Sorry for the long delay there — I think I’m still in shock from the experience of seeing so many different types of whiskey trotted out at WhiskyFest in San Francisco last Tuesday; that, and from my experience at Bourbon & Branch the night before.

While my liver and I still aren’t on speaking terms, I can say that I had a great trip. I got into town on Monday, just in time to check in at the hotel then head over to Absinthe to meet the evening’s companions, Anita & Cameron from Married…With Dinner, and Erik Ellestad and his lovely wife, Michele (a surprise to Erik, it being his birthday). Our experience at Absinthe was short, it being closed and all (happy Monday!), but we trundled over to the Orbit Room for cocktails that fell into the the “not bad, but we’ll just have one and then move on” category.

After Erik and Michelle headed off for his birthday dinner, Anita and Cameron let me tag along as we headed up the hill to NoPa. I’d read about this restaurant somewhere, and heard only glowing details, but somehow I’d missed any mention of its cocktail list (not surprising — so many reviewers turn a blind eye to that whole side of the business). That was a mistake — they had some really great sounding drinks on the menu, many with house-made bitters. Anita had a Girasol, made with fino sherry, St. Germain and sunshine bitters (made with cardamom and saffron), Cameron went for an Old Cuban and I had an Amarita, made with blanco tequila, Aperol, lime juice and house-made grapefruit bitters (the bartender said there was some sage in the bitters, and I had no complaints). They were fantastic all around.

I’d tell you about the dinner, except since I was dining with two very accomplished food bloggers, I’d probably embarass myself — though I probably couldn’t embarass myself any more than I did by hovering over my pear salad and Mediterranean fish stew, looking territorial and making growly yummy sounds as I stuffed myself with scallops and squid, oblivious to all rules of social discourse.

My manners couldn’t have been too obnoxious, though, because Anita & Cameron gave me a lift back downtown, dropping me in the middle of the Tenderloin and pointing at the unmarked door for Bourbon & Branch. This is a bar I’d heard and read about extensively since they opened, and during my short time in San Francisco it was at the top of my list of places I needed to try. Fortunately, this being a Monday, the bar was fairly quiet, and I had no problem getting a seat at the bar (the reservation I’d made earlier in the day seemed unnecessary, though on a busier night I can see how they’d be required).

And this visit to Bourbon & Branch was both my pinnacle and my defeat. Pinnacle, because I had the pleasure of being treated like a king by Joel and Eric, the gentlemen working the bar that evening. After an introductory drink I put myself in their hands, and I was really blown away. House cocktails like the Black Manhattan — made with Buffalo Trace bourbon, Averna and Fee’s Barrel-Aged bitters — were really astounding. Eric mixed another drink using Michter’s rye, Luxardo maraschino and some black liquid from a mystery bottle, then told me it was something made with Belvedere vodka in which had been macerated whole walnuts (green and black, I believe — my notes are a little sketchy), and herbs including mint and rosemary.

And defeat? It was my defeat, simply, because I was so overwhelmed by the quality of the drinks they were serving and their commitment to their craft, that by the time I stopped to think “wait — how much have I had?” the answer was “definitely enough.” Fortunately I was sitting next to a couple of guys who were also in town for WhiskyFest and who were similarly in the bag, and together we pointed ourselves in the right direction for our hotels (except for the guy we lost somewhere — but his buddy wasn’t concerned, so neither was I). I shrugged off the offer to hang out and drink tequila — probably the best decision I’ve made in a long time — then made it back to the hotel to crash and then wake up with a headful of thunder and fuzzy memories (thank god for the notebook).

After I managed to slough off most of my hangover — foraging a lunch at the Ferry Building Marketplace helped — and take care of a little work, I headed up to Haight St. to meet Erik and Jimmy Patrick at Alembic. This was another bar I’d been hoping to try, and while I was saving myself for WhiskyFest — and was still a bit tender from the night before — I had a fantastic La Paloma, with house-made grapefruit soda, while Erik and Jimmy went for Sazeracs. I nearly broke down in tears when I saw the list of ryes on their spirits board, and I felt really at home in Alembic’s comfortable space.

While the drinks were tasty, the highlight for me was getting to hang out with Erik and Jimmy, who’s a dedicated whiskey fan, even if he does prefer the delicate peaty stuff to the awesome vitality of an honest-to-god American spirit. Still, one more scotch drinker meant more bourbon for me, so after settling up Jimmy and I grabbed a cab downtown for the main event.

I had planned on playing it really cool and easy, taking a walk around the room and scoping out the selection before diving in. I made it as far as the Van Winkle table before scrapping that plan. Both Preston and Julian were in attendance, and since I’d spoken with Preston by phone before, I thought I’d stop and introduce myself (and grab a taste of some 20-year-old Pappy along the way). Van Winkle has always had everything I love in bourbons — a rich, buttery base with a nice, soft body and a finish that lasts for weeks.

