The Past is Half Empty

A few months ago, we chronicled our experience at the Tales of the Cocktail Spirited Dinner at Stella!. What we alluded to was the utter prevalence of the grandiose, self-importance of the cocktail experts and aficionados and how this in a way soured the night. The New York Times has run a more interesting and better crafted piece exploring the same. Shocking, we know, but we might as well get upstaged by a dying newspaper.

This is my favorite part:

"Just when Manhattan’s most ambitious bartenders had started to resemble a troupe of historical re-enactors, sporting antique patterns of facial hair as they concoct 19th-century julep recipes, along comes Apotheke, with a host of drinks that Diamond Jim Brady wouldn’t recognize."

Following the Spirited Dinner, I had a discussion with a noted New Orleans food bloggist/lawyer/raconteur/seal clubber who dined at Iris. His response to the night can be summed up thusly, "I needed a fedora and some tight jeans to fit in."

Thankfully for all he does not own either, but perhaps he will grow a pencil thin mustache, the Boston Blackie kind.

A good cocktail has a certain magic and transporting quality, but let's not pretend it can replace the Flux Capacitor. And costume parties, especially those with some clever theme along the lines of "Ghosts Travel to Outer Space and Encounter the Elizabethan Period" or "Dirty Old Nuns and Catholic School Boys", provide hours of fun and endless opportunities for inappropriate statements. But there is no need to combine the two.

Drinks desire to be enjoyed and savoured. When you discuss and meticulously recreate a classic cocktail (down to using lake harvested ice), one crosses a dangerous line. The line between enjoyment and obsession. The only thing a well made drink should make you do is order another one.

In The Soul of a Chef and The Making of a Chef, Michael Ruhlman discusses the idea that one of the hallmarks of cooking is that a dish is a dish the world around. What he means by this is Sole Veronique, Kung Pao Chicken, or a hamburger have a defined and exact standard. There is but one true version of each dish. However, no two restaurants serve the same dishes; well, outside of McChain's Tapas Grill and Singles Bar. A Plato's Cave of dishes, if you will. In many ways there is a similar desire for an exact recipe for cocktails.

When bartenders begin messing with a Brandy Alexander they have done two fundamental things. First, they have created something new. Secondly, they have worn away at the protective enamel of what defines and distinguishes a Brandy Alexander. If the resulting drink is called a Champagne Alexander no harm done. However, usually the menu writers guild mandates that the drink be called a Brandy Alexander, with cute parenthesis.

Many restaurant menus have turned into paragraph long entries that require a thesaurus, atlas, and a lawyer. You know the types: "Holstein Farm's raised porcine shoulder over a caraway consomme wilted spinach fricassee, Mackinaw Island peach sorbetto, a reduction of 'mushroom juice', and artisan salami". Great now what the hell did I order.

The day may be fast approaching when cocktail menus exhibit similar phraseology. If so the tendency of people to explore cocktails and other handcrafted, expertly prepared goods may weaken. Sometimes its just easier to say "Budweiser". After all Bud is an import now.

Recognition of historical drinks must not become anchored by the constraints of the past. New products, flavors, and techniques can coexist with recognition that a Manhattan is a damn fine drink. But if you subsitute Rum for Rye and replace the cherry with guava, what do you get and so on and so forth...

So I guess the point of this rambling is, how do you enjoy and honor a virtue without it turning into a vice?