Twenty-two tacos. That’s all I could devour over seven days in Mexico City before I hit taco fatigue, a malady that beats Montezuma’s revenge by a long shot. (I was gratefully spared that gastrointestinal massacre.) Too many tacos — poor me. But it happened: I burned out on the tortilla-wrapped meats and spices, even though they were otherworldly delicious. Al pastor remains a gastronomic god.
I knew I peaked during an exhaustive nighttime taco tour, which included a pitstop for a heady mezcal tasting. I could only devour seven of the tacos served — including a rather average one at the only taco stand in the world to earn a coveted Michelin star — and had to pass, bloatedly, on the final two. (That would have been nine tacos in three hours, if you’re counting.) I simply couldn’t finish, unless my tour mates wanted to see the feeble American provide a gut splash on the sidewalk.
During my week in Mexico City, I wasn’t on a journey to eat as many tacos as possible. There was no quota. From the start, I wanted to leave room for an array of local delicacies, street food to fine dining, enchiladas to empanadas. Mission accomplished. Pizza even slipped into the plan. Thanks to its strong European tang, the city is famed for its prodigious pies. It was amazing.
The city surprises like that. CDMX, as they call it, is a sizzling melange of cultural influences, a vibrant swirl of art, cuisine, architecture (note the heavy Euro inspiration), lovely people, dogs, parks, museums (only second in the world for the sheer number of them, after London), sports, and, crap, a serious and grueling traffic problem. Don’t get me started. No, do. Some Uber rides took an hour, stop-starting, for just a few miles. The Ubers were nearly all dusty, dented beaters, but they muscled through and delivered. The streets — as clean as Tokyo. And there are no public trash cans. Pride reigns.
Located in the center of Mexico, the megalopolis sits 7,350 feet above sea level, which makes it higher than Denver, with thin air and temperate climes. It teems with life — 22 million people live there. That’s a lot of humanity, not to mention the multitude of pleased and pampered pups I saw all over the city.
I usually take wads of pictures of camera-happy hounds on my travels, but I only snapped a few this time. Here’s one, among a smattering of shots, a taco-y taste of CDMX.
In line at the Frida Kahlo Museum. I forgot her name.
Frida Kahlo looking pensive, near the museum. The city bursts with street art.
Cooking up one of my favorites, pork tacos al pastor.
Al pastor up close. That’s marinade, not blood.
A cathedral in the City Centro.
The famous interior decor of the main post office.
The ludicrous circus-like spectacle of lucha libre: wrestling theater. The crowd of 7,000 goes wild at the backflipping, body-stomping, mask-wearing rivalries. It kind of gave me a headache, in a good way.
One of the better pizzas I’ve ever had, even in Italy. Perfection.
A typical park smack in the city. Joggers, yoga, musicians, dogs, salsa dancers.
Palace of Fine Arts (Palacio de Bellas Artes)
Rear is chicken taco al pastor. Front is octopus al pastor. Awesome.
Breakfast before a three-hour tour of the astounding Museum of Anthropology.
A random facade in City Centro.
Large tortilla chip with guacamole. On top: grasshoppers. Yes, delicious.
Making me a killer cocktail at Tlecānmezcal bar. It’s ranked #23 in the World’s 50 Best Bars 2025 and #3 in North America’s 50 Best Bars 2025. It, like Mexico City, lives up to the hype. Ultra-modern with a hearty, heartfelt nod to history.
Read, write, gab and guzzle — those are my priorities when I hit the bar scene on my world travels. I do this often, with gusto and curiosity and, of course, thirst.
Bars, lounges, pubs, with their discrete quirks and personalities, present windows into a country, its culture and people. Dim and cozy, they are places in which to unwind after long days of investigation and staggering amounts of relentless walking. Drop on a stool, plop into a banquette, the body at rest. Let the slurping begin.
