Summer slurps

Beating a thoroughly decomposed horse, allow me to gripe again: I really dislike summer. My reasons are a predictable plethora of plaints, especially if you’ve spent anytime around these pages: the heat; the humidity; the endless days; the enforced outdoorsy-ness; excruciating patio brunches; hot, crowded vacations; shorts and flip-flops; talk therapists fleeing most of August. The only grace note is air-conditioning. Set on blast and let me be. With a good book and a savory cocktail.

That last detail is key. Because I do admit the crappy months bring with them delicious, refreshing libations, potions with fruit and cucumber floating in them like inflatable pool toys and concoctions fragrant with aromatics and flowers and other sensory complexions. Creativity is paramount. A friend even jabs fresh cinnamon sticks in her gin and tonics. Go nuts, lady.

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Americano

It’s the months (and there’s only 1 ½ left!) for bracing dry rosés; reliable, amicable gin and tonics; lip-smacky Aperol spritzes, that tingly, honeyed mix of Prosecco, Aperol and orange; and the Americano, that lightly bitter blend of Campari, sweet vermouth, seltzer and orange slice. I’m no fan of Campari or bitters — the Negroni is my nemesis — but the Americano goes down smooth, mostly.

My other picks for summer sipping are choice. In particular is the Hendrick’s Gin small batch, limited edition Midsummer Solstice, a “new flirtatiously floral incarnation” of the superlative Hendrick’s, perhaps my best gin, a near-orgasmic elixir. It’s downright poignant.

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This gin is exceptional, crisp, sharp but silky, sophisticated, as fragrant as a botanical garden. A must: Use quality tonic with it, something like Fever Tree aromatic tonic water or Q Spectacular tonic. Anything less is polluting top-shelf gin, like pouring Sunny Delight in your Dom Pérignon. And don’t forget a citrus or cucumber slice. Some juniper berries. Why not a rose petal? A banquet is being made, not just a drink.

Thing is, Hendrick’s Midsummer Solstice is going away soon — it’s a limited edition, available only for the hot season. So stock up; it’s worth it. Meanwhile, a year-round ultra-zesty gin is Brockmans, an English drink so strong with berries that my brother disses it, saying it tastes like strawberry shortcake. I don’t know what the hell he’s going on about.

It is fruity, definitely. I taste grapes. But Brockmans says its botanicals are “a refreshing influence of citrus and aromatic wild berries.” It is irrationally flavorful.

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Some ad copy, with apologies: “Bulgarian coriander provides an aromatic, gingery orange top note. This blends perfectly with the soft and rounded harmonies of blueberries and blackberries, supported by the bottom note of Tuscan juniper berries. Dry, bittersweet Valencian orange peel elongates the deeper tones and gives an intensely smooth finish.” (If a mixologist named Axl didn’t write that then a poet of the produce department did.)

That’s complexity, and it tastes like it. A naughty twerk on the tongue, a tingly boogie down the throat. I love this gin. No added fruit — or tonic — required. Neat or on the rocks. A nip of nirvana.

On a fizzier, less poetic note, I’m trying out White Claw Hard Seltzer, a burpy canned beverage that tastes like high-end soda water but with the subtle kick of a domestic beer. Low-budget, low-buzz bliss.

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It goes down exactly like seltzer water with a zip of fruit tang — raspberry and black cherry; lime and ruby grapefruit. A 12-oz. can boasts 100 calories, 2g carbs and 5% alc/vol. A 12-pack runs about $14. Those figures intoxicate me.

Like the other mentioned hooch, the seltzer pings a little dent in the summertime blues. Those back-to-school TV ads are welcome, as are the fall movie trailers, like the one for Scorsese’s rousing “The Irishman.” (De Niro, Pacino, Pesci, Keitel — I’m about to have an aneurysm.) A quality quaff is practically a seasonal panacea.

About six weeks till summer skedaddles. Hit the AC and pour me a tall G&T. I can do this.

Tippling Dixie

Sure, I took a nip on my trip this week to Charleston, South Carolina, not on the basis of “When in Rome …,” though there was a bit of that. No, I just like a good cocktail or Scotch or beer, particularly in a nicer establishment, like a fine restaurant or stylish bar/saloon. (Or salon: Where I get my hair cut, they serve free Prosecco, a nice Kardashian flourish.)

And, as part of what became something of a foodie journey (see that part here), I hit a lot of those places. My slogan: No driving, no hangovers, no regrets.

Right before my three-day trip to Charleston, I blogged about the award-winning small-batch boutique distillery I had my sights on, High Wire Distilling Co., on bustling — one might say boozy — King Street.

I made it, and took the short tour — the place is fashionably cozy and drips with hip — and partook in the tasting flight. The tour was $5, as was the tasting. (I also bought a bottle of the Hat Trick Extraordinarily Fine Botanical Gin for a reasonable $27.)

