And your favorite bar myth is…

Ever wonder whether it’s true that you should always toss out your vermouth a month after you’ve opened it?

Well, have I got a seminar for you! A month from now at Tales of the Cocktail I’ll be hosting a panel with two eminent cocktail experts to weigh, dissect, destroy and/or enshrine myths that circulate as freely as bad drinks at a sports bar. Some of these are fueled by enthusiasm, ego and ethanol. Others by ennui and inertia.

Our aim? To sort.

Fact: here. Fiction: there.

On the panel will be estimable drinks historian David Wondrich. Did Jerry Thomas really fling flaming Blue Blazers horizontally? We’ve got a couple of tankards and an asbestos suit to find out.

Also on hand to address myths of cocktail science is the estimable Dave Arnold of the French Culinary Institute. You know, the guy who rigged up thermocouples inside cocktail shakers to find out if the Japanese hard shake produces results all that different from the one-handed lame shake of the flirting bartender. (Question: have you heard as much about the hard shake after it was put throught the paces at that Tales seminar three years ago? Didn't think so.)

And I’ll be batting clean-up, taking on various and sundry beliefs, like the one about having to shake a Ramos gin fizz for ten minutes to enter cocktail valhalla.

Myths: be scared. Be very scared.

We’ll leave plenty of time for the audience to ask questions about what they’ve heard over the years, both up and down, and across the bar. If you’re planning to be in New Orleans, come by with questions. We’ll take them on.

Oh… wait. This just in. The seminar has apparently sold out! And has been for weeks.

So if you’re got questions, throw them at me here and now, electronically. I’ll make sure we’ll take them up, do the research, and report back forthwith after Tales concludes.

Leave questions in the comments section below. Of if you’d rather not parade your ignorance for the world to see, email me directly: curtis@waynecurtis.com.

True/Untrue: Thursday July 26, 3:30pm, Sonesta Hotel (Grand Ballroom North), New Orleans. Tales of the Cocktail.

Field Trip: Pura Vida Tapas, Atlanta

New Orleanians generally consider Atlanta to be their affluent, arrogant and stupid uncle. This stems mostly from a genetic hatred for the Falcons. But it’s also because when we visit, we’re stupefied by the endless interstates and ceaseless traffic and soulless “townhouse” developments that ring the core. And the feeling that there isn’t much of a core. New Orleans, in contrast, is basically all core.

I’ve been driving north from New Orleans to Maine all this week, and I made Atlanta my first stop, thinking I should pay a visit to our wayward uncle. It had been a while. Maybe we could make amends.

I asked James Ives, a bartender I admire who works at Cure and Bellocq in New Orleans, where I should get a drink when I hit town. He used to live in Atlanta and worked at Holman & Finch. One of the places he mentioned to me was a tapas restaurant called Pura Vida.

So I Google-mapped it. And then I searched for “hotel.” And, lo, one popped up about 50 feet away, called the Highland Inn, where I found a room for $50. Deal: done. If there’s a holy grail in the cocktail travel world, it’s having a place to flop a one-minute walk away from where you drink. I wasn’t even dissuaded by the questionable TripAdvisor reviews. How questionable? Let’s just say it’s rarely a good sign when someone feels the need to defend a place by saying “Bed/sheets/towels were clean.”

Anyway, Pura Vida is the Poncey-Highland area, which is a residential area that arose during the first great streetcar suburb era — this was on the famous Nine Mile Trolley line, developed at the end of the 19th century. The neighborhood consists of smallish lots, bungalows, and non-chain commercial businesses on the main streets. And lots of trees.

Pura Vida is a supremely comfortable spot, with most of the dining on one side of a wall. A large, solid bar and a few tables are on the other. I immediately established a beachhead at the bar where I met manager Paul Calvert, who’s personable and very talented.

His spring cocktail menu (it was about to switch to summer) had the feel of a understated travelogue filled small, Bakeresque adventures. It’s predominantly a classics-with-a-twist menu, with offerings like a tequila Sazerac, and a Manhattan variation with sherry and Carpano. Also, a lot of drinks in the key of bitter. which is my favorite key. And the selection of spirits is outside the ho-hum usual, including Ragged Mountain, Scarlet Ibis, Five Islands, and Matuseleum rums, Encanto pisco, and Bellringer Dry Gin.

