When I wrote my first comprehensive cocktail post I figured I needn't post how I made those classic cocktails. I mean, they're classics, right? Two years experience being over twenty one and I know differently. I don't go to bars very frequently, but I've ordered two Martinis. First of all I had to specify and confirm that I wanted them made with gin. When I finally got my Martini, not only was vermouth almost nonexistent, but the drink was iced so thoroughly that instead of tasting like uncomplemented gin it tasted mostly like ice water. That's for both instances. One of those was from Sophia's and cost $7. Their Mojito was also off-balance (mostly mint and soda water). At a bar in Dublin (CA) I ordered an Old Fashioned and was similarly displeased.
It seems to me that bartenders accustomed to "pinky up" drinks that are incredibly hard to mess up are now ruining the last respectable cocktails on the house books. Fine cocktails are difficult to balance and I suppose bartenders have incentive to make drinks as quickly as they can, but I don't mean it lightly when I say they were nearly undrinkable. All of those drinks were travesties. I know there are good bars out there that still take cocktails seriously. I've promised myself to investigate one sometime when I have the extra arm and leg required to pay the tab. Until then, I'm going to err on the side of beer. They still haven't figured out how to mess that up.
Those of my readers who've been around the block are welcomed to weigh in here. I could be totally off-base. For those pinky-uppers and non-cocktail-drinkers among you, don't hold bar failures against a good cocktail.
The Martini was the first cocktail Brandon and I got into. It took us awhile to get the proportions right and it took us awhile to figure out how to drink them properly (small sips, guys). Though we did the vermouth by eye, we learned quickly enough what amount made a good Martini. That amount ended up remarkably close to IBA specifications: one shot gin, one quarter-shot dry vermouth. When done right, as you roll the fiery liquid around your mouth, you can bask in the divine balance of sharp juniper with the nutty/fruity/spicy flavors of vermouth.
Since our early days using Seagram's Gin for our Martinis, Brandon and I have moved to "swanky" gins, which really comes down to deciding between Bombay Sapphire and similarly-priced Tanqueray. I'm partial to the latter as it tastes more like gin. I don't think the flowery flourishes of Bombay Sapphire lend themselves to Martinis, though they work better in Gin and Tonics (one of the more foolproof cocktails, fyi).
So, my rules for Martinis are as follows:
-When left unspecified, a Martini is made with gin, not vodka.
-"Martinis", as a category, includes various vermouth-containing cocktails such as the Vodka Martini and the Dirty Martini, which is to say "Martinis" do not include most cocktails served in martini glasses or with the suffix "-tini". Too many times have I heard beer or whiskey snobs refer derisively to "Martinis", alluding to their syrupy ways, and it gives me a sad.
-Vermouth should make a 1:4 ratio with the gin unless specified "dry" or "wet", which I do not recommend and I certainly don't recommend starting off with.
-The gin should be shaken or stirred with ice straight out of the freezer and for a short period of time. The primary ingredient in a Martini should be gin, not melted ice.
Brandon and I also took the foundation for our Manhattans from the IBA via wikipedia. I've found the ratio of vermouth to liquor is a little more forgiving than with Martinis (unlike dry, sweet vermouth is pretty good on its own). We ended up eyeballing about the same amount of vermouth for both Martinis and Manhattans.
My dad serves Manhattans on the rocks without bitters rather than the IBA-recommended straight up. He's also a fan of a variant he picked up from my Wisconsinite maternal grandfather, Grandpa Pee Wee, which uses sweet white vermouth aka Bianco. Between the ice, the lack of bitters and a more liberal application of vermouth, the whole thing comes out much milder than my don't-shake-it-too-long-or-it'll-be-watery Martinis and Manhattans. Personal taste aside, my dad makes an excellent Manhattan, which I guess is a testament to the drink's flexibility.
