A Visit to Miller's Pub

Miller's Pub is the sort of place that reminds me of the origins of Chicago's Loop area, when the sidewalks being the train tracks were gritty and full of characters. Things have been scrubbed pretty clean in recent decades, matching the homogeneity that robbed midtown New York of much of its flavor. But Miller's Pub remains.

This cavernous, wood-lined bar was founded in 1935 on S. Wabash by the Miller brothers. It was purchased by another set of brother—Pete, Nick and Jimmy Gallios—in 1950, and remains in that family. According to legend, they didn't have the money needed to change the sign, so they left it as is. The bar moved to a different location on Wabash, also owned by the Gallios, in 1989, when the original location was renovated "to seat cars instead of people." The children of the original brothers not work the bar. (I think the current space must have had a history before the Gallios family got ahold of it. It's rather old looking and stained glass in the vestibule reads "Wabash Inn.")

The cocktail menu is a treat. It feature not only an Old Fashioned (with muddled fruit) but a Wisconsin Old Fashioned (brandy instead of whiskey). And the lengthy beer list has kept up with the times, including local craft breweries Goose Island and Metropolitan.

But the reason I went in was the sign that said "Try a Tom & Jerry. A Miller's Tradition." The Midwest is a place where the Tom & Jerry never lost it's status of a harbinger of the holidays. I don't know, but I'm guessing they've been dolling them out every December for half a century or more.

I stepped right up to the long and crowded bar and ordered my Tom & Jerry. The creamy liquid was scooped out of a traditional bowl sitting right on the back bar, ladled into a coffee mug, topped with nutmeg and served with two red straws. $9. There was no lack of brandy in the drink, and it was hot and warming. A fine, fresh Tom & Jerry.

Tom and Jerrys, Going Once, Going Twice...

In these days of cocktail ascendency, when one guy's Silver Gin Fizz may be just as good as the next guy's, you need a gimmick to set your joint apart. Bar Henry has found a good one. Not content to just make Tom and Jerrys—an unusual and arcane drink as it is—it limits the number that may be purchased, and theatrically counts them down as they are snatched up. Here's the write-up I did for the NYT's Diner's Journal:

A Time to Whisk

In the month that Bar Henry has been open, the restaurant at 90 West Houston Street in the Village has won attention for it unusual wine policy, in which bottles opened by diners are made available to others by the glass while they last. Now the subterranean bistro is applying the same “get ’em while you can” approach to cocktails.

Actually, just one cocktail. On Dec. 10, the bar manager, Patrick Costigan, started offering 10 — count ’em, 10 — Tom and Jerrys a night, served on a first-come, first served basis. On certain busy nights, he’ll be more generous, portioning out 12 or 15. But it’s always a limited number. The numbers 1 to 10 are written in wax pencil on a large mirror opposite the bar, and each digit is crossed out (by the customer, if he or she so wishes) as the limited-edition libations are ordered. On the first night, Mr. Costigan said, the 10 Tom and Jerrys sold out in less than an hour.

So why not just make more Tom and Jerrys, if people want them so much? “It’s too much prep to be making them throughout the shift,” Mr. Costigan said.

Indeed, the drink is hardly a snap. To make the base batter, eggs must be separated, beaten and folded back together. The batter is spooned into a mug, which is fortified with brandy and whiskey (or sometimes rum), warmed up with hot milk, and adorned with grated nutmeg and cinnamon. Mr. Costigan prepares the eggs beforehand, but he does every every other step on the spot, presenting the $14 result in a heavy, ample mug. By the time he’s done spooning and mixing and frothing and grating, everyone at the bar has noticed. “There’s a ‘What’s that?’ factor to the drink,” he said.

Once a ubiquitous accompaniment to yuletide celebrations, the eggnog-like Tom and Jerry dates to 1820s England, where, legend has it, it was invented by the noted boxing journalist Pierce Egan. During the late 19th century, elaborate Tom and Jerry punch bowl sets were common. The drink persevered in certain pockets of the Midwest but otherwise died out as people shrunk from its calorie count and the excessive assembly required. With the ongoing cocktail renaissance, the drink has been somewhat reclaimed.

The most famous purveyor of Tom and Jerrys in New York in recent years has been Audrey Saunders — whose cocktail bar Pegu Club is right across the street from Bar Henry. “The Pegu Club is good for us,” Mr. Costigan said. “We’re good for them.”

A bartender at the Pegu Club said the bar would begin serving its version of the drink some time on or after Christmas. Shall we say whisks at 50 paces on Houston Street on Jan. 1?

Instant Tom & Jerry!

