Most amazing riff on a Last Word from Vesper Bar at The Cosmopolitan Las Vegas. We had a wonderful bartender and this picture shows her torching the fresh herbs to bring out the aromatics.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Coda: The Highlights Reel
Final night -
1. Sazerac at Arnaud's French 75.
2. Forty dollars, 10:15
3. This bartender is a total dick. Bar Tonique.
4. French post-modernism, feminist
5. One of the sensual highlights of my life; unknown cocktail at Loa served with dark chocolate
6. Never made it to Bar Uncommon, sorry Chris
7. Old Absinthe Bar, no running, no rain, no doors at the hurricane party
8. Elsewhere, part 1 (Led Zeppelin)
9. Elsewhere, part 2 (Lakes of Pontchartrain)
10. ...?...
1. Sazerac at Arnaud's French 75.
2. Forty dollars, 10:15
3. This bartender is a total dick. Bar Tonique.
4. French post-modernism, feminist
5. One of the sensual highlights of my life; unknown cocktail at Loa served with dark chocolate
6. Never made it to Bar Uncommon, sorry Chris
7. Old Absinthe Bar, no running, no rain, no doors at the hurricane party
8. Elsewhere, part 1 (Led Zeppelin)
9. Elsewhere, part 2 (Lakes of Pontchartrain)
10. ...?...
Meander
On Saturday, I planned to take it easy. Focus. Evaluate where to go next. Relax and chill out. I did my obligated work presentation, went and did a bit of walking around in the daylight, and met a friend for dinner and some conversation. My colleague was staying at the Monteleone Hotel, and I tried to investigate the famous Carousel Bar, but the whole place was packed with various wedding parties. The bride was stunning, but I could hardly get a glimpse of the rotating bar. I get the idea; maybe on another night.
After dinner, I walked towards the mecca of New Orleans, Cafe du Monde. I was just ambling along, with a vague notion to orient myself to some of the bars further from my hotel. Across from the tourists and the cafe, I found Tujague's and stopped in to check out New Orlean's second oldest restaurant and my first stand-up bar. Once again, history. A massive old cypress bar, no stools, just a first rate bartender and a vibrant cross section of people enjoying an extensive array of drinks. In about ten minutes time, I saw a man order a vodka cranberry, a couple order two bottled beers, a guy order whiskey neat, and several other folks order classic cocktails. I asked the bartender if he would mind making me a Ramos Gin Fizz, since I had not yet had one. This guy was a total character. He complied and told me that on a previous night he had an order for 23 of them. Now, this is not an easy drink to make. It is quite labor intensive, with egg white, gin, ice, lots of shaking, etc. This guy was a gem. He had clearly seen and heard it all and still wanted to stick around and see if you could surprise him. Clever quips rolling effortlessly off his tongue, sharp wit; never lifting an eyebrow in disdain. A cool dude. I was intimidated. I stood at the bar and sipped my fizz. I watched and listened. It was really a unique experience.
Next I checked my bearings and decided to set out for Bar Tonique. A little off the beaten path...definitely on the fringe of the tourist quarter, but very close walking distance and got to see a bit of the residential areas. Wasn't sure at first whether to stop, but decided to be open to one drink. Went in and sat at the square bar facing the nicely lit liquor bottles and the extensive chalk board menus mounted on brick walls. It took quite some time for one of the two bartenders to come over. There wasn't much talking. I ordered a Rampart something or other - variation on a Manhattan- from a multi-page menu. It was a nice drink, with pretty, sparkling ice cubes. The music was loud, good quality, but the whole vibe was decidedly hipster (or is it "local"?) I can't tell. I enjoyed watching the barkeeps and the clientele who mostly seemed mellow, with the exception of some very young kids that moved to one of the booths along the edge. Eventually,, after my strong drink started to dilute into nothing but rye-flavored water, I decided I should probably head out. I asked the female bartender about the safety of the neighborhood, and it was only at this point, after about 90 minutes at the bar that I got even a glimmer of friendliness from the staff. I get the "local" thing, but c'mon. Ultimately, the drink was good quality, the vibe was real cool, but the service was questionable. Maybe it was just an off night.
