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When I was penning The Big Book of Martinis for Moms — because that’s how one writes a book; one pens them ever so eloquently; one doesn’t thrash at one’s laptop until the “c” key gets permanently stuck or try to organize one’s writer-blocked thoughts by haphazardly slapping a bajillion Post-Its on the wall like a mental patient — I had an idea for a chocolate-cherry cocktail.
read skimmed why haven’t you bought this book yet please buy this seen the book, you know that the cocktail recipes therein each correspond to a particular feat of motherhood that deserves a potent, potable reward. So like babyproofing the house is an accomplishment that calls for a Rusty Nail, while helping with homework earns Mom a Brainstorm. The chocolate-cherry cocktail, I thought, would be a mother’s just desserts on those blessed afternoons or evenings when she gets to do nothing at all, fluffy-slippered feet resting atop the coffee table. In other words, like drinking a bonbon.
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.