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Fitting as it may be, I did not name this cocktail.
Lantern’s Keep did. Lantern’s Keep being a swankadoodle cocktail spot inside NYC’s Iroquois Hotel on West 44th Street. I’ve never visited there, but I’m already kinda in love with the place just based on its website, where it describes itself as “a salon devoted to the art and enjoyment of great cocktails. This secretive salon [seems to be a speakeasy-style place located off the hotel lobby, hence the need for the lantern] is already luring cocktail aficionados in and transporting them back to a turn-of-the-century Parisian salon.” Which immediately makes me think: Midnight in Paris! C’est l’age d’or, Marion Cotillard! I want in!
If you are a minutia-obsessed Seinfeld fan like I am (Is it possible to be any other kind of Seinfeld fan? Minutia is that dude’s umwelt) then you remember the episode wherein Jerry tries to decipher the note he scribbled in the middle of the night while half-asleep. He finally figures out it’s a line from a sci-fi B-movie he’d been up late watching. A line, it turns out, that’s actually not that funny.
Such it’s been for me the past few weeks with a drink name and recipe I came across and jotted down and now I’m all like, wuh? The drink’s called The Filthy Narwhal, and Googling it comes up goose eggs as far as a source or point of origin.* I think I may have seen it on the online cocktail menu of some resto in Boston. I have no idea why I think that, seeing as I can’t remember the last time I was in Boston, nor do I have any plans to be in Boston, but so fire the synapses of my sleep-deprived memory these days.
What I need no help recalling is what about the Filthy Narwhal made me want to copy it down — it’s got a pickle garnish! I [heart] pickles. When I
shove pastrami down my piehole dine respectably at a Katz’s or a Schwartz’s or any other Jewish deli, I’m mainly in it for the pickles. (Maybe I just have a thing for foods that are green?)
On a different** episode of Seinfeld, Seinfeld said, “I’ve never had a really good pickle.” While this statement should bring much shame on Jerome and his Hebrew roots, I am here to state that you can have a really good pickle martini. Like, The Really Good Pickle Martini.
Have I really never discussed with you peeps my love for mint chocolate chip ice cream? Let me rephrase more accurately — my looooove, my looovvvvvelurrrrrvemmmmnomonomnomnomohmommymygoddammmnnn for mint chocolate chip ice cream? That’s just not possible. Is that possible?
[Point of information, as I've just now bothered to fact-check my own query: It is indeed not possible. I blogged about my mint-chocolate fetish last June when I made up the Alexander the Great, my mint chip-arak concoction. Yum.]
What’s really not possible, then, is that it’s taken me this long to talk about the Grasshopper.
When I tended bar at The Royale Food & Spirits in St. Louis, floating in the ether inside that hallowed drinking hall was something called the Birthday Cake Shot. By “floating in the ether,” I mean it was a concoction that wasn’t in our top-secret, behind-the-bar recipe binder or on our official menu — but it was on patrons’ minds all the same, and many of them knew to ask for one on their (or their friends’) birthdays. Hence, we tenders had to have the shot committed to memory.
Except I never quite did. Instead, I often and repeatedly annoyed my fellow bar employees by asking them to remind me what was in it. I resented the Birthday Cake Shot because I was there to make grown-up cocktails, goddamnit. The Birthday Cake Shot wasn’t even a concoction so much as a contraption, because it was one of those where you had to do it by sucking on a slice of lemon at the finish, and maybe lick some sugar beforehand… again, I can’t remember whatever particular gymnastics were involved. Also, there was Frangelico, and somehow the lemon and Frangelico wound up tasting like yellow cake mix when combined on the tongue. Anyway, you get the point — it was one of those shots wherein its puerile overcomplications were taken as clever by the completely blotto.
So when it came time for me to include a Birthday Cake Martini in The Big Book of Martinis for Moms (because, hey, of course a book called The Big Book of Martinis for Moms has to have a birthday-cake martini; I may be a cocktail snob, but I’m not an idiot), I decided that we were gonna do it a little more grown-up-like. Because hey, like it or not, growing up is in fact what a birthday is about.
A million years ago Last year, I did some damage to a bottle of yellow Chartreuse. Actually, it was only half a bottle; a Francophone friend up here in Montreal asked me to bootleg him back from the States a 375ml-sized bottle of the stuff, and as I could only find the 750ml size, I shared it with him.
Anyway, I’ve had some yellow Chartreuse on hand, is what I’m saying, and it’s one of those liqueurs (like ouzo) where a little goes a long way. Especially since it’s got a peculiar flavor that doesn’t go with every Old Tom, Dick and Harry. Even more especially because yellow Chartreuse, unlike its green cousin, is super ‘spensive, so you want that shizz to last.
The real reason we all drink, I think, when you get right down to it (and I’m paraphrasing myself here), is to whisk(ey) ourselves away in our mind’s eyes to another place and time, preferably involving fedoras, garters, cigarette holders, evening gloves, watch fobs and other accoutrements of a halcyon generation past.
This is certainly true when you now do all your drinking at 9 p.m. in your messy kitchen, with your kid finalllllly asleep a couple rooms away, a geriatric dog who perpetually smells like pee hanging out at your feet and a mound of dirty dishes staring you down from across the room.
But I don’t want any of you to think, now that I’ve got a daughter and a book that happens to be called The Big Book of Martinis for Moms, that this blog is taking a permanent turn towards all things parental. Far from it (just a little for my first week back, perhaps), and my proof to you of this is the Stork Club cocktail.
Hi there. I don’t know why the otherwise lovely pic above insists on orienting itself sideways. But let’s just accept it as some sort of metaphor for the randomness, the precariousness with which life can come at a person, the balancing act we all agree to execute every time our feet hit the bedroom floorboards. It’s still a proper cocktail, goddamn, and after all this time I’ve been away, that’s all my thirst cares about.
So, there is a little bit of news to share on my end, a couple new developments in my life since last we spoke so very long ago. (Months! Practically a year! Are months the new year? Is that a trend I missed since going underground? On a related topic, wtf is a Harlem shake?)
I have a baby now.
People, life was filled with perfectly great reasons to libate before I had the kid. Now there is but one reason to seek out solace in a cocktail glass, and it is this awesome, animated mound of delight, terror, havoc, charm and chaos. She is a writhing, smiling, life-sucking raison d’inebriate.