Quickly, I was away from the sketchy area and back in the crowds. Saturday night on Bourbon Street. Dear God! I was making my way off the main drag to avoid the pools of vomit and the carousing, and I ran into two friends walking straight into the party. I was persuaded to come with to the Funky Pirate blues bar where we met up with another friend and were pressured to buy expensive plastic cups of beer. I enjoyed the company - and sort of dug the music - a little. I could have done without the preposterously overweight singer's lewdness. But, it was all part of the experience. After two sets, I had to leave. It was too much and I couldn't stomach the Abita after my previous cocktails. Just not a party girl. Besides I had one day left in New Orleans and still so much on the to-do list. . .
After dinner, I walked towards the mecca of New Orleans, Cafe du Monde. I was just ambling along, with a vague notion to orient myself to some of the bars further from my hotel. Across from the tourists and the cafe, I found Tujague's and stopped in to check out New Orlean's second oldest restaurant and my first stand-up bar. Once again, history. A massive old cypress bar, no stools, just a first rate bartender and a vibrant cross section of people enjoying an extensive array of drinks. In about ten minutes time, I saw a man order a vodka cranberry, a couple order two bottled beers, a guy order whiskey neat, and several other folks order classic cocktails. I asked the bartender if he would mind making me a Ramos Gin Fizz, since I had not yet had one. This guy was a total character. He complied and told me that on a previous night he had an order for 23 of them. Now, this is not an easy drink to make. It is quite labor intensive, with egg white, gin, ice, lots of shaking, etc. This guy was a gem. He had clearly seen and heard it all and still wanted to stick around and see if you could surprise him. Clever quips rolling effortlessly off his tongue, sharp wit; never lifting an eyebrow in disdain. A cool dude. I was intimidated. I stood at the bar and sipped my fizz. I watched and listened. It was really a unique experience.
Next I checked my bearings and decided to set out for Bar Tonique. A little off the beaten path...definitely on the fringe of the tourist quarter, but very close walking distance and got to see a bit of the residential areas. Wasn't sure at first whether to stop, but decided to be open to one drink. Went in and sat at the square bar facing the nicely lit liquor bottles and the extensive chalk board menus mounted on brick walls. It took quite some time for one of the two bartenders to come over. There wasn't much talking. I ordered a Rampart something or other - variation on a Manhattan- from a multi-page menu. It was a nice drink, with pretty, sparkling ice cubes. The music was loud, good quality, but the whole vibe was decidedly hipster (or is it "local"?) I can't tell. I enjoyed watching the barkeeps and the clientele who mostly seemed mellow, with the exception of some very young kids that moved to one of the booths along the edge. Eventually,, after my strong drink started to dilute into nothing but rye-flavored water, I decided I should probably head out. I asked the female bartender about the safety of the neighborhood, and it was only at this point, after about 90 minutes at the bar that I got even a glimmer of friendliness from the staff. I get the "local" thing, but c'mon. Ultimately, the drink was good quality, the vibe was real cool, but the service was questionable. Maybe it was just an off night.
Quickly, I was away from the sketchy area and back in the crowds. Saturday night on Bourbon Street. Dear God! I was making my way off the main drag to avoid the pools of vomit and the carousing, and I ran into two friends walking straight into the party. I was persuaded to come with to the Funky Pirate blues bar where we met up with another friend and were pressured to buy expensive plastic cups of beer. I enjoyed the company - and sort of dug the music - a little. I could have done without the preposterously overweight singer's lewdness. But, it was all part of the experience. After two sets, I had to leave. It was too much and I couldn't stomach the Abita after my previous cocktails. Just not a party girl. Besides I had one day left in New Orleans and still so much on the to-do list. . .