I could have spent five minutes just nosing the whiskey before moving on, and would have, if I hadn’t noticed that right next to Van Winkle was the table for Buffalo Trace. In various places on this site I’ve been known to wax rhapsodic about the wonders of Weller and the virtues of the Sazerac line of ryes. Buffalo Trace had their top of the line out for WhiskyFest, which of course meant the 2007 Antique Collection, and were pouring tastings before the bottles even hit the shelves. My impulse was to go directly for the Stagg — at 144 proof, the bulldozer of bourbons — but instead I started gentle, with a taste of the Sazerac 18-year-old rye. Christ – I love all the Sazerac ryes (the Thomas Handy is one of my top 3 ryes, ever), but the 18-year-old is really a centerpiece of the Antique Collection, and it’s easy to see why. Dry, oaky, almost musty in its austerity, the rye has a beautifully crisp flavor that really primes the palate. It was hard to tear myself away from the Sazerac, but for the sake of the Stagg, I managed it, and JESUS! was that a big bunch of whiskey in the glass. At 144 proof, this bourbon is afraid of nothing, and it had this amazing aroma of pipe tobacco that made you just want to settle down with a glass and spend some time getting acquainted. This is probably gonna be my Christmas present to myself this year, assuming I can find a bottle.

After Van Winkle, Sazerac and Stagg, it could have all gone downhill, but there were so many fantastic whiskies being poured that it was easy to just roam and talk and taste. I estimate I tasted around 35-40 whiskies during the evening, ranging from Stranahan’s Colorado whiskey to 40 Creek Canadian whiskey (which I’d previously enjoyed at Tales of the Cocktail) to Jura single malt (a “highland from an island,” poured by Willie Tait), to a trio of Mackillop’s Choice Single Cask whiskies (poured by Lorne Mackillop himself — thanks to Jimmy for making the introduction), and another trio of Old Pulteney.

But while I stepped around the map a bit, American whiskies are where my main interest lies, and I had some really fantastic stuff that I’ll likely never see again. From tasting Woodford Reserve’s four-grain and Sonoma-Cutrer Finish whiskies (the latter finished in used chardonnay casks, which gave the bourbon a bright, fruity complexity) to the 23-year-old Evan Williams Blue Label (107 proof, really rich on the nose and very spicy, with fistfuls of licorice and molasses and a finish that followed me home to Seattle — only $350 a bottle, available at Heaven Hill Heritage Center and in some foreign markets), there was a lot to enjoy.

But this was one of my favorites, partially because I wasn’t supposed to have it and partially because it’s my most favorite of whiskies, a rye:

The photo is blurry because Larry Kass was trying to keep it out of everyone’s sight after pouring me a taste — Rittenhouse 23-year-old Single Barrel straight rye whiskey, new on the market and a steal at $160. He only had two bottles on hand, and they were under the table, sharing space with two bottles of another new Heaven Hill bottling, Parker’s Heritage Collection Cask Strength bourbon, named for master distiller Parker Beam. The rye had Rittenhouse’s characteristic bright spicy kick, but at 23 years in the wood it was really mature, with leather and chocolate bouncing around with that spiky rye character, proving that while a rye whiskey can be fully matured, it can still keep a lot of attitude. And the bourbon — oh, the bourbon … bright and floral on the nose, but with a rich, lively spiciness on the palate. I’m always saying nice things about the products put out by Buffalo Trace, but Heaven Hill deserves a lot of praise for what they’ve done with whiskey.

Amid all this, I kept bumping into people I knew, and people I’d been wishing to meet for a long time. It was great seeing Camper English, Martin Cate and Jacques Bezuidenhout again, and meeting Marcovaldo Dionysus for the first time. And in between there were seminars, with Fred Noe and Richard Paterson, and Larry Kass and Parker Beam.

I’d like to say I finished up with a dash to Cantina (it was only around the corner from my hotel, for Chrissakes) and another to Absinthe, plus the Bourbon & Branch after-party, but really, I was done (and I’d been very restrained, only finishing 4 of the quarter-ounce samples I’d been poured). After a beer at the hotel bar with Jimmy and his buddy Pete, I called it a night.

Stagg — Sazerac — Rittenhouse 23 — Parker’s Heritage Collection … I may need to expand my Christmas list this year.

Tags: Bourbon, Establishments, Events, Rye, Scotch by Paul
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A long time ago, I lamented the fact that there weren’t many cocktails that called for limoncello as an ingredient. After a few rounds of experimentation I moved on to other things, but still, from time to time, I’d glance at the bottle of limoncello in my freezer and wish I could do something with it beyond simply enjoying the occasional chilled shot.