I started with a Floreciendo, a high-speed collision of Del Maguey mezcal mixed with Carpano vermouth, St. Germain, Campari, and rosewater, then garnished with a flamed orange twist. I ordered it in part because I’d just come off eight hours on the road and this sounded like something that could cut through the highway grit. But also because it seemed like a nervy maneuver — passing on the shoulder? — that might go badly awry.

It didn’t. It was flawless and exactly what I needed. The drink was so robust it stood up to (and even complemented) the chipotle mushroom plate I ordered.

Next up:an off-menu drink Calvert told me about (it was on last summer’s menu) called Le Petit Mort. I was curious because it seemed to be another high-wire act. It was built around Niesson rhum agricole blanc, which I’ve found generally doesn’t like playmates beyond sugar cane syrup and a bit of lime. But Calvert forced it onto the playground with Pineau de Charentes, lime juice, Herbsaint, and green Chartreuse. And the rhum agricole actually played nice, sharing its flavors and even letting some of the others (notably, Chartreuse) set the rules on some sips.

I departed weary but pleased, and made the short jaunt next door to the hotel. No vast parking lots or highway interchanges or fast food restaurants were in sight. (I’m still convinced that early streetcar suburbs remain the pinnacle of urban evolution.) As for the hotel, let’s just say that the bed, sheets, and towels were clean.

The best part of my evening? Realizing that my annoying uncle actually had some redeeming qualities.

Pura Vida Tapas, 656 N Highland Avenue NE, Atlanta, GA 30306, (404) 870-9797. For a pdf of the current cocktail menu, click here.

Swinging, drinking, crooning at the Museum of the American Cocktail

One of the joys of getting older and becoming disorganized and forgetful is that life becomes a series of pleasant surprises. Like yesterday, when I found in my camera a video I'd forgotten I'd shot a couple of weeks ago. It's Dale DeGroff croooning at the World Cocktail Day swing ball and fundraiser to benefit the Museum of the American Cocktail.

And more: I'd forgot I had taken these still shots that evening.

And, then, while cleaning up my desk in advance of my migration to Maine (assuming I remember how to drive there), I found on the back of a business card the recipe for Nick Detrich’s splendid cocktail he made for the event, called the Mystery Train. If I had to categorize it, I’d call it one of the new strain of bitter-inflected tiki drinks. Also, I’d categorize it as delicious.

Mystery Train
1.5 oz Myer’s Rum
1.5 oz fresh pineapple juice
.75 oz Demerara sugar syrup (2:1)
.75 oz fresh lime juice
.75 oz Campari
2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters

Shake with ice and strain into glass misted with Pernod.  

Getting old: it’s just like Christmas, but with more booze.

Press releases I didn't finish reading

“Friday will be a day of indulgence as the country celebrates the sweet smell and delicious taste of our favorite O-shaped treat. It's National Donut Day and to commemorate this hole-iest of days, the world's only sustainable vodka, 360 Vodka, proudly announced its new mouth-watering flavor: 360 Glazed Donut.”

Press releases I didn't finish reading

“Many people are wondering how to spice up their social gatherings with fine flavored vodkas that won’t burn a hole in their wallets.”

Invitations I didn't finish reading

The inaugural Beverage Blowout is being held this October. It’s billed as “Las Vegas’s premier party in appreciation of the beverage industry.” The invite solicits sponsors for several categories (at left), some of which were evidently unearthed from a time capsule buried at a casino (now lost) ca. 1988. The list is intriguing, but I’m chiefly dissapointed in the lack of a “bar poet” category. The event is the brainchild of a marketing outfit called Precision International, which may explain the obstacle course.

World Cocktail Day: Finally, an excuse to drink, dance and carry on in New Orleans

What happened 206 years ago this month?

As if I had to ask. Of course, it was the date of the first printed definition of the word ”cocktail.” And because so few days exist on the calendar in which one can celebrate by drinking extravagant cocktails and dancing and generally carrying on, World Cocktail Day was established in 2006. It honors that most American of American inventions, the cocktail. (Or the most British of American inventions, if you believe David Wondrich. But he’s a known liar.)