I'd also like to mention the Sazerac, which is reputed to be the oldest cocktail and the catalyst for the first time I stocked a bar. It's how I got into rye whiskey. While there is no IBA-official recipe, I'm very happy with the Wikipedia recipe. I often simplify the process to resemble how I make Martinis/Manhattans (though the Sazerac is more complex), but I've found that it is absolutely necessary to first add the Absinthe/Herbsaint (or Pastis or any anise-flavored liquor) by coating the glass. I've also found that releasing the lemon peel's oils onto the drink is essential for the overall effect.
Other, also respectable, cocktails that lean harder on water and sugar are more forgiving to make and more approachable for those with weak palates, but there's nothing like classic straight up cocktails with that heady mix of spices, fruits, herbs and aromatics only they have to offer. Nothing else takes the taste of alcohol to such a pure, high glory.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Ghost Chicken
I had the most compelling, detailed dream I've had in a long time this morning.
I was in Japan with Sarah, which was apparently her homeland. She was telling me that the bugs got worse the closer you were to the east or west coasts. I asked, "Are we near a coast?" and just as I asked, we rounded a corner and came into view of the Yellow Sea. We went into a beach cabin right up against the water with the top half of the seaward wall cut out to make a window. I looked at the sea which, just like pictures I'd seen, was as blue as the Mediterranean (in spite of the name). I commented how pretty of a blue it was and Sarah agreed. I noticed that the big swells were coming up to the bottom edge of the window. I talked with Sarah. I'd had amnesia and couldn't remember knowing her that long and I was still learning about her, but I knew that we had had a long romantic history and I could feel it in our magnetism. The ocean swells got bigger and bigger, tipping over the edge of the window and into the room, rising in glorious curves and sometimes cresting a little before rolling over the low wall into the room. The room was starting to fill up with water. I got more and more lost in the wave motion as I became increasingly concerned about our precarious situation.
....
I went into the bathroom that I knew Sarah was taking a shower in to pee. Looking up I saw a girl was in the upper bunk of the shower/bunk-bed Sarah was showering in. I know the girl because I went to primary and secondary school with her. Her actual name in real life, weirdly enough and by the way, is Sarah (Rodgers). She was pretty and brassy with curly red hair, but we'd never had any affinity or much interaction in school. She was talking with my Sarah, who she was evidently close friends with. She'd gotten cooler with time. She'd seen me naked peeing, but her facial reaction indicated that she didn't give a shit and I decided I didn't give a shit either. I saw her partly naked later and similarly didn't care.
I went to another room to visit with some old high school friends, Nick and Dana. Like every nerd in my high school I'd had a crush on Dana (and had actually gone to prom with her), but she and Nick were genuinely close friends. Apparently they'd finally started dating in the last few months (in real life Nick recently married). When I entered the room, Dana was sitting on the bed and Nick was in the bathroom taking a shower. I attempted a stab at awkward conversation, talking about how many people have such specific and unique taste in jeans that it seems like they only own one pair of jeans, like the way cartoon characters always wear the same outfit. This was true of Dana and is also true of Sarah, Howard and a lot of other people I know. Dana was wearing her characteristic jeans in the dream. I was still trying to explain what I meant when Nick came in and gave Dana a provocative kiss. I feebly tried to finish explaining and/or relieve the awkwardness for another few seconds before I gave up and sheepishly left.
I went back to the bathroom where Sarah and her friend were talking. They mentioned a French word used in a Lady Gaga lyric. I asked about it. Sarah explained it was pronounced "Troce" and meant close affection. I asked how it was spelled and Sarah's friend patiently spelled it for me. It was spelled bizarrely (complete with three syllables and an "eaux" that wasn't even at the end of the word) and I knew I'd have to write it down, so I asked to hear the spelling again after I'd gotten pen and paper. The spelling Sarah gave was slightly different and similarly nonsensical. For the next few minutes I'd periodically interrupt their conversation to ask them to clarify how it was spelled and they would patiently spell it for me, each time more confusing than the one before it. Given my weird relationship with French, that of being the only of my close friends with strong French heritage but also being in the minority among them for not speaking it (and not even speaking another language fluently), the experience was naturally alienating and I was kind of jealous of the obviously close relationship Sarah and her friend had.