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Southern Hospitality
Day Two
After a long day of boredom and work and stuff [not life], I was finally free. Went to have some dinner with good friends at Palace Cafe, where we sat outside and people-watched and I enjoyed oysters. Such an ocean-y, mineral-y, sexy food. Love it.
Then after parting ways, I headed to Chris Hannah's bar, Arnaud's French 75. I approached the bar, ordered, (you guessed it, a French 75), and sat to soak up yet another top notch bar establishment reminiscent of none other than Rick's Place from Casablanca. The 30's era French chanteuse piping into the dusky room. The snazzy, clear-eyed, tuxedo-ed bartenders, the cigar smoke and quiet ambiance. It was altogether elegant. I had to take an emergency phone call and this is what happened... I leave. I come back. And my drink is gone. I'm feeling embarrassed, like they thought I booted out of the place or something, so I sheepishly pull out my wallet to pay. The oh-so-professional bartender spins behind him and deftly grabs my drink from the fridge and places it on a new napkin in front of me.
He didn't want it to lose it's chill. Yes.
Then he proceeds to tell me, "I do hope everything is okay, m'am". I am kind of in love at this point with all the chivalry and manners. I was, at this moment, glad I hadn't totally mortified myself in front of one of the world's greatest craft cocktail creators. Next, a very nice man sits down next to me and we have a long and involved conversation of the sort you could never have in the city of Las Vegas. We talk about Stockholm, and Merce Cunningham, and choosing a profession, and cell phone preferences. He smoked a cigar. I think he was wearing a bow tie. Eventually, I settled my bill and left this nice little cocoon to walk out onto Bourbon Street. It is a maelstrom of drunken chaos, so I retreated to Royal for more calm sidewalk.
At my hotel, I noticed that the bar/restaurant Lüke is across the street. I stop in and order a Sazerac. As I am sitting at the bar watching nice people eat mussels and frites, I think to myself that it is all very jolly. I almost go home at this point, but I decide to just walk by Loa. Once there, Loa looks intriguing and calm and not really very far away from my bed, so I go in and sit down and order a drink with Campari. Every bar in New Orleans has Campari. I consider this a sign of civilization. While enjoying my drink and observing the insanely complex mixology taking place in front of my eyes, I start talking to a nice patron to my right. Turns out he is the owner of the bar and hotel. We chat and somehow he ends up mentioning to a group of very nicely dressed local girls that he thinks they should "take me out on the town". I am skeptical, but decide that it's no big deal. Especially, since one girl is from Gothenburg.
We end up going down the block to probably one of the most fancy French restaurants I have ever set foot into called Le Foret. They seem to be friends with the bartender and staff. The wait staff open numerous bottles of champagne and I go up to the roof with one of the ladies and some waiter with a European name. We all have a cigarette and take in the view. Then we drink more champagne out of these fancy glass flutes. I think one of the girls hugs me. I wanted to talk about Southern girls here, but I won't. Mysteries of the universe.
We leave the French place...at this point I have not yet paid for a drink (nor will I the rest of the night)... We proceed to the Davenport Lounge at the Ritz Carlton. One of the girls is wearing a stylish designer dress that has a pink satin skirt. Everyone is dressed to the nines and has tasteful eye makeup on. Hair is shiny, polished. Lips red. I am happy I only brought strappy dresses and nice shoes to New Orleans. There's a tank top for the plane ride home.
Up the elevator at this exquisite hotel, where the hit saxophonist of the moment is performing and the creme de la creme of New Orleans are having a fine old time. There is more champagne (where does all this bubbly come from?)...and dancing. Classy, cocktail dresses and suits dancing. Not clubbing, not at all. Like from another era. Gorgeous, beautiful people dancing and smiling and taking in effervescent bubbles and perfume. Sultry jazz, hardwood dance floor, a bit of a breeze. Abandon. It was amazing. There were lots of people. They were talking to me. Someone was speaking Swedish to me and comparing Swedish girls to Hollywood starlets.
