So look it: as I’ve mentioned before, cruising for Strange isn’t exactly a forbidden hobby at bars nor will it ever be in danger of extinction, I reckon. Little – not even an attractive chick’s hand-held, beefy date – will stop a determined person (read: every other dude in the bar) from attempting to get with some hot piece of ass. The reality is that many men in bars try really, really hard - but ultimately fail - to conceal their lack of couth and real agenda. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s innate unfortunately – how us Neanderthals roll. It’s hormonal, despite what modern corporate etiquette dictates, and what current Rule of Law enforces. Though some guys may be terribly crass, most of us are pretty much harmless. But there are some who are born-and-bred, habitual line steppers. As such, they routinely toe the the line between attractive confidence, and terrifying creeper. So it was the other evening when yet another recent graduate of Cleveland’s Ariel Castro Academy, seemed willing to stop at nearly nothing to either (a) assault a lovely middle-aged guest of mine or (b) become forcibly acquainted with our mammoth bouncers and have his teeth splattered on the nearest curb.
There are Bloody Mary’s. Then there are other bevies concocted with a lil’ tomato juice, vodka, Tabasco, spices and a cacophony of fresh meat stuffs, sauteed vegetables, and or grilled organic tofu with rare, Bangladeshi, Autumn herbs shizzle. Basically, it’s some cracked-out, French Culinary Institute graduate’s idea of a meal replacement. Voila – you have lobster Gazpacho with a dash “Vocka…” err… uh… or some facsimile thereof.
What’s black and not blue, stout and wheaty, and plain old tasty as all hell? Why it’s the venerable Black and Blue! What’s that you say? When you’ve finally
matured and gained class tired of pisswater, do yourself a huge favor and ask your friendly neighborhood bartender for one of these delectible jamies. It requires you to have both Blue Moon (or any Hefeweizen really) as well as Guiness (or similar Stout) on drought.
Well, more like I knew The Monogamists. Sex and The City – Season 1, Episode 7. I know, I know… it’s not Throwback Thursday just yet. But what the hell. Pouring through some really old hard drives from yester-year, I dug up some vintage photos and video footage. Some of them – naturally – I really didn’t want to see (read: relics of relationships crashed and burned). Others, had me awash in smirks and nostalgia.
This is my Tip Bucket. There are many like it, but this one is mine (Vince D’Onofrio reference for those not versed on Stanley Kubrick flicks). Take a closer look… there are two C-Notes in there and they came from one person, as one tip, at the end of an otherwise (unusually) mundane Wednesday evening. Oh yeah! Though his B.A.C. was D.U.I.-level twisted after several hours imbibing, the wonderfully talented young gentlemen who bestowed me with such a generous gratuity, didn’t pay for a single drink all evening. You see, he happens to be an entertainer at one of the bars where I happen to work and took it upon himself to amass a tip collection from his fellow band-mates, for the purpose of taking care of yours truly.
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it eleventy billion times – Gawker rocks! Gizmodo’s my favorite asset of theirs. Why? Cuz they love technology but love booze even more (or so they’re frequent off-course forays into boozedom would seem to indicate). Anyway, this time, they tackle the anti Vodka & Soda: the venerable Gin and Tonic. Say what? Everybody hates gin! Not quite Kemosabe. Personally, my favorite cocktail is a rather simple one. I adore me a well-chilled, 1/3 Vermouth (yes people) Gibson, adorned with three over-sized, house-cured Pearl Onions. Slap that puppy in an over-sized, purty crystal cocktail glass, and you can easily convince me to help you move couches all day long. Long before Ketel and Goose with Soda ruled the skinny bitch’s roost, G&T’s were the cat’s meow at every watering hole in existence. They’re still fairly popular today but admittedly live deep in the shadows of – sheesh – that above mentioned simpleton drink.
Flunitrazepam – better known as Rohipnol. Oh, can’t recall what that is you say? It’s not a cold remedy folks nor is a pharmacy ingredient for your Meth concoction. You stalkers, creepin’ in the bushes, and even some of you Frotteurs know full well what we’re talking about here. For the rest of you, those are the scientific and commercial names for Roofies folks, respectively. Yes, the date rape drug. Chicks are terrified of the stuff and for legitimate reasons. It’s why you just about never want to leave your bevie unoccupied. There’s a company out there called DrinkSavvy, that’s out to accomplish nothing less than put the kibosh on all the dudes who are lacking game, resort to chemical “persuasion,” and unauthorized ports of call.
I’ve written much on the why, how and when previously kind and hospitable bartenders mysteriously transform into utter assholes or douchebag mixologists. But, don’t take it just from me. I’m not the only game in this town (or The Wrong Coast for that matter). Enter Eric Alperin of Hey Bartender fame (I’m still waiting to see the movie) and barkeep at L.A.’s The Varnish.
The venerable Sidecar. I get an order for one – I dunno – maybe 3 or 4 times a year. Often, it’s at my behest. Most young’uns don’t know a damned thing about it’s existence, let alone it’s wonderful balance of well-chilled sweet/dry/citrus magic stuff in a purty
Martini cocktail glass. That’s cuz they’re far too easily (and wrongly) satiated with simpleton and tasteless shizz like Vodka & Soda - sheesh. Outside Speakeasy type throwbacks, nary will most folks ever venture out of their comfort zone of booze-hounding to get all experimental with classic and relatively “obscure” brown-liquor drinks like ye Sidecar. That’s a damned shame. I’ve never had a single guest not go absolutely gaga over this cocktail – particularly straight Cognac lovers.
Take a gander at this miraculous device… you know you want it.. Look, this thing serves absolutely no purpose behind an operational bar – I don’t think. At home though? That’s another story. I love vino! Don’t you? Being that I’m hogtied to a chick who’s been (and will be) on the wagon in perpetuity, I find myself – not only strategically hiding bottles of this, that and the other thing, all over the house- but frequently retrieving my lost stash and imbibing at home alone. Therefore, it behooves me to keep my – uhh – grape juice, as non-vinegary as possible, for as long as possible. Well, if you’re an anal aficionado like me, how the hell do you do that once you pop the cork (if you’re not gonna chug the whole damned thing at once)? Modern technology is your ticket… Enter: The Coravin Wine Access System 1000.