Walking to New Orleans

Well, flying actually.

Tomorrow, I take off in the bright AM to New Orleans to cover the fifth annual "Tales of the Cocktail" spirits convention. I will post my thoughts and adventures as soon as possible. Watch this spot.

Needless to say, I am quite excited. The thought of sitting at the rotating Carousel Bar in the Monteleone Hotel ordering a Sazerac or Hurricane or Vieux Carre or Ramos Gin Fizz or whatever my thirst desires just sets me a-tremble with delight. Not to mentioned the peerless food to be had in same said environs.

Tales to follow

Branching Out

Having experienced Milk & Honey, I decided to pay a call on its more public West Village cousin, Little Branch. Also owned by Sasha Petraske (who was on hand the night I visited, as he was at M&H), it has the same rigorous cocktail aesthetic, and supposedly the same strict rules about decorum—although the crowd I joined on Saturday night at 11 PM was pretty boisterous and loud. But, then, what are you going to do with a bunch of twentysomethings once you pump a couple of strong drinks in them?

The space is at the corner of Seventh and Leroy. There is a courteous bouncer at the door who asked the number of your party before you're allowed to trot the flight downstairs. The ceiling is low, the bar to the right and a row of booths line the alley-like east wall. Jazz plays. (Sasha likes his bebop.) The booths were all full, but since I was alone, I didn't want to sit in one anyway. I joined a pretty sizable line for the bar, and, since the bartender took care with each drink, it was a good 15 minutes before I got to order. I didn't mind, since I knew a good cocktail would be my reward.

The man behind the bar was either Irish or Scotch, judging by the accent, and working like a Trojan to complete a series of complex drink orders. His job was made measurably more difficult by an annoying and drunk couple who wouldn't relinquish their space at the bar. Obviously fancying themselves aficionados of the drink, they kept ordering new cocktails and invited the poor barkeep to "surprise" them. The slobs thought they were charming him with comments like "She wants something with gin. I leave it up to you," and "What's that drink do when you drink it?"

Feeling for him, I kept it simple when I made it to the lip of the bar and ordered my usual bartender-tester, a Sazerac. He responded that, of course, he could make one. I was very impressed by what followed. He used Sazerac House rye. He muddled a sugar cube rather than using simple syrup (as the bartender at the Brandy Library had). And he let the rye spend a good long time resting in ice, so I got a elegantly cooled Sazerac. Later on he told me that he likes to take a little extra time with such drinks.

I drank my cocktail slowly while I surveyed the scene. It was a young scene, with many a hapless man trying to impress many an uncomfortable woman. I feel a bit sorry for young ladies these days, the way they're made to dress, in high heels, baby doll dresses and various slip-like garments. They resemble promiscuous 13-year-olds.

When I was done, I wandered back to the bar. I believe I had earned the bartender's respect with my order, so I decided to up the ante, ordered the more obscure New Orleans classic De La Louisiane. He admitted he had never heard of it. I was a bit disappointed, but I perked up immediately after when he suggested another rye-based NoLa treat in its stead: a Vieux Carre. I nodded my ascent. He turned it out beautifully. I particularly liked the huge piece of ice he used to chill it; less diluting of the beverage that way.

Little Branch gets an A in my book.

'inoteca Sommelier Gets It But Good

Wine writer Alice Feiring goes after a doltish sommelier at the Lower East Side wine bar'inoteca in this item I ran across on the lady's blog.

I must say I feel a bit sorry for the guy, as Alice shows not a whit of mercy for his general cluenessness and preening arrogance. But then again, I've met this guy again and again at various places and I understand her irritation. He deserves what he gets, because he doesn't put the customer first, and refused to admit he doesn't know what he's talking about. Plus, the story, as told by Alice, is just hilarious. Take a look.

Library Hours

I checked out (forgive the pun) the Brandy Library in Tribeca the other night and, while I have some reservations, I was suitably impressed.

It's on N. Moore Street and you walk up what must have been a loading dock once to enter the place. I do wish that the owners of these Class Cocktail joints didn't always equate a good drink with some old Englishman's study. Brown leather chairs, hushed amber lights, books and bottles handsomely displayed. It's nice, I admit, but it's shtick, isn't it? You don't have to visit the lair of Colonel Blimp to enjoy a brandy.

(If I ever open a cocktail bar, it will be no-frills. The drinks will be the stars, not the decor.)

The "menu" was a leather-bound ledger like you might find at a hotel desk 50 years ago. It began with a listing of the Brandy Library's beliefs and rules (another rather annoying trend in drink emporiums). A small menu of foodstuffs, followed. No fries; lots of things involving Gruyere cheese. The list of available cocktails (all $13) came next, followed by the pages upon pages of brandies and scotches.

I was happy to see old favorites like Corpse Reviver, Rob Roy, Bronx, Sazerac, Brooklyn, Pisco Sour, Old Fashioned and Moscow Mule readily available. Also offered is a Stork Club, which purports to be the house drink and the famous old New York society hangout. I was told that the Side Car is the bar's most popular drink, in that it's the best-known, brandy-based cocktail.

I also liked the fact that, while there were sections for cocktails that were "Brandy-based," "Scotch-based," "Gin-based" and "Other," there was no column for "Vodka-based." We've got to teach the masses the error of their ways somehow.