Many fraudulent holidays exist, of course, such as World Estuaries Day (September 3), National Biscuit Month (Sepetmber), National Melba Toast Day (March 23) and Canadian Toilet Flange Day (October 7). These exist only on press releases. No drink or gaeity is involved.

World Cocktail Day, I am pleased to report, is not an ersatz holiday. Indeed, this year’s milestone will be marked with a fabulous Swing Ball at the Museum of the American Cocktail on the Mississippi River. Live in New Orleans? Take the bus or streetcar. Don’t live in New Orleans? Fly and catch a cab.

The ball will feature the outstanding Meschiya Lake and her Little Big Quartet. She has a voice that can fill a city block, and it still has energy enough to wander down a side street or two. She plays traditional New Orleans jazz. This doesn’t mean smooth jazz, and it doesn’t mean Dixieland jazz. (The latter was a soul-less, stripped down version of the real thing, the Herman’s Hermits to the Beatles.) It means jazz you can serioiusly dance to.

Dancing will make you hungry, of course. Do not fear: there will be food. Noshing will be provided by Cure, Cafe Adelaide, and the Windsor Court Hotel.  

Eating will make one thirsty. Do not fear. there will be drink. Some of the city’s best bartenders will be mixing up outstanding cocktails, including Chris McMillian, Rhiannon Enlil, Kimberly Patton-Bragg, Nick Deitrich, and the inscrutable Chris Hannah.

Good food and drink invariably makes one thoughtful and inquisitive. Do not fear: there will be education. You can browse the museum with food and drink in hand. When questions arise about early 20th century drink, you can ask, oh, say, DALE DEGROFF. Have a tiki question? Why not ask JEFF “BEACHBUM” BERRY.  Oh, yes, they’ll be there, and ready to chat.

Also: be sure to welcome Jeff Berry to New Orleans. He and his wife, Annene, moved here last week. New Orleans is where tiki inventor Don the Beachcomber grew up, so Berry's move here is like the return of a salmon to the ancestral river. A salmon wearing an aloha shirt. Or whatever.

You might ask, what sort of second mortgage will be required to afford such a glorious event? A very small one, friends. The cost: a mere $30, including all food and drink and dance, for those who order in advance. (It’s $40 for procrastinators.)

Will I be there? As if you had to ask.

Friday May 18, 6pm to 9pm, Southern Food and Beverage Museum (Riverwalk Marketplace, at foot of Julia St.) For info, call 646.696.0862. To order tickets online, head to www.americancocktailmuseum.org.

Iceberg spotted off Manhattan

Next Monday Camper English and I are leading a seminar about exotic cocktail ice at the Manhattan Cocktail Classic in New York.

I thought it would be a supremely clever idea to serve Zacapa rum over 10,000 year old ice, marking one end of the ice history spectrum. (On the other, more modern end, we’ve got two-inch pefrectly clear ice cubes and a demo of how to make hollow ice spheres, just like the cool kids at Aviary.)

And I thought, how hard can it be to have an iceberg shipped down to NYC? Right?

Well, it turns out that it takes some doing. Here’s the process:

1. Do you have a friend who lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland? Good.

Convince them that it would probably be fun and a little adventurous to go to the coast near where an iceberg has run aground. This actually doesn’t require a lot of looking, because in the spring icebergs that have calved off Greenland glaciers head toward their certain demise in the warm Gulf Current. Around Newfoundland, they get all panicky and confused and run aground, just like those tropical sea turtles mesmerized by hotel lights. Once the icebergs get hung up, they start to break up into pieces ranging from the size of a suburban house to the size of a toaster. These are called “bergy bits.” Really.  

2. Have your friend convince a fishermen that it would actually be fun and a little adventurous to go to the mouth of the harbor and haul out a piece of ice about the size of a dorm refrigerator. This might involve the a bottle of rum or two. Screech is preferred.

3. Take the ice and hack it down so it fits in a big plastic picnic cooler you’ve purchased at Wal-Mart. Yes, they have Wal-Marts in Newfoundland.

4. Seal it with a whole role of duct tape.

5. Take it to the FedEx. Remain calm when the FedEx people shake their heads mournfully when you declare the contents as “ice,” then tell you that the U.S. Food and Drug Administration requires “prior clearance” for ice.