Call this wish fulfillment. I first tried this drink last week, at a newish Seattle lounge called Licorous (and which actually isn’t all that new, but since it took me several months to actually drag myself over there, it was new to me). Licorous’ cocktails have generated a lot of local attention, partially because of its pairings menu: an $8.50 drink is transformed into a $10.50 experience when a small, pre-selected appetizer is served alongside. Considering that the lounge is adjacent to and closely related to Lark, Jonathan Sundstrom’s acclaimed small-plate restaurant, the paired tidbits are blow-me-away ventures of the fois-gras-bon-bon and Armandino-Batali’s-oregano-salumi persuasion, and the bar similarly sets its mark high.

The Renaissance is a Robert Hess original, and is one of the best uses of limoncello in a cocktail since … well, maybe ever, at least in my experience. The brandy and the vermouth give it a nice, lush base, and the touch of limoncello spiked with bitters lend a mildly sweet, fruity perfume.

While Licorous prepares the cocktail using one of its house-made bitters, Robert says the drink was crafted with Fee’s Peach Bitters in mind. Having tried it both ways, I’ve found I prefer the brightness of the peach / lemon interplay, but if you haven’t got peach bitters on hand, I’d suggest taking a crack at this with a couple of dashes of orange bitters. It’ll be a slightly different drink, but still mighty tasty.

Renaissance

• 2 oz. brandy
• 1 1/3 oz. sweet vermouth
• 1/3 oz. limoncello
• 2 dashes Fee’s Peach Bitters (or try orange bitters, if you don’t have peach)

Stir with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Tags: Brandy, Drinks, Establishments, Vermouth by Paul
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I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that last week, Esquire magazine published its list of the best bars in America. Among the top-ranked establishments are fine-cocktail havens such as Pegu Club, in New York; No. 9 Park, in Boston; The Matchbox, in Chicago; and, of course, Seattle’s Zig Zag Cafe. Credit where credit is due.

It should also be noted that, of the dozens of places listed, only a few are, quote-unquote, “cocktail bars.” Despite the whole concept behind this cocktail site, some of the best bars, in my estimation, that have given me the best memories (or washed away those memories, as the case may be) are the bars where I wouldn’t dare order anything more complicated than a pint and a shot. Fortunately, the Esquire list includes many of these, from El Chapultepec in Denver to The Office Bar in Hoonah, Alaska, to Freddy’s Bar & Backroom, in Brooklyn. (But not, unfortunately, Milano’s, at 51 E. Houston St., NYC, where I spent a good chunk of the early & mid-90s swilling Bass at the bar and listening to the same circuit of songs from Sinatra and the Pogues until they kicked you out at 4 a.m., and where — on a Thursday evening in July during Fleet Week, when my friend, Julie, and I had come in around 9:00 for “just one round” — Paul, the bartender, let an obnoxious sailor with a paycheck in his pocket buy three rounds for the bar before tossing him out, and then proceeded to keep filling our glasses until closing time, when he simply locked up and drew the blinds while a half-dozen other regulars were propped up in the smoky haze, and Paul turned off the jukebox so his girlfriend, who’d recently immigrated from Cardiff, could sing a few songs in Welsh — one of those odd yet touching, only-in-New-York kind of scenes — then he wrote a “please excuse Julie from work today” note and handed it to me — I was also her boss at the time — before unlocking the door and sending us out into a hot summer dawn, almost nine hours after we’d first entered. She had an excuse note (I still have it somewhere); I still had to stagger to the office a few hours later, reeking of beer and cigarettes and just barely alive. That’s what makes a great bar.)

Tags: Establishments by Paul
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For rabid cocktail geeks such as myself—our bookshelves filled with yellowed old copies of Thomas, Boothby, Bergeron and Baker (and less-tattered though no-less-loved editions of Wondrich, Regan and Haigh); our kitchen cabinets sagging beneath bottles of assorted Italian bitters and an array of obscure liqueurs; our maddeningly circuitous internet debates about what makes a martini a martini and how many bottles of vermouth can dance on the head of a pin—for those of us who would walk barefoot through a blizzard for a bottle of pre-Prohibition rye, Seattle’s Zig Zag Café is one of only a handful of establishments in the country, and probably the world, worthy of calling itself a true cocktail bar.