Christmas makes me think of Tom & Jerrys. I can't help it. My parents would hand out hot mugs of the stuff every yuletide like clockwork, even (now that I think of it) to us underage youngsters.

My parents never made Tom & Jerrys from scratch. They used a mix, easily found in Wisconsin stores, but which I've never seen outside the state. I recall it as a powered mix. While on the phone with my father recently, I asked if the product was still available. Yes, he said, but only at Christmastime, and there was no powered mix that he could remember; just a liquid, refrigerated version. Before I could say stop, he volunteered to ship me out a container.

It arrived a few days later, in the sort of plastic tub that is usually used for sour cream or yogurt. Mrs. Bowen's Tom & Jerry mix. There's a sweet picture on the container of a steaming mug superimposed on a winter scene of a log cabin in the snow. The weird brew is made in Wisconsin, natch.

Having sampled the superior Tom & Jerry of Audrey Saunders at Pegu Club, I had my suspicions. How good could this stuff be? Or, rather, how bad could it be? But I had it. It had traveled all those miles. It was worth a try. I opened it. It was half filled with a gloppy, tan, gelatinous substance that looks like the caramel swirls you see in certain store-bought ice creams. Did it always come this way? Had my father helped himself to half of the contents before sending it, to save on postage?

There were recipes on the back of the container, not just for Tom & Jerrys, but for Egg Nog, and "Kid's Egg Nog." The Tom & Jerry formula asked for a tablespoon of the glop, 3/4 oz. brandy, 3/4 oz. rum, hot water and a sprinkling of nutmeg. I did as ordered. It was easy enough, and the smell of the resulting potion reminded me of Christmases past. It didn't taste bad. It didn't taste good. It was just kind of uninteresting. A slightly creamy, somewhat hot mix of brandy or rum. It was crude. No wonder Tom & Jerrys never captured my imagination when I was younger. This prefabricated cocktail wasn't built to impress.

I asked my wife if she's like a sip. She recoiled as if from the maw of a snake, its fangs dripping with venom. "No!" she said. "Always hated that stuff!" The wife knows what she likes. And hates.

And so I moved on to my own little holiday tradition: a Blue Blazer on Christmas Eve, for its festive quality, and on Christmas morn, a Ramos Gin Fizz, an egg-based, morning drink far superior to the Tom & Jerry in my opinion.

Me and Tom & Jerry

In terms of cuisine, my family had a strange relationship with Christmas. The night before Christmas meant my father's preferred meal of oyster stew, a tradition he carried over from his childhood. I never did understand its origins and never met another soul who celebrated the night that way. Christmas Day could mean anything from lasagna to chicken breasts stuffed with cheese to chicken curry; we never once had ham or turkey.

And when it was time for a libation, nobody every suggested egg nog. It was Tom & Jerrys all the way. Growing up, I thought everyone drank Tom and Jerrys on Christmas. I only learned different when I went away to college, and when I moved to New York City shortly after, I discovered that most of the population not only abstained from the drink, but didn't even know what the hell it was. The cartoon, they knew. The drink, no.

The Tom & Jerry dates back the stone age of cocktails, going back nearly 200 years. Many are under the misconception that bartender extraordinaire Jerry Thomas invented it (Jerry himself was one of them). Whoever did come up with it, the thing was a smash. No yuletide throughout much of the 19th century was celebrated without bowls upon bowls of the egg-laden, spice-haven, rum and brandy-laced concoction. You can still find Tom & Jerry bowls and cups on eBay and in antique stores.

The Tom & Jerry waned with the rise of the cold cocktail and pretty much died with Prohibition. But for some reason, it retained a grip on the upper Midwest, including my home state of Wisconsin. Can't say why. It may be because hot drinks remain attractive in cold climates. It could be Wisconsin's strange attachment to brandy. Anyway, my parent never did without their Tom & Jerry on Dec. 25. Neither did their friends. It was so popular that Tom & Jerry "mix" could be purchased at any grocery store or liquor shop.

I never remember liking the drink. It just seemed like hot water laced with bad booze and milk, topped with cinnamon. It's very possible my parents didn't make a top notch Tom & Jerry. (Very possible.) Ten years ago, I found some Tom & Jerry mugs at a stoop sale, and honored the occasion by trying to mix up a batch of hooch on my own. Again, it was awful, but, in fairness, I recall having bought fairly cheap rum and brandy. (This was before my spirits re-education.) After that I gave up.

In researching a recent article for the New York Sun about holiday drinks, however, my curiosity has again been aroused. I know what should be done, now, and will give it a shot again this X-mas. First, however, I may drop by The Pegu Club where, I'm told, Audrey Saunders mixes up a bad Tom & Jerry. I obviously need instruction