In my travels I become quite the barfly — using the excuse, Hey, I’m on vacation! — bopping between the dive and the divine, the joint with the jukebox, brews and “Pulp Fiction” posters and the immaculate, high-design haven where cocktails shimmer in candlelight. I won’t deny a fine old-fashioned pub. There, Guinness is god, soccer roars on a Times Square of screens and that aroma is deep-fried you name it. I smell nirvana.
Teetotaler or tippler? Dry January — keep it. This is drenched January, considering how my brother and I behaved on our recent jaunt to Hong Kong. We drank not to excess, but often, be it at a bar, a restaurant, a hole in the wall, like the Japanese-themed joint with 10 seats next to our hotel. (We adamantly don’t do clubs. We’re not teenagers.)
Drinking is a spiritual event — spirits abound. Getting wasted is far from the point and is the poor man’s demolition of brain cells and his dignity, not to mention his liver. (“The liver is evil, it must be punished.” — Anonymous) Drunk? No, just buzz me in.
I like bars that allow dogs. They’re good company and rarely slur their words.
Soccer may flicker on screens in some bars, but people-watching is my spectator sport. If luck abides, it can lead to meeting locals and fellow travelers, which I’ve done countless times. Some of my acquaintances remain email pen pals years on. They hail from Turkey, Vietnam, France, Japan, Lebanon, India and Spain.
I’m not the most people-ly person, but these contacts are nourishing, even edifying. There was, for instance, lovely Lina in Beirut, a non-drinker who wound up driving me up the coast of Lebanon for a full-day tour that I never would have managed on my own. No strings attached.
I’m a promiscuous sipper, be it bourbon or beer, though I prefer my cocktails on the sweet and sour side, a little sting. My brother prefers the bite of bitters and high-proof browns. Gin and tonic is my go-to, but I enjoy perusing, and sampling, an inspired cocktail menu, and quality lagers are always an option (IPAs, not so much). I had a gin drink, the Pickled Cucumber Gimlet, at the suave, view-dazzling Avoca bar in Hong Kong that featured pickles and “fire tincture.” It was delicious — sweet, sour, a zap of spice. I ordered it again.
The stylishly casual bar in the Château Royal hotel in Berlin boasts of its “artistry, dedication and genuine hospitality,” and it earns those bragging rights. My brother and I liked it so much last October, and became friendly with the servers over six days, that we even had our morning coffee on its velvet barstools.
And that’s the thing. What makes a bar extra special, what makes you yearn to go back, are the people tending it, from the wildly tattooed and the wisecrackers, to the terse, humble and the tidily dressed, who (hopefully) have an impish twinkle in their eye.
Chatting with them you learn their names, where they’re from, how long they’ve worked there, and what, if any, are their day jobs (usually it’s something admirably offbeat and artistic). And it’s a mutual, symbiotic relationship. “You wanna be where everybody knows your name” goes the song. Well, yeah.
You might think these dimly lit haunts are precipitants of mortality, death’s lubricants. I counter they are refuges of relief, little saviors on life’s pocked avenues, pitstops of pleasure, at best taken in moderation. I drink, therefore I am.
Those great bars, whose names, courtesy of coaster and cards, we always remember. And those great bartenders, real heroes whose names we always get, and always, alas, forget.
“Drink. Travel. Books. I went broke, but I had a hell of a time.” — Anonymous
A fantastic bartender at the great Hong Kong restaurant Ho Lee Fook (a pun, say it slowly) serves me a zesty whiskey sour. She also created her own cocktail that she serves in tiny glasses gratis, a nice post-meal touch. We liked it so much, she joined us in another swig.
Knockout gin and tonic in Paris. A little frou-frou, but yum-yum.
Mixing our drinks at famed Italian restaurant Carbone in Hong Kong. That spread of food is the dessert cart.
Alkymya is a sublime little bar in Naples, Italy. That extravagant plate of bites is complimentary, and all the more amazing for it. .
Tiny bar in Tokyo — maybe eight stools — that I haunted often. Fun bartender on the left, and the colorful owner.