Call the FDA. Explain your problem to the nice lady who answers the Prior Clearance hotline. Your explanation will be followed by a long silence, then the lady will say “Do you mean iceberg lettuce?” When you explain further, the lady will say, “Oh, you mean like an iceberg floating in the sea?” Say, yes, and after another long silence, she’ll tell you that, no, you don’t need prior clearance for that. She'll say to have the FedEx person call her.

6. Back at FedEx the next morning, fill out four (4) additional lengthy, detailed forms involved in shipping an iceberg. This includes a form to be filed with the NAFTA people. Really. You’l know all about these forms owing to the increasingly aggravated and annoyed emails and texts from your friend, or former friend — it's not quite clear where things stand. Pay more than $300 to ship ice overnight to New York.

7. Track the shipment on the FedEx website. It’s being sent to a cold storage place in Queens, where you convinced someone that it would be fun and a litte adventurous to accept a cooler of iceberg ice and keep it in their walk-in frezer for the weekend. When the cooler misses the FedEx connection in Maspeth, slap forehead and say, “Shit!” Then be thankful when an afternoon van picks it up and delivers it.

8. A couple of days later, board flight to New York. Go to room where ice seminar will be held. Open the cooler and hope that enough bergy bit remains to hack up with ice picks and put into about 75 glasses. (If you're from the FDA and are reading this, these are "decorative" ice pieces, as per the form.)

Also hope it’s ice from the lower part of a glacier. Because then the air bubbles are so compacted from the sheer weight of the glacier that they pop and fizz as the ice melts. And then you can lean forward and inhale 10,000 year old air as it’s released from its icy tomb, where it’s been waiting for you since before written history began.

In a hotel ballroom. In midtown Manhattan.

Hope to see you on Monday at Manhattan Cocktail Classic.

Question of the day: Where do I get a loggerhead?

Like many of you, I own two loggerheads, one for mugs, and one for pitchers. These are an essential bit of equipment for making flip, a drink popular in the 18th century and consisting of rum, beer, and molasses. The loggerhead is like a magic wand that turns a nasty, treacly soup into something heavenly.

The loggerhead is essentially an iron rod that’s been forged with a heavy bulb at one end. It was originally made for shipbuilders to keep tar pliable in cool weather — the loggerhad was heated in a fire, and then was used to stir a firkin of stiffening tar. Somewhere along the line, it was conscripted into the making of hot drinks. Loggerheads became standard equipment at taverns, kept in the fireplace so anyone in the mood for flip could send up a geyser of hissing steam.

How does this actually work? And more to the point, how does it taste? Well, if you’re in New Orleans you could stop by the Museum of the American Cocktail on Monday May 7 at 6:30. I’m giving a talk on colonial drinks, and I’ll be making a flip. Get you some.

But where does one get a loggerhead? That's not so easy. I've seen one or two at historical museums in New England, but an antique loggerhead is all but impossible to find. If you search for “loggerhead” an eBay, you'll end up with a wall of turtle illustrations so overwhelming cute it will curdle your stomach for a week.

So I set out to have one made. My first loggerhead was forged by an ironmonger I met at a folk art festival in Maine. I told him what I needed. He was of the opinion that he could not possibly make an acceptable loggerhead without having some rum first. I brought back some Zacapa, and he sipped judiciously. His eyebrows made a little dance. He took another sip, this one somewhat less judiciously. He promised to make me a loggerhead.

A few months later, one showed up in the mail. It wasn’t quite as awesome as I’d imagined. (Perhaps I should have given him some Sailor Jerry.) He’d essentially just doubled back the rod at the head, giving it more of a nubbin than a bulb. I could easily get it red hot and it worked fine on a single mug. But I wanted something more substantial for a pitcher.

Yankee Doodle douchebag at 2011 Tales of the Cocktail. (Photo courtesy of Bart Everson).So I paid a call to ironmonger and artist Rachel David, who lives and works in New Orleans. She makes some pretty amazing stuff, including sculptures and other handiwork for homes and business (she was crafting an interior railing woven with iron lady slippers when I visited). She agreed to make me one.

A few weeks later I drove back to her studio to pick it up. And it was… awesome, with big, round head somwhere between the size of a baseball and a tangerine. It feels great in the hand. I don’t have a working fireplace in New Orleans, so I’m reduced to the plebeian method of heating by blowtorch. But it works splendidly.

