tree, warily eyeing each other.  We couldn't even sit down, locked in place by that first sip, impish smirks on our faces as we processed what our taste buds were telling us.  I wanted to like it, so, the next sip.  Processing.  By the third, we knew we had a winner.  Cold, wintery, refreshing and spicy.  A little ginger syrup goes a long way.  So much so that our lips were still tingling in the cab on the way to dinner after only one round.  And one round is really all an imbiber should attempt.  A tall, cold aperitif that morphs as the crushed ice melts and nuances the drink's complexity.  In fact, the Coffey Park Swizzle put us very much in mind of the Bourbon Squash which has become one of our summer go-tos.  So summer swizzle, winter swizzle. Coffey Park could be the featured cocktail on the bar until spring.

Coffey Park Swizzle
1 oz. rhum*
1 oz. sherry
1/4 oz. Falernum
3/4 oz. lime juice
3/4 oz. ginger syrup
3 dashes Angostura bitters

Mix the first 5 ingredients in a shaker with only a few pieces of crushed ice and shake just until cool.  Strain into a pilsner filled with crushed ice and swizzle**.  Add the bitters and blend it down through the drink, swizzling and stirring to do so.  Garnish with mint sprig.



*: Rhum or rhum agricole is the French Antilles version of rum, made from cane sugar as opposed to cane molasses.  If you can't find the former, feel confident substituting the latter.

**: The verb swizzle means to stir by spinning a stirring stick between both hands while drawing it up and down in the glass.  The noun swizzle or swizzle stick is not what we think of today as a stir stick.  It's more like a muddler with a set of short spines coming perpendicularly off the bottom.  So when it spins it creates a bit of a vortex to mix.  A regular stir stick will not do this effectively.  If you can't find a swizzle stick, you can get the job done pretty well with a long bar spoon.

Death & Co. Double Fill-Up

Ahhh...Here's to homecomings.  It's good to be back and getting into a cocktail groove again.  Something to look forward to in the cold, dark months ahead as winter takes hold of Chicagoland.  Thanks to all who have provided feedback and encouragement during the Dilettante's hiatus.  It's so affirming to hear that people read the blog and have missed it while dormant.

So, why the return now?  Last week, The Partner and I hosted Thanksgiving for the first time.  My folks -- the consummate road-trippers -- drove in from NJ with dear family friends to spend the week with us.  (The Partner's folks were here and it was great stuffing them full of food and drink too; though their road trip was just from the suburbs :-)  As thank you/host gifts, my folks brought two great books.  One is the spark of inspiration to reboot our exploratory cocktailing and blogging.  It's a gorgeous book from the famous NYC bar, Death & Co.  I'm going to enjoy reading it as well as mixing from it.

Friday is, of course, Date Nite.  I chose our pre-dinner tipple as an homage to the gift givers.  Nothing would please dad more than if he never had to stop for gas when on the road.  A double gas tank?  Heaven.  So, Double Fill-Up caught my eye and seemed an appropriate choice.  Reading the ingredients list, I recalled a conversation in the kitchen with mom on Thanksgiving Day.  While I was preparing something she was reading over the recipe for one of the sides I made.

"Pomegranate molasses?  I've never heard of such a thing!"  So again, Double Fill-Up seemed the right choice for our first sip from the new book they gave us.

What good luck to pick a new bev for the Dilettante's return that goes right into Drink it Again, Sam.  Not only does it look like a nice apple cider, it rather tastes like one too.  It's very much about the play between the lemon juice and molasses that gets it there.

Now, what you've all been waiting for, The Partner's reaction:

"Oh.  OOOOH!" as he responded to the initial refreshing tartness and then the slightest teasing sweetness in the finish.  "This is good!  This is really good!"  Three sips later, "I'd do this one again!"  He would repeat this refrain two more times on our way to dinner.  And as you know, if The Partner has a second, it's a good drink and not too citrusy.

So there you have it.  The "inaugural reboot post".  Google pomegranate molasses and find a store near you that carries it.  Not only is it good in a cocktail, it's great in stews and salad dressings, so it will get used.  Bottoms up! 

Double Fill-Up
2 oz. good quality rye
3/4 oz. simple syrup
3/4 oz. lemon juice
1 tsp. pomegranate molasses
3 mint leaves

Shake all ingredients over ice and double strain into a chilled coupe.  Garnish with a mint leaf.

NRA Shooter

As if it were possible to have anyone crazier than Moses as the face of the NRA, meet Wayne LaPierre.  In the wake of the Newtown tragedy, he's gone unabashedly nuts.  From "The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun." to the call for putting an armed cop in every school, the man and the lobby have no sense of propriety or respect for what we all lost that day.  His lap dog, Asa Hutchinson is hardly better, pushing the school program in Congress at a price tag of $2 billion.  (Can you imagine what that would do going to the schools for programs and teacher training?)

So today's original bev is the NRA Shooter.  This was a challenge to craft since as a shot it needs to be sweet enough to go down easy.  But we don't like cloying shots (sorry Intoxicator!).  So I wanted it to have some kind of sour or bitter effect too.  Just like the NRA!  The Partner describes it: "It starts off without much effect, then goes to sour, then finishes like a mouthful of Smarties."

Without putting too fine a point on it, no matter what, it was going to be a red shot.  Get it? 