This friendly guy in Berlin makes his own top-notch gin — the name of it eludes me, but the recipe includes coffee — and he’s concocting a superb G&T for me.
At this lesbian bar in Hong Kong, The Pontiac, the signature cocktail is the Hobnail — blended Scotch, ginger, Averna, bitters and orange oil. Excellent. That what she’s making.
Wine tasting — look at the size of that “tasting” pour! — in Goreme, a small town in the region of Cappadocia, Turkey.
Our heroic bartending crew at the hotel bar at Chateau Royal in Berlin. True pros. True mensches.
Wonderfully friendly and accommodating bar gang at the barely year-old Socio in Hong Kong, which focuses on libations from the South Pacific. They gave us a generous sample of a unique Australian whiskey when we asked about it. Great drinks, lovely people.
Very cool bartender pouring my drink at Avoca, on the 38th floor of our Hong Kong hotel. He’s only been bartending for three months. Already he’s a master.
Owner/bartender at Bar Jake in Tokyo. The tiny place is a liquid tribute to “The Blues Brothers.” It’s goofy.
“She notes that her husband’s family used bacon slices as bookmarks.” — from a review of Anne Glenconner’s memoir “Lady in Waiting,” in The Times
Good question
“What Do I Buy My Stepmother Who I Kind of Hate?” — Amy Sedaris’ advice column in New York magazine
Great — or grody
“Cocktails Are Sandwiches. Now Deal with it.” — headline on trend piece in Grub Street, in which drinks taste like subs, paninis and hoagies
Say again?
“I love being immersed in water, but I don’t like being wet.” — actress Tracee Ellis Ross in The Times
Tea-bagging, literally
“The pet I’ll never forget: Moon the gorgeous, stupid doberman, who scalded his testicles in hot tea” — headline inThe Guardian(from a funny essay here)
Yesterday I had the local liquor store — a florescent-splashed airplane hangar thronged with miles and miles of bottles — deliver some goodies to the house. One, because I’m lazy. And two, because I’m lazy.
But really, the Amazonian efficiency of having port dropped on your porch or Stella on your steps is unbeatable. I’m all in my sweats and sockies and here’s Delivery Don, waving as he heads back to his van, leaving me a box of hooch that will make these polar evenings that much toastier.
This was a Christmas score, because I was lucky enough to receive a $100 gift card for said booze emporium. So I splurged, spent the whole thing in one big gulp, all on gin. As a gin dilettante, I generally sip the low-shelf stuff at home and order a suave tipple like Hendrick’s, The Botanist or the mighty Monkey 47 at cocktail bars.
With the gift card, I was going to kick it up a bit. I wanted to get three gins that I’d never tried before. Obviously they couldn’t be too pricey — I would have loved to get some Monkey 47, but a small bottle runs $75 — yet they could still be good, even exotic.
I poked around the web doing due research and soon found a trio of intriguing options. The first to hook me was the hot new Sông Cái, a dry Vietnamese gin “crafted from wild, hand-foraged mountain botanicals” that boasts a pleasant herbal burn and a strong cinnamon finish. For a gin and tonic, my go-to, the distillery suggests adding a pinch of salt. I did and it was deliciously alien and inarguably apt. A winner. (Check out Sông Cái.)
Second was on the gimmicky side, the Dorothy Parker New York Gin, distilled in Brooklyn and, yes, a tribute to the legendary wag, wit, writer and imbiber, who I happen to adore. You’d expect bite, pungency — Parker was the epitome of acid-tongued — but the drink exerts an old-fashioned smoothness. Botanicals are juniper, orange, lemon, grapefruit, cardamom, cinnamon, elderberry and dried hibiscus petals. It’s gently complex, richly satisfying. (And just under $30.)
Then there’s the elegant French gin Citadelle — Jardin d’Été, a strong, zesty bracer infused with melon, lemon, yuzu and orange, like a fruit garden, hence the name. Fancied as a fair-weather drink, it works anytime of the year, like now, in the shivery gloom, because it’s so refreshing yet muscular, especially if you add your own fruit garnishes. It rattles the icicles right off.