If you want your own loggerhead — and I realize that’s a rhetorical inquiry because, seriously, who doesn’t? — you could check with Rachel David about crafting one. Or maybe two. She can be reached via her website at Red Metal.

Tickets for Monday’s seminar are available online through www.museumoftheamericancocmtail.com.

A drink with The Boss

Get the flash player here: http://www.adobe.com/flashplayer

Here’s a quandary: what drink should you make when Bruce Springsteen drops by?

I was faced with that dilemma last Sunday when a small group of us — my wife, my stepson and his girlfriend, and my Alaskan niece and her husband — all ventured to Jazzfest. We, along with 100,000 of our dearest friends, immediately headed to the huge Acura stage to wait four hot, sunny hours for the Springsteen show. (Bonus: we got to hear sets by Trombone Shorty and Dr. John while waiting.) Somehow we managed to worm our way up to the front of the general admission area and set up base camp. That is, if by “base camp” you mean a square of approximately seven-and-a-half inches of lawn.

Once this was secured, I set out on a foray in search of a nice cocktail. This is no small feat at Jazzfest. The choice is mostly lite beer (although some hidden vendors sell Foster’s), overpriced wine, and slushy, sweet daiquiris served from machines the size of commercial clothes washers.

So instead I angled for the stand selling Mango Freeze — which, if you’ve never been to Jazzfest, is an amazingly refreshing sort of mango sherbet. I got two styro bowls, mashed them upside down atop one another for insulation, then put my head down and began the long and wearying trek back to base camp. (Process: place your hand lightly on back or shoulder of person in front of you, repeat “’scuze me,” “just stepping through,” “sorry to bother,” about 12,000 times until you find your people.)   

Now, bringing liquor into Jazzfest is illegal and frowned upon by the authorities. Unsmiling people search your bags as you enter to prevent this. And I can’t encourage or condone stupid and juvenile efforts to sneak in liquor. But, somehow, back at base camp, through inexplicable and possibly miraculous circumstances, I found myself in possession of two flasks of Banks Five Island Rum. Also — and these must have been left in my daypack from a previous event — I found a battery-powered swizzle stick, a large plastic mixing cup, and a small bottle of Bitter Truth Orange Bitters.

I know. What are the odds?

Anyway, big scoops of mango freeze and a gurgling freehand pour of rum went into the mixing cup, along with a bit of water to loosen it all up. Then came the hum of a battery powered mixer, followed by a fragrant rummy and mangoish aroma. Banks Rum and mango are perfectly cordial mates, but a bit simple in their outlook. So in went some generous dashes of complicating bitters. Then, strangely, I found six paper cups in my pack. I poured all around, and we all toasted The Boss.(Side note: a benefit of becoming dehydrated in the parching sun is that you don’t ever have to pee.)

Then: Bruce came on stage, accompanied by a flood of powerful high school memories. My mango cocktail fortunately helped me manage and direct these to a good place. And about halfway through his two-plus hour show Bruce waded into the crowd and ended up on a small stage about eight feet to our left. He ascended and sang “Waiting for a Sunny Day.”  Then he stepped out on the railing about a foot from the stage.

What happened next is a matter of some conjecture among our party. Some believe he spontaneously chose to crowd-surf, or possibly he lost his balance and decided just to go with it. However, others of us are pretty certain he spotted a delicious mango and rum drink being served below, and thought to himself, “That looks pretty damn good! I wouldn’t mind one of those myself.”

OK, now… how’s this for all the fucking bad planning in the world?

I totally forgot to pack a seventh cup.  

So Bruce left, aided by a very nervous looking security guy who grabbed him by the ankle and reeled him back in. Adding insult to injury, a few minutes later a fan handed him a can of Miller Lite. He took a sip, and poured the rest down his back.

Sunny Day
1 big glob of Mango Freeze
1 pretty hefty pour of rum
5 or 6 or 11 dashes of bitters or whatever

Flash blend with battery powered cocktail stirrer. Serve in paper cups. Garnish with stray grass clippings and that gritty debris that collects in the bottom of your daypack. Save a little for The Boss. Don’t forget the seventh cup.