Some things irked. The Martini was described as being a drink made with either gin or vodka. (Excuse me while I clear my throat.) And the Manhattan's ingredients began with bourbon. I pointed this out to the bartender, and he actually told me that Manhattan's were traditionally made with bourbon. I briefly corrected him and then changed the subject to the more worrisome detail that the lead ingredient listed for a Sazerac was also bourbon. Now, while an argument can be made for the historical validity of the bourbon Manhattan, no one can sanely maintain that a bourbon Sazerac is correct. He relieved my anxiety by saying it was a typo in the menu.

This bartender, friendly and attentive to the last, proved himself in the making of the Sazerac, which was fine and mighty strong! He also knew the whole history of the drink's invention in New Orleans, and it's status as possibly the first cocktail in history. Later on, he steered me into trying a Jack Rose, a Calvados-based libation that I have never tried. While it won't become one of my favorites, it was an intriguing, piquant change of pace, and I like the bartender for bravely directing me into uncharted waters.

Malbec on the Loire

In these times of the wine boom, something surprising comes along every day.

The other week, I blogged about a Roagna white wine that used the red Nebbiolo grape. I bought that bottle at Chambers Street Wines. At the same shop, I bought a bottle of Malbec. Not from Argentina, but from France. And not from Cahor, where one would expect to find this earthy grape in France, but from the Loire Valley!

The wine is called Pepiere Cot Pepie 2006, and it's got an asinine label sporting a drunken cartoon chicken which makes you think at first glance that you're looking at one of those worthless swills that come out of Australia. But it's a quality bottle, made by revered Muscadet winemaker Marc Ollivier. Here, he's playing around with a red grape most folks don't play around with, and the result is unlike any other malbec I've had. It's not overpowering, rustic and meaty. It's medium-bodied, with understated stewed dark fruits. The palate has an overall dustiness which is very appealing, and it's fine for summer drinking, weighing in at only 12% alcohol.

The Chambers guy was proud to say that he thought he had the only cases of this to be found in the U.S. If he still has some left, go get yourself some.

Land of Milk and Honey

I visited, for the first time, the New York branch of Milk and Honey, the London-based cocktail bar that conducts itself a bit like a speakeasy and a bit like a private club.

Milk and Honey has no phone number and no listed address. You have to know someone who's associated with the place in order to get the number. Once you have those digits, you call and make a reservation for a designated night and time. Someone calls back to confirm. It's all very mysterious and gives you a kind of tingly sensation.

Since the bar's intention seems to be to keep things on the hush-hush, I won't reveal the address here, even though it's been printed many places and is easy to find out. Let's just say it's on an obscure street and there is no signage or any other indications that it's there. You press a buzzer; there's a slight wait; then the door clicks open. Sweep aside two black curtains and you're in a narrow space, formerly a tailor's shop. Tin ceilings, low lighting, jazz music. A small bar seats four. There are three booths up front, three in back. Many coat hooks line the walls.

No one took my name and gave me instruction. Me and my friend occupied the final booth. As everything around me bespoke of civilized behavior, I didn't insist on attention, but waited patiently. It was about 15 minutes before the bartender approached apologetically and offered two glasses of champagne to make up for the lag in service. He said he was short on help that night; he was alone, in fact. Since he was so nice about it, and the place was so nice, I didn't care.

He asked for our order. I offered my usual challenge: a Sazerac. He didn't blink. We agreed on a brand of Rye and that was that. My friend wanted vodka and let the choice of drink up to the man. It took a while before the drinks came. No wonder, since the bartender obviously labors over them. Good drinks take a while to make. The Sazerac was good and, I was told later, made with actual Absinthe.

We were never rushed to order a second drink. The place is not about drinking. It's about selecting a drink, making it and then enjoying it.

Blogging the "Cocktails"

Exactly two weeks from today, I will be heading down to New Orleans to attend the fifth annual "Tales of the Cocktail" spirits convention.

I have attended before, but this is the first year I'll be going armed with a spirits blog of my own. So, I just wanted to let everyone know that I plan to blog the whole event, each seminar, each spirited dinner, each celebration and whatever incidental events might crop up.

Seminars I plan to attend with some certainty include "Lost Ingredients," featuring Ted Haigh, Joe Fee and Paul Clarke; "Rum's Punch," led by Wayne Curtis; "Enter the Distologist," with Anistatia Miller and Jared Brown (with whom I traded seats on the flight back from last years TOTC), and my Red Hook neighber LeNell Smothers; "Aromatics and Their Uses," led by Pegu Club grand dame Audrey Saunders; "Prohibition's Shadow" with Robert Hess, John Hall, Ted Haigh, Chris McMillan and Dale DeGroff; "Cocktails and the Blogosphere" with Paul Clarke, Chuck Taggert, Darcy O'Neiil and Rick Stutz; "Vermouth," led by Ted Haigh (who's certainly getting around this year) and Martin Doudoroff; and "Tiki Drinks" with Jeff Berry and Wayne Curtis.

I had really hoped to attend the "American Rye Whiskey" seminar with Allan Katz, as I dearly love rye, but a writing assignment demands I be at a panel running at the exact same time. I hope Rye forgives me.

So, watch this space. It all begins Wednesday, July 18.