....
At this Mongolian fried chicken stand (little whole chickens on skewers), I had a brain wave to ask if the stand owner needed a new employee because Matt Wingert, despite his half-finished PhD in Mechanical Engineering, desperately needed a job to pay rent. The stand owner agreed to consider him so I brought Matt over. The guy asked if he'd be okay with killing chickens with his bare hands. Matt said "I'd love to", but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable. I told the chicken stand owner that though I'd masked my fear better when interviewing for jobs past, I'd always risen to whatever daunting task I was set to with aplomb and Matt would be the same way. To demonstrate, I offered to kill a chicken myself. I killed a defeathered chicken and stripped off the skin in one pull (like can be done with rabbits). The stand owner was happy with that and it sounded like he was going to hire Matt, but as we were talking the chicken skin stood up on its own and started moving around like it was alive. I was like, "Holy shit it's an actual ghost chicken!" but the owner said, "It's just epidermal nerve activity and muscle memory." The chicken started to move aggressively towards me. I tried to bat it away, but I was so unnerved, I wasn't very effective. The chicken advanced on me menacingly, preparing to attack. Then I woke up.
Cheers, All
Enjoy!
I was in Japan with Sarah, which was apparently her homeland. She was telling me that the bugs got worse the closer you were to the east or west coasts. I asked, "Are we near a coast?" and just as I asked, we rounded a corner and came into view of the Yellow Sea. We went into a beach cabin right up against the water with the top half of the seaward wall cut out to make a window. I looked at the sea which, just like pictures I'd seen, was as blue as the Mediterranean (in spite of the name). I commented how pretty of a blue it was and Sarah agreed. I noticed that the big swells were coming up to the bottom edge of the window. I talked with Sarah. I'd had amnesia and couldn't remember knowing her that long and I was still learning about her, but I knew that we had had a long romantic history and I could feel it in our magnetism. The ocean swells got bigger and bigger, tipping over the edge of the window and into the room, rising in glorious curves and sometimes cresting a little before rolling over the low wall into the room. The room was starting to fill up with water. I got more and more lost in the wave motion as I became increasingly concerned about our precarious situation.
....
I went into the bathroom that I knew Sarah was taking a shower in to pee. Looking up I saw a girl was in the upper bunk of the shower/bunk-bed Sarah was showering in. I know the girl because I went to primary and secondary school with her. Her actual name in real life, weirdly enough and by the way, is Sarah (Rodgers). She was pretty and brassy with curly red hair, but we'd never had any affinity or much interaction in school. She was talking with my Sarah, who she was evidently close friends with. She'd gotten cooler with time. She'd seen me naked peeing, but her facial reaction indicated that she didn't give a shit and I decided I didn't give a shit either. I saw her partly naked later and similarly didn't care.
I went to another room to visit with some old high school friends, Nick and Dana. Like every nerd in my high school I'd had a crush on Dana (and had actually gone to prom with her), but she and Nick were genuinely close friends. Apparently they'd finally started dating in the last few months (in real life Nick recently married). When I entered the room, Dana was sitting on the bed and Nick was in the bathroom taking a shower. I attempted a stab at awkward conversation, talking about how many people have such specific and unique taste in jeans that it seems like they only own one pair of jeans, like the way cartoon characters always wear the same outfit. This was true of Dana and is also true of Sarah, Howard and a lot of other people I know. Dana was wearing her characteristic jeans in the dream. I was still trying to explain what I meant when Nick came in and gave Dana a provocative kiss. I feebly tried to finish explaining and/or relieve the awkwardness for another few seconds before I gave up and sheepishly left.