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The High Wire tasting flight. Left to right: Hometown VodkaHat Trick Extraordinarily Fine Botanical GinHat Trick Barrel Rested Gin; and New Southern Revival Brand Rye Whiskey. Especially for how early in the day these were imbibed — noon shots on an empty stomach? — each libation exerted kick and fire and were exceptionally complex.

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At this upscale bistro I sipped the Nordic Witch — “bright and herbal, this witch is ready to head south for spring” — made of Old Tom Gin, Strega, Linie, Aquavit, Lime and Peychaud’s. It was superlative, swirly and tangy, but it was so small, I didn’t even take a picture of it. 

With dinner I had a Classic Whiskey Sour that hit the spot:

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Husk has one of the coolest, most coveted little bars in the city (big patio for you patio people), with potions to match. Waiting for a dinner table, I ordered a tasty Gin-Based Drink Special, whose name and ingredients I foolishly didn’t commit to memory.

But here it is:

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During dinner I got the toothsome and bracing Option Bee: Earl Grey-Infused Local Gin, Yellow Chartreuse, Honey, Lemon and Egg White. Below:

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My penchant for gin is glaring and at this classy, streamlined drinkery I stuck to my beloved botanicals with the assertive “Clover Club” — Hendrick’s Gin, Raspberry Preserves, Dry Vermouth, Lemon and Egg White — followed by the satisfactorily simple PGT (Proof Gin and Tonic)” — Hendrick’s Gin, Lemon Bitters, Cucumber.

Proof’s a neat place on crawling King Street, and I would have returned with more time.

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Slathered in ersatz grunge and lacking snarly attitude, The Griffon touts itself as the authentic dive bar in Charleston, and apparently a lot of people who haven’t been to Charleston’s The Recovery Room or Dirty Franks in Philly actually believe this. This bar is a poser dive if ever there was one, a faux dump made to look beaten and badass with floor-to-ceiling wallpaper compiled of signed $1 bills. It tries awfully hard, and it made me kind of sad. The Griffon is the Planet Hollywood of dives, a cosplay simulacrum, a movie set. Spotless bathrooms? Yep. Tourists only. I had a $4 bottle of Miller Lite. Then I skedaddled.

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  • Finally, for non-alcoholic, caffeinated elixirs I spent mornings at the sleek, slightly industrial, mid-century and mini-menu’d Revelator Coffee Company on — where else? — King Street. Fully recommended. Free WiFi, tip-top drinks, cheery baristas.

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A booze for we the bamboozled

A popular bumper sticker circulating when George W. Bush was president read “Bush is a Punk-Ass Chump” — a masterpiece of anti-dipshit propaganda that I proudly displayed. 

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(I was in Texas Bush-country at the time, so I didn’t dare slap it on my car, lest an overzealous cop pulled me over for some imaginary misdeed. The sticker found pride of place on my fridge.)   

I’m reminded of the rascally decal by a new bottle of booze that just hit online shelves and is already sold out, dammit. It’s made by Empirical Spirits and it is called — squeamish eyes avert now — Fuck Trump and His Stupid Fucking Wall. This surely zesty libation is a “habanero spirit based on barley koji, pilsner malt and Belgian saison yeast.” I don’t know what in the hell that is, but I want it.

But, like I said, the 50cl bottles, at $68.51, are plumb sold out. You can sign up for email alerts when it’s back in stock here. 

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As I haven’t tried the drink, here’s more about it from Uncrate, an elegant site for the highly selective male shopper (gander at its galaxy of dizzyingly unaffordable goods here):

“It could end tomorrow, or we could be in for six more years. Either way, spirits like this bluntly-named one from Empirical might help make it all slightly more tolerable. Distilled in Copenhagen, this clear spirit is based on barley koji, pilsner malt, and Belgian saison yeast. A habanero vinegar is used to rectify the spirit, but the final product is free of a spicy kick in the face — unlike the current political reality we face each and every day.”

Cheers to that. Gulp your beverage of choice accordingly. Drink responsibly. Or in this case, go nuts. We are rather thirsty for change.

Though the FTHSFW spirit is gone for now, you still can get a T-shirt embossed with the bottle’s clinically-plain label here. You owe it to your country. Clink.

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Drinking outside the box

Summer’s steamy curtain call is almost here (woo-hoo!), but we’re still in a light wine state of mind. Rosé is our go-to beverage in the seasonal swelter — with citrus-laden gin and tonics right behind — almost like sody-pop for the kids: refreshing, quenching, yet still retaining that sneaky bite adults crave (and sometimes require).  

These days we’re getting our rosé from a faintly unorthodox source: We’re drinking from a box. They call it bag in box wine, or simply boxed wine. Either way, you extract a plastic nozzle or spigot from a cardboard box and wine spritzes from it, or more specifically, from a shiny bag inside the box.