Think of it as you would a restaurant: there are places you go for your typical, day-in day-out meals—that’s like your local or your favorite weekend spot, and while they may aspire no higher than to pour a decent beer and a shot (or a plain old vodka tonic), the world would be a much sorrier place without them. Then there are the places where you may go less frequently, where the quality (and price) is typically higher, and you’re certain to leave satisfied, though usually unsurprised—these are your higher-end hotel and restaurant bars and ambitious cocktail bars, and I’m pleased to have a drink in most any of them at any time. Then, though, there are the paradigm-shifters: the places that carefully sit you down while they very pleasurably rearrange the circuitry in your brain regarding everything you thought you knew about food (or, in this case, drink) so you walk out the door with a slightly different worldview than you had when you walked in–places that combine a deep understanding of basics and a mastery of craft with genuine touches of artistry. These places, which are happily growing in number, prepare the meals and drinks you remember years later, giving you new baselines against which all future meals and drinks will be judged.

The latter is the category, in my estimation, where Zig Zag belongs. (And unlike restaurants such as The French Laundry, where having your perspective adjusted will set you back several C notes, Zig Zag has a $5 happy hour.) I’m not alone in having this viewpoint, of course: no less an authority than Robert “Drinkboy” Hess counts Zig Zag among his favorites; the bar was recently selected by Seattle magazine as the best cocktail bar in the city; and one of our normally stodgy local dailies recently profiled Zig Zag’s master bartender, Murray Stenson.

Owned by bartenders, and staffed most weeknights by Murray, Zig Zag draws heavily on the classic bar manuals, using time-tested recipes (and adapting new drinks) that are rooted in complexity and balance, rather than novelty and whimsy. Consider this one, that I sampled last week:

Orange Blossom
(I failed to ask Murray for the proper recipe–or for its origins–but based on its flavor and aroma, I’d guess this recipe would be a good starting point):

• 2 oz gin
• .5 oz Cointreau
• dash orange bitters
• 2-3 drops orange flower water
• small dash Pernod

Serve straight-up with a long strip of orange peel.

The orange flower water gives the drink a distinctive perfume. It reminded me of pleasant summer afternoons, like attending a friend’s wedding in the bride’s parents’ garden, with the smell of flowers and the glow of gentle sunlight.

A search through the literature doesn’t turn up anything like this mix (the Orange Blossoms to be found in books such as The Stork Club Bar Book and Patrick Gavin Duffy’s Standard Bartender’s Guide are composed of simply gin and orange juice–nowhere near the flavor complexity of Zig Zag’s version), but the drink’s layers of flavor and heady, perfume-like aroma make me think of something from The Gentleman’s Companion (though I found nothing in there, either).

Even if this is a house creation of Ben, Kacy or Murray, the thought and understanding that went into its development evince a thorough familiarity with the cardinal rules of fine mixology. It’s a drink that I was still thinking about when I left the bar, and that I find myself mulling over several days later, weighing the different proportions in my head and trying to figure out how the taste remained so bright and dry while the fragrance proved so engaging.

Clearly–clearly–more research is needed.

Technorati tag: cocktails

Tags: Drinks, Establishments by Paul
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Thank god for ambitious bartenders, and for the chef/owners who love them.

Rob Feenie is one of the most respected chefs in Canada; his flagship restaurant, Lumiere, is a Relais-Chateaux establishment often mentioned in the same breath as Daniel, Charlie Trotter’s and the French Laundry. A couple of years ago—around the time he was getting famous for winning the competition on Iron Chef America—he opened a more casual bistro-style restaurant next door to Lumiere, and called it Feenie’s. The atmosphere (and price) is much more approachable for most people, but the food is still spectacular. Fortunately, so are the drinks.

There were a lot of options on the drink menu—some the obligatory cosmo knock-offs, but an impressive number of whiskey, rum and brandy-based cocktails that all seemed worth ordering. My choice was a pisco sour, mainly because I’d never had one in a bar before, only at home, and I wanted to see how mine stacked up against the pros.

Point #1 in Feenie’s favor: when I ordered the drink, the waiter said, “You know it lives up to its name—it really is sour.” Actually, it wasn’t any more tart than the basic sour-style drink I typically make, but I think a fair number of customers are surprised by the taste of a drink that isn’t laden with sugar.

Point # 2: when he served the drink, the waiter took care to mention it included raw egg white—just in case I hadn’t gleaned that from the menu. He’s probably had enough of them sent back by customers who had no idea what they were ordering.

Point #3: the drink. We were sitting near the bar, so I could see the bartender giving it a whopping good shake, to best aerate the egg white. He then poured it in a champagne flute, the best to keep the foam, and served it with a faint stain of angostura bitters on top. The taste was a tiny bit rough—the balance of sweet and sour erred slightly on the sour side, but not too bad—but it had a nice pisco kick, and the deep roundness of a drink made with just enough spirit to keep the flavor lively.

I think next year Vancouver Magazine needs to pull its geriatric ass out of the Bacchus and haul it down to Kitsilano for a lesson at the bar of Feenie’s.

Tags: Establishments by Paul
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