I went back to the bathroom where Sarah and her friend were talking. They mentioned a French word used in a Lady Gaga lyric. I asked about it. Sarah explained it was pronounced "Troce" and meant close affection. I asked how it was spelled and Sarah's friend patiently spelled it for me. It was spelled bizarrely (complete with three syllables and an "eaux" that wasn't even at the end of the word) and I knew I'd have to write it down, so I asked to hear the spelling again after I'd gotten pen and paper. The spelling Sarah gave was slightly different and similarly nonsensical. For the next few minutes I'd periodically interrupt their conversation to ask them to clarify how it was spelled and they would patiently spell it for me, each time more confusing than the one before it. Given my weird relationship with French, that of being the only of my close friends with strong French heritage but also being in the minority among them for not speaking it (and not even speaking another language fluently), the experience was naturally alienating and I was kind of jealous of the obviously close relationship Sarah and her friend had.
....
At this Mongolian fried chicken stand (little whole chickens on skewers), I had a brain wave to ask if the stand owner needed a new employee because Matt Wingert, despite his half-finished PhD in Mechanical Engineering, desperately needed a job to pay rent. The stand owner agreed to consider him so I brought Matt over. The guy asked if he'd be okay with killing chickens with his bare hands. Matt said "I'd love to", but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable. I told the chicken stand owner that though I'd masked my fear better when interviewing for jobs past, I'd always risen to whatever daunting task I was set to with aplomb and Matt would be the same way. To demonstrate, I offered to kill a chicken myself. I killed a defeathered chicken and stripped off the skin in one pull (like can be done with rabbits). The stand owner was happy with that and it sounded like he was going to hire Matt, but as we were talking the chicken skin stood up on its own and started moving around like it was alive. I was like, "Holy shit it's an actual ghost chicken!" but the owner said, "It's just epidermal nerve activity and muscle memory." The chicken started to move aggressively towards me. I tried to bat it away, but I was so unnerved, I wasn't very effective. The chicken advanced on me menacingly, preparing to attack. Then I woke up.
Cheers, All
Enjoy!
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Coca-Cola Fiend
Back in the 80's, Coca-Cola tried to change their formula to so-called "New Coke", the fallout of which is why, until the last couple of years, cans of coke were labeled "Coca-Cola Classic". The rather compelling story of "New Coke" can be found on Wikipedia (of all the unlikely places to find a compellingly-written story).
I have said previously on this blog that Coca-Cola is awesome and I am here to say it again. Coca-Cola is fucking awesome. I'd like to elaborate on that starting premise.
Coca-Cola, as declared by a paper airline napkin, is "zesty and refreshing on the first sip and full and rich on the last". It has an impenetrable depth of flavor that, far from being intimidating, tastes easy and approachable even as it dares you to bury yourself in it's complexity. It complements most food and liquor remarkably well (my favorite pairing being with Chinese food). It has mild medicinal effects. In short, Coke is everything I believe a beverage should be.
My fascination with Coca-Cola led me to discover that different countries have been permitted to tweak the original formula for local tastes. Despite Andy Warhol's rather inspiring quote, not all cokes are created equal. The Apple House tasting team had one of its more epic sessions comparing cokes from the US, Mexico ("Mexicoke"), France and Spain. I must be getting spoiled by all of the options available to me as a resident of a major US city, because I think there really should be a store/soda bar somewhere in San Francisco that sells Coca-Colas from every country that coke is bottled in.
I'd also love to be able to taste older formulations of Coca-Cola, particularly the very earliest incarnations that still contained modest quantities of cocaine. In fact, crazy as it may sound, I would like to see that oldest formula reintroduced. At low concentrations, there's no reason that such a soda would be particularly dangerous or addictive. Coca-leaf tea is still consumed all over the Andes without causing problems. It is treated like coffee is treated here-- as a mild stimulant to power people through the working day. Of course, I expect that this retro coke would have considerably more kick than the current formula.