It’s resplendently dorky.

And yet …

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After a period of snooty ignominy, boxed wine is back in vogue, shorn of shame and stigma amongst those who know a good deal and, yes, a good wine. Excellent boxed wines abound, including the crack rosé we’re drinking in almost blushing abundance: Lab Rosé, from Casa Santos Lima winery outside of Lisbon, Portugal. (Rosé, incidentally, is defined as “a light pink wine, colored by only brief contact with red grape skins.” It’s exceptionally fruity, just a tad dry, ideal for the hot months.) 

Three reasons boxed wine rules:

— It’s way cheaper. A standard 3-liter box holds as much wine as four regular wine bottles. Our local outlet sells a Lab Rosé box for $17. Do the math and get misty-eyed. Then guzzle. What you lose in sleek glass aesthetics you make up for in sheer value.

— It’s environmentally sound. Say several sources: The production of boxed wine generates about half the emissions per standard bottle of wine.

 It lasts forever (almost). “Thanks to its handy-dandy vacuum-sealed spigot, boxed wine has a longer shelf life after opening than its bottled counterparts,” writes one pro. “And I mean a lot longer. Up to six whole weeks, in fact.”

IMG_1161And that brings me back to Lab Rosé, which is that much more of a bargain because of its prodigious quality. It is, for example, far more luscious and drinkable than its more expensive Provence Rosé counterpart, whose gloppy malty finish is ruinous. And though Bota Box Dry Rosé is quite fine, it too is several dollars more than trusty Lab.

Lab indeed earns consistently strong reviews from wine experts and sundeck sippers alike. Wine Enthusiast bestows Lab Rosé a respectable 86 points, noting, “This is a pale colored, attractively perfumed wine. With red berry fruit flavors, bright acidity and a lively orange zest texture, it is fruity and ready to drink.”

Ready to drink, for sure. Right out of the dorky, yet somehow radically cool, box.

Tippling, Russian style

In St. Petersburg, Russia, recently, no one in a bar bumptiously offered me a shot of vodka as I had been cautioned they would. (Sad face emoji.) The only offers came from poised waiters in nice restaurants — not from chummy, drunky, rambunctious imbibers who wanted me to be their new American comrade in guzzling. This, surely, is a good thing.

I took it slow and easy, tossing back my first shots of the typically clear, but sometimes amber, libation in the controlled environment of the illuminating Russia Vodka Museum, an expansive and engrossing shrine to Russia’s national beverage.

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Guide Veronica explaining the vodkas I was about to gulp.

In a brisk and fact-packed 30 minutes I was shown the place by the delightful, fluently-English Veronica as my personal guide. I learned scads about the history of Russian vodka, from pre-Ivan the Terrible days in the 12th century to Putin’s relationship with the gullet-stinging spirit. The museum is top-shelf, full of text (in Russian, alas), colorful bottles, distillery artifacts, Stalin-era propaganda and unintentionally comical human wax figures. It’s thorough and classy.

If you opt for it — and you must — the tour concludes with a vodka tasting of three regional samples, and includes “chasers” of pickle, herring and onions and something else that escaped me but was fishy and delicious. The tour and tasting cost barely more than $10 US, a steal.

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Three shots, three edible chasers.

Before my only official shot of vodka in a bar-restaurant setting, I became a regular at the enchanting Dead Poets, a relaxed, stylish gastrobar where the bartenders are hipster mixologists with expert instincts and eye-crossing dexterity. They fashion quite the concoctions — like my favorite, the whiskey sour, which they do with care and panache — that are elaborate and fanciful but just the right amount of modest and unembarrassing. Nothing was too fru-fru, too tawdry, despite the simpatico bartenders’ twee haircuts and rococo facial hair.

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Best whiskey sour, ever. Notice the egg-white froth.

No, my sole shot of ice-cold vodka (curiously, the shots at the museum were room temperature) occurred at the acclaimed Duo Gastrobar, a tiny, mid-range restaurant, serving delectable meals, like amazing bone marrow with ginger sauce and crunchy apple pork rib.

Dessert menu? Pass. Let’s move on to liquid pleasures. For about $4 Duo offered one kind of vodka, the classic Beluga Noble, in a shot. Vodka in Russia, they say, must be served chilled, otherwise send it back. This was a frosty, good-sized shot, with lemon slices to bite after quaffing it down. Vodka, of course, is the smoothest liquor to shoot, as it tastes of hardly more than alcohol fumes. It has character if scant flavor.

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The lone chilled vodka shot in Russia.