Unfortunately, I had hit my limit, and I needed to go home. The lovely Southern girls all hugged me tightly, as if we were sisters. They kissed my cheeks and thanked me for coming out with them, though I had done absolutely nothing. They offered to walk me home, to get me a cab, to share phone numbers. These strangers; so, so, kind. I made it back to my room and softly drifted to sleep...dreaming before my eyes were even closed.
After a long day of boredom and work and stuff [not life], I was finally free. Went to have some dinner with good friends at Palace Cafe, where we sat outside and people-watched and I enjoyed oysters. Such an ocean-y, mineral-y, sexy food. Love it.
Then after parting ways, I headed to Chris Hannah's bar, Arnaud's French 75. I approached the bar, ordered, (you guessed it, a French 75), and sat to soak up yet another top notch bar establishment reminiscent of none other than Rick's Place from Casablanca. The 30's era French chanteuse piping into the dusky room. The snazzy, clear-eyed, tuxedo-ed bartenders, the cigar smoke and quiet ambiance. It was altogether elegant. I had to take an emergency phone call and this is what happened... I leave. I come back. And my drink is gone. I'm feeling embarrassed, like they thought I booted out of the place or something, so I sheepishly pull out my wallet to pay. The oh-so-professional bartender spins behind him and deftly grabs my drink from the fridge and places it on a new napkin in front of me.
He didn't want it to lose it's chill. Yes.
Then he proceeds to tell me, "I do hope everything is okay, m'am". I am kind of in love at this point with all the chivalry and manners. I was, at this moment, glad I hadn't totally mortified myself in front of one of the world's greatest craft cocktail creators. Next, a very nice man sits down next to me and we have a long and involved conversation of the sort you could never have in the city of Las Vegas. We talk about Stockholm, and Merce Cunningham, and choosing a profession, and cell phone preferences. He smoked a cigar. I think he was wearing a bow tie. Eventually, I settled my bill and left this nice little cocoon to walk out onto Bourbon Street. It is a maelstrom of drunken chaos, so I retreated to Royal for more calm sidewalk.
At my hotel, I noticed that the bar/restaurant Lüke is across the street. I stop in and order a Sazerac. As I am sitting at the bar watching nice people eat mussels and frites, I think to myself that it is all very jolly. I almost go home at this point, but I decide to just walk by Loa. Once there, Loa looks intriguing and calm and not really very far away from my bed, so I go in and sit down and order a drink with Campari. Every bar in New Orleans has Campari. I consider this a sign of civilization. While enjoying my drink and observing the insanely complex mixology taking place in front of my eyes, I start talking to a nice patron to my right. Turns out he is the owner of the bar and hotel. We chat and somehow he ends up mentioning to a group of very nicely dressed local girls that he thinks they should "take me out on the town". I am skeptical, but decide that it's no big deal. Especially, since one girl is from Gothenburg.
We end up going down the block to probably one of the most fancy French restaurants I have ever set foot into called Le Foret. They seem to be friends with the bartender and staff. The wait staff open numerous bottles of champagne and I go up to the roof with one of the ladies and some waiter with a European name. We all have a cigarette and take in the view. Then we drink more champagne out of these fancy glass flutes. I think one of the girls hugs me. I wanted to talk about Southern girls here, but I won't. Mysteries of the universe.
We leave the French place...at this point I have not yet paid for a drink (nor will I the rest of the night)... We proceed to the Davenport Lounge at the Ritz Carlton. One of the girls is wearing a stylish designer dress that has a pink satin skirt. Everyone is dressed to the nines and has tasteful eye makeup on. Hair is shiny, polished. Lips red. I am happy I only brought strappy dresses and nice shoes to New Orleans. There's a tank top for the plane ride home.