NRA Shooter

2 oz. gin

1 oz. strawberry cachaca

1/2 oz. grenadine

3 deep-cut strips of lemon zest

grapefruit bitters

Muddle the lemon zest in a bar glass with the bitters and a dash of gin.  When the zest is fragrant, add the  rest of the ingredients and shake over ice.  Pour into shot glasses. 

Makes 4 shots. 

The Amigo, or the Rand Paul

Tea Partier Rand Paul has come out of the closet on immigration reform! But looking at his effusive remarks in this Washington Post article about how he "lived, worked, played and grew up alongside Latinos" working shoulder-to-shoulder as a teenager "alongside immigrants mowing lawns and putting in landscaping around businesses," one could hardly be surprised at this sudden coming out. Ay Guero! He's practically an immigrant himself! This might be Rand's own "Ich bin ein berliner!" moment, save it being more like Soy un inmigrante!  But hey, this makes total sense.  With more above-board taxpayers it's easier for radical Tea Partiers to hold their hardline ideological stances on taxes. 

This week's homemade concoction is The Amigo, or the Rand Paul, made completely with ingredients from south of both the Mason Dixon & the Gadsden Purchase. It's gonna sound a bit shocking, but oddly enough the mix of silver tequila & some honey bourbon kinda works. Thank goodness. After all, it wouldn't be a true homage to Rand Paul without Kentucky's native spirit.  That said, the effect of the drink as you sip is much the same as the Tea Party itself.  On the surface, it sounds good.  The initial pulls are palatable enough.  Still, like the Tea Party, there's something that doesn't sit quite right the more time you spend with it.  And like US immigration policy, with some minor tweaking, it could be quite good.

The Amigo, or the Rand Paul
2 oz. silver tequila*

1 oz. honey bourbon

1/2 bar spoonful agave nectar

4-8 dashes grapefruit bitters

1 good squeeze of fresh lime juice

Fill a bar glass with lots ice.  Add the ingredients and stir well with a bar spoon.  Adjust the lime juice to taste.

*:  I imagine the use of añejo might make for a smoother tipple.  But the silver adds a smokey touch and keeps the hue of the beverage from looking too mestizaje.

Corpse Reviver #3, or the Marco Rubio

I’ve been getting bored lately with posting mere reviews of new beverages and quips from The Partner (hysterical as they are).  But recently, I had a brainflash. Let’s give it some time and see how it works. Here's the story of my brainflash. 

There is so much in the media that makes me sad or angry lately that this NPRoholic can't even listen to super-high quality news shows like Morning Edition or All Things Considered anymore.  And don't get me started on The Partner's fave: Today.  At least in the former it's the news that disturbs.  In the latter it's the cast that makes me apoplectic.  (Yes, cast.  I will not besmirch the Fourth Estate by suggesting that biased Matt; bland, insipid Female Sidekick; bland, insipid Female News Reader, or clownish Al are even remotely related to professional journalists. But I digress...somewhat.)  Then there's "reality" TV.  Talk about man's inanity to man.  If we take these shows as a reflection of society, then as a nation we must be a bunch of developmentally stunted adolescents who can't get enough of the trumped up drah-mah more characteristic of middle school classrooms and high school drama clubs.  I'm digressing again. But bear with me. It's all about to come together here.

So The Partner and I were catching up on our TiVo queue and I felt like getting mixologically experimental.  I looked at the bar and saw two lone Florida oranges about to skip past their expiration dates.  I also had a sudden jones for something akin to a lemonade.  Then it occurred to me.  I'll riff on the Corpse Reviver! I whipped one up with fresh OJ and found it worth repeating.  (Look here to learn more about the Corpse Reviver and here for the Corpse Reviver #2.)

As we sipped, a news tease featuring Marco Rubio and his filibustering ass zipped by as we fast forwarded through a commercial block.  If you’ve paid any attention to the news over the past couple weeks, the message (for now) is clear:  Marco Rubio is the savior of the Republican party!  In fact, just try Googling “Marco Rubio savior”.  In a mere .27 seconds you’ll get about 58,000 results.  Scoffing at the TV, I took a sip and it hit me.  The media, and probably even Marco himself, see him as the reviver of the Republican party corpse.  And thus the latest incarnation of Dilettante is conceived.  Cocktailing as social commentary!

So here’s the first such entry:  The Corpse Reviver #3, or the Marco Rubio.  During the late 19^th early 20^th Centuries, revivers were hair of the dog bevs after excesses of the night before.  After the excesses of the party of frightened, angry, old, straight, white men-in-denial, the media and the party are hanging all their hopes on Rubio.  He’s young, Hispanic, telegenic, from Florida.  What do you know?  Everything Tea Partiers and the rest of the party have been saying is true.  The Republican party really is a big tent!  I love it when they point to one or two people going against type and call it proof of their rhetoric. 

But more importantly, as I sipped I was thankful, thankful that God sent us Marco.  See, recently I haven’t been sleeping very much out of fear that a drone might come crashing through the window of our Chicago condo and take us out.  But now I can sleep at night, feeling safe that my president and his justice department have promised not to dispatch us from a distance in the middle of the night.  Phew!  Marco, despite your tweeted protestations:  

There is only one savior, and it is not me. #Jesus
— Marco Rubio (@marcorubio) February 7, 2013

...you are my savior! 



Corpse Reviver #3 or the Marco Rubio
equal parts:
gin
Cointreau
Lillet Blanc
orange juice

Shake over ice and pour into (an Absinthe-rinsed, if you must) coupe.  No garnish.