As he delivered it, my server volunteered his confusion as to why vodka is his country’s national drink when tequila and whiskey, for instance, contain so much more texture and nuance. True, I nodded, and we laughed. But it was bracing and fine and if I wasn’t heading over to another bar, the youthful, disco-lighted Mishka, where drinks are two-for-one during a very long happy hour, I’d have ordered another. When in Russia …

Drinking and striving

A Cucumber Rickey? That’s a thing?

It is a thing, evidently, an alcoholic thing, a thing that tastes like a wonderful thing.

I recently discovered the Cucumber Rickey (yes, I now know the drink’s been around since Tutankhamun) at the Montreal bar La Distillerie, a packed, ultra-trendy but relievedly casual spot that specializes in inspired, palate-thrilling cocktails without the pretense and rigamarole of highfalutin mixology, and does so at gulpingly cheap prices. My Cucumber Rickey — Bombay Sapphire gin, a truckload of fresh cucumbers, lime juice, simple syrup, and orange and mandarin bitters — was $7.50 in U.S dollars. Another, please.

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Gin, cukes, paradise.

A poor specimen of  a cocktail connoisseur — a kicky gin and tonic does me fine — I’m still keenly curious about and eager to try new alcoholic concoctions. I regret I didn’t have time to sample more from La Distellirie’s festive menu, which boasts 27 specialty drinks, though I did try the toothsome Mohawk — Bombay Sapphire gin, peach purée, lemon juice, elderflower cordial, homemade jasmine tea syrup, soda water — a fragrant sweet and sour pleasure. (What in the hell is elderflower cordial?)

That menu is something else, a disarming, user-friendly catalog tailored to individual thirsts. For instance, if you’re in the mood for a “Herbal, Fresh, Refreshing” drink you can choose from four cocktails, including the ubiquitous Mojito, as well as my dear Cucumber Rickey and Mohawk.

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the Mohawk — sweet, sour, sublime

If you require a “Robust-Intense Powerful Concentrated” drink, select from the Mad Man, Rollercoaster and three others. A quartet of neon-tinged beverages with long French names are located in the “Accessible, Delicate, Light-Soft” category. And so on. There are six categories total.

La Distellirie has three locations in Montreal. I was at the smallest and most popular spot — got there early, beat the crush — in the city’s Latin Quarter (make that Quartier-Latin) on Rue Ontario East. Two doors down from La Distillerie is Pub Quartier-Latin, a ridiculously friendly, semi-dive bar, with a cheery staff, cheap drinks, heaping greasy food and reliable WiFi. I hung out there a lot, writing on my laptop and sipping passable gin and tonics.

My drinking preferences have evolved over time. Fifteen years ago I’d keep a 12-pack of Rolling Rock in my fridge and stock no distilled spirits. A few years later I always had cheap Yellowtail merlot on hand, but still no hard booze, which I drank almost entirely at bars (mostly, blush, vodka cranberries). My beer and wine period seems to have lasted forever, and my liquor sophistication remained downright uncivilized.

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Where zesty cocktails are found in Montreal’s Latin Quarter.

Until, at last, my brother introduced me to the nuanced grandeur of Scotch — the peat, smoke, vanilla, grass, fruit, even hay — all those swirling notes that begin in the nostrils and finish in a slightly seared gullet. He enlightened me by pouring The Glenlivet, Laphroaig and Talisker, single malts reserved for special occasions. (Our everyday Scotch is the smooth, blended, wholly unpretentious Dewar’s White Label.)

We sample gins for the best G&T’s, as we call them, and have graduated from Schweppes to Fever-Tree premium tonic. Our favorite gin to date: The Botanist. Least favorite: New Amsterdam. (Only later did we learn it was distilled in Modesto, Calif., explaining scads.) We quickly realized that Gordon’s London Dry beats out Bombay Sapphire in taste and price.

We make easy Scotch and sodas, the occasional Cape Cod, and try out new ryes and bourbons, Woodford Reserve being a standout.

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My brother’s dreaded Negroni.

As I said before, I’m a cocktail dilettante. My brother’s the aspiring mixologist, who, like a driven chef, derives myriad satisfactions from confecting a complex libation, step by step, following a strict recipe. He’s especially partial to Old Fashioneds and the bitter, face-scrunching Negroni, which offers a delightful finish of ear wax.

When done creating, he always clinks glasses and often smacks his lips after the first sip of success.

He’s particular about his brands and demands his ice cubes just so. This self-anointed beverage snob, a real liquid dandy, won’t drink at any bar that sprays its tonic from a push-button nozzle, or soda gun. That’s commitment.

I don’t care if they fire my tonic out of a gun. Yet I do crave quality, like the tasty bracers at La Distellerie, which take skill and a little heart. I make modest drinks as best I can — my G&Ts, when I slice up some fresh fruit, are really not bad — and I like to think I could pull off my own Mohawk or Cucumber Rickey. All that, even if I do pour my wine from a cardboard box.