Up the elevator at this exquisite hotel, where the hit saxophonist of the moment is performing and the creme de la creme of New Orleans are having a fine old time. There is more champagne (where does all this bubbly come from?)...and dancing. Classy, cocktail dresses and suits dancing. Not clubbing, not at all. Like from another era. Gorgeous, beautiful people dancing and smiling and taking in effervescent bubbles and perfume. Sultry jazz, hardwood dance floor, a bit of a breeze. Abandon. It was amazing. There were lots of people. They were talking to me. Someone was speaking Swedish to me and comparing Swedish girls to Hollywood starlets.
Unfortunately, I had hit my limit, and I needed to go home. The lovely Southern girls all hugged me tightly, as if we were sisters. They kissed my cheeks and thanked me for coming out with them, though I had done absolutely nothing. They offered to walk me home, to get me a cab, to share phone numbers. These strangers; so, so, kind. I made it back to my room and softly drifted to sleep...dreaming before my eyes were even closed.
Classic is Beautiful
New Orleans. The epicenter of classic cocktail culture. It is a phoenix city, deep in the South but unconventional and unapologetic. You have to give NoLa props. And map your path, because when it comes to cocktails... You need a plan.
Day One
I arrived in town and went immediately to The French Quarter, wasn't looking for it, but took a wrong turn and found myself at Sylvain. The entry is through the garden and I chose a seat at the bar, where I ordered an amazing Last Word to start the whole weekend off. For food, I had the cheese plate and within minutes of arriving I was chatting with the bartender. Interior was comfy and clientele ranged from LA dancer girls, to older retired musicians, to young hip dudes from Milwaukee (shout out to At Random). Had a second drink, this time a Sazerac, on suggestion from my bartender. Truly, it was the first and possibly the best of the trip. Talked into another appetizer and the bartender tried to guess if I was a food blogger or a bartender (um, neither) and insisted I try the Fernet Blanca and house-made cola syrup. Amazing!! Then there was the music. It's not everyday someone lets you commandeer their iPod. I loved the place. Intensely. But, fate called... or texted?...and it was time to move on. Thank you Sylvain. I love you first and best.
My company asked me to propose a location and I figured Sazerac Bar would be a good place to hit up next. We walked over (I couldn't restrain myself from kissing two police horses on the way there!) and we found seats at this big, beautiful, classy, alluring bar. The bartenders wear these crisp white jackets and while you can't really see much as they make the house favorite (this is a bar where the bartenders are omnipresent but ghostly), your drink arrives in a Roosevelt Hotel Sazerac glass, made with Sazerac rye and the staff leaves you to your talk, or your flirtations, or your daydreams... And how could you not have daydreams in this warm wood, art deco, majestic bar? Of course you do. Wear heels, ladies.
And then the downpour. Because after all, this is New Orleans. And it is nothing if not wet. Water defines this whole place, so just get over your pretty frock, wring it out, and revel in it. It feels amazing. Running through the streets, not ready to go home, vaguely heading towards Bourbon Street. Beckoning, As it will. And then I heard my name called and I took shelter under an awning at the Old Absinthe Bar with a friend watching the storm. Randomly, happily, dripping rainwater and laughter, we watched the world go by outside. I headed home after one Manhattan and to my bed.
Day One
I arrived in town and went immediately to The French Quarter, wasn't looking for it, but took a wrong turn and found myself at Sylvain. The entry is through the garden and I chose a seat at the bar, where I ordered an amazing Last Word to start the whole weekend off. For food, I had the cheese plate and within minutes of arriving I was chatting with the bartender. Interior was comfy and clientele ranged from LA dancer girls, to older retired musicians, to young hip dudes from Milwaukee (shout out to At Random). Had a second drink, this time a Sazerac, on suggestion from my bartender. Truly, it was the first and possibly the best of the trip. Talked into another appetizer and the bartender tried to guess if I was a food blogger or a bartender (um, neither) and insisted I try the Fernet Blanca and house-made cola syrup. Amazing!! Then there was the music. It's not everyday someone lets you commandeer their iPod. I loved the place. Intensely. But, fate called... or texted?...and it was time to move on. Thank you Sylvain. I love you first and best.