Flavor-wise, coke holds up well against craft sodas, though there is a key difference in approach. Like a good second-day gumbo (gumbo is always better the second day), Coca-Cola's flavors are married such that the individual ingredients cannot be parsed out. This is ideal for easy drinking and culinary harmony, but it plays poorly with gourmets who've been taught to pick out flavor notes, as with wine. Excellent craft sodas like Virgil's Rootbeer and Red Bull's Cola make their concoctions' individual components as clear as possible in the tasting. To sip one of these sodas is to take a tour of the ingredients proudly labeled on the back of the container: nutmeg, cinnamon, anise, clove, cardamom, cassis oil, etc. While purported ingredients for Coca-Cola's famously secret recipes are similarly complex and exotic (neroli oil, anyone?), the difference is one of taste rather than of quality. Coca-Cola produces a more harmonious soda while the best craft soda makers sacrifice harmony for a more explicit complexity. With the notable exception of Coke's choice of sweetener, there are no culinary grounds to fault or marginalize the quality of Coke as a world-class soda. Anyone who has, as I have, made a point to compare every available cola must inevitably recognize the resounding excellence of Coca-Cola.
I have said previously on this blog that Coca-Cola is awesome and I am here to say it again. Coca-Cola is fucking awesome. I'd like to elaborate on that starting premise.
Coca-Cola, as declared by a paper airline napkin, is "zesty and refreshing on the first sip and full and rich on the last". It has an impenetrable depth of flavor that, far from being intimidating, tastes easy and approachable even as it dares you to bury yourself in it's complexity. It complements most food and liquor remarkably well (my favorite pairing being with Chinese food). It has mild medicinal effects. In short, Coke is everything I believe a beverage should be.
My fascination with Coca-Cola led me to discover that different countries have been permitted to tweak the original formula for local tastes. Despite Andy Warhol's rather inspiring quote, not all cokes are created equal. The Apple House tasting team had one of its more epic sessions comparing cokes from the US, Mexico ("Mexicoke"), France and Spain. I must be getting spoiled by all of the options available to me as a resident of a major US city, because I think there really should be a store/soda bar somewhere in San Francisco that sells Coca-Colas from every country that coke is bottled in.
I'd also love to be able to taste older formulations of Coca-Cola, particularly the very earliest incarnations that still contained modest quantities of cocaine. In fact, crazy as it may sound, I would like to see that oldest formula reintroduced. At low concentrations, there's no reason that such a soda would be particularly dangerous or addictive. Coca-leaf tea is still consumed all over the Andes without causing problems. It is treated like coffee is treated here-- as a mild stimulant to power people through the working day. Of course, I expect that this retro coke would have considerably more kick than the current formula.
Flavor-wise, coke holds up well against craft sodas, though there is a key difference in approach. Like a good second-day gumbo (gumbo is always better the second day), Coca-Cola's flavors are married such that the individual ingredients cannot be parsed out. This is ideal for easy drinking and culinary harmony, but it plays poorly with gourmets who've been taught to pick out flavor notes, as with wine. Excellent craft sodas like Virgil's Rootbeer and Red Bull's Cola make their concoctions' individual components as clear as possible in the tasting. To sip one of these sodas is to take a tour of the ingredients proudly labeled on the back of the container: nutmeg, cinnamon, anise, clove, cardamom, cassis oil, etc. While purported ingredients for Coca-Cola's famously secret recipes are similarly complex and exotic (neroli oil, anyone?), the difference is one of taste rather than of quality. Coca-Cola produces a more harmonious soda while the best craft soda makers sacrifice harmony for a more explicit complexity. With the notable exception of Coke's choice of sweetener, there are no culinary grounds to fault or marginalize the quality of Coke as a world-class soda. Anyone who has, as I have, made a point to compare every available cola must inevitably recognize the resounding excellence of Coca-Cola.
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