My company asked me to propose a location and I figured Sazerac Bar would be a good place to hit up next. We walked over (I couldn't restrain myself from kissing two police horses on the way there!) and we found seats at this big, beautiful, classy, alluring bar. The bartenders wear these crisp white jackets and while you can't really see much as they make the house favorite (this is a bar where the bartenders are omnipresent but ghostly), your drink arrives in a Roosevelt Hotel Sazerac glass, made with Sazerac rye and the staff leaves you to your talk, or your flirtations, or your daydreams... And how could you not have daydreams in this warm wood, art deco, majestic bar? Of course you do. Wear heels, ladies.
And then the downpour. Because after all, this is New Orleans. And it is nothing if not wet. Water defines this whole place, so just get over your pretty frock, wring it out, and revel in it. It feels amazing. Running through the streets, not ready to go home, vaguely heading towards Bourbon Street. Beckoning, As it will. And then I heard my name called and I took shelter under an awning at the Old Absinthe Bar with a friend watching the storm. Randomly, happily, dripping rainwater and laughter, we watched the world go by outside. I headed home after one Manhattan and to my bed.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Art, architecture and drinking
Don't mix. You've been warned.
So, there's Franklin and Mortgage in Philadelphia. It rocks. Sit at the bar if you are for reals. Nice scenery and the bouncer was a total sweetie. No cell reception, but if you are determined you can make it work. Sort of lounge-y as the night goes on. But recommended.
Then Ranstead Room. Another died and gone to heaven speakeasy. The guy knew his stuff. It almost made me...well...prepare yourself for good drinks. Don't cry. Don't think they won't play the Jackson 5. Don't be afraid of spending the entire night there until they kick you out. It's worth every minute. Even if you have an embarrassing moment later trying to recreate the actual payment of the bill. All this is good.
But as circles are known to do, if you begin with heartbreaking artwork and cab rides and wedding ring shopping, well don't be surprised if you end at a magnificent work of architecture. Quiet, shy, lost, cold, in awe. Listening to the Beatles like a sap.
So, there's Franklin and Mortgage in Philadelphia. It rocks. Sit at the bar if you are for reals. Nice scenery and the bouncer was a total sweetie. No cell reception, but if you are determined you can make it work. Sort of lounge-y as the night goes on. But recommended.
Then Ranstead Room. Another died and gone to heaven speakeasy. The guy knew his stuff. It almost made me...well...prepare yourself for good drinks. Don't cry. Don't think they won't play the Jackson 5. Don't be afraid of spending the entire night there until they kick you out. It's worth every minute. Even if you have an embarrassing moment later trying to recreate the actual payment of the bill. All this is good.
But as circles are known to do, if you begin with heartbreaking artwork and cab rides and wedding ring shopping, well don't be surprised if you end at a magnificent work of architecture. Quiet, shy, lost, cold, in awe. Listening to the Beatles like a sap.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Shhh, secrets
Safe House. Nothing new there. Then this whole thing with iPods and youTube and then the renaissance. I love a road trip. Noble Experiment. Let's write about ice. And that totally hot thing that is happening with speakeasy bartenders. Yes, this is a win for feminism. And did I mention the beautiful ice? Good company, nice interior, secret, secret, secret. Except when the entourage keeps sending u txt msgs. Oh well. That's what the off button is for. Let's talk about skulls as art. Or not. Or calligraphy and tree-carving because this is also a bit like B & W. Oh and they played Best Coast for two seconds before it got nixed. This bar might lead you to make the first move. Or it might make someone remember your name and be sweet even though they're really a bitch. Magic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)