While I’m a wine and whiskey guy, gin’s my main sin. I don’t know when I became so partial to the 500-year-old spirit (while watching too many “Thin Man” movies?), but I find it sophisticated, beguilingly herbal and neatly versatile. Though no martini fan, I will drink the more fragrant, flavorful gins sans mixer, on the rocks. Monkey 47 is good like that. So is the underrated Brockmans, an affordable dram singing with lively grape notes.
It’s nice to splurge now and then on a top-shelf gin, say, Kinobi, or Monkey 47. But really, 30 bucks should get you an excellent bottle, and the selection in that range is huge. Shop around, do some homework. Better liquor stores have informative websites, with write-ups, reviews and trusty staff picks. One of my favorites is Astor Wines & Spirits in Manhattan. Take your time. Ask questions. Purchase. Pour. Go nuts.
Celebrity booze brands, from Jay-Z’s cognac to George Clooney’s tequila, are an unseemly fad — how much money and branding do these flush hobbyists need?
Yet the new Metallica Blackened Whiskey has me rapt, not only because I’ve been a band fan for years, but because the snarling spirit trumpets its own acrobatic gimmickry, something that recalls how members of KISS mixed their own blood into the ink of the 1970s KISS comic books for an extra drizzle of puerile publicity.
This is far less theatrically cynical. But still comical. Metallica’s zesty drink — notes of honey, oak, caramel, the usual — has been given the band’s trademarked “Black Noise Sonic Enhancement” while in the finishing whiskey barrels.
It’s as dorky as it sounds: songs from Metallica’s landmark 1991 Black Album — “Enter Sandman,” “The Unforgiven,” etc. — are “played to the barrel causing the whiskey inside to move and interact with the wood. The whiskey is pummeled by sound, causing it to seep deeper into the barrel, where it picks up additional wood flavor characteristics.”
I believe that (ooh, shake it, Sandman). I just don’t believe it makes a whit of difference. As it is, the sip is solid — toasty, tangy — especially when tippled to “Whiplash,” circa 1982.
The market is lousy with famous booze dilettantes. Cameron Diaz moves her own wine. Bob Dylan hawks Heaven’s Door Whiskey. Wild Turkey Longbranch Bourbon reeks of Matthew McConaughey’s honeyed East Texas drawl. And coolest of all, Irish Celt-punk rockers The Pogues push Pogues Irish Whiskey.
Thrash royalty that they are, Metallica aren’t too dignified to gussy up their whiskey with frippery — don’t forget the dubious Black Noise Sonic Enhancement process. Lending it a luster of collectibility, the painted corked bottle comes in a Black Album-emblazoned box and includes a cocktail recipe booklet and a (totally useless) Metallica whiskey coin that’s worth minus 50 cents on the black market. (For the record, “Blackened” is the title of the first track on the group’s elephantine 1988 LP “… And Justice for All.”)
So how, really, is the stuff? At $45, it’s no hooch. I admit my face puckered into an asterisk on the first dram of Blackened, but that’s normal for me — I feel the burn. Notes of butterscotch and mint soon blossomed from the mix of bourbons and ryes selected by Master Distiller Dave Pickerell.
I poured more, though not too much, lest Blackened become blackout. I bet the guys in Metallica, who were once dubbed Alcoholica for their prodigious swigging skills, would love that. They might even dedicate a song to me, perhaps one of my favorites off the Black Album: the aptly titled “Sad But True.”
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.)
The High Wire tasting flight. Left to right: Hometown Vodka; Hat Trick Extraordinarily Fine Botanical Gin; Hat 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.
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:
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:
During dinner I got the toothsome and bracing Option Bee: Earl Grey-Infused Local Gin, Yellow Chartreuse, Honey, Lemon and Egg White. Below:
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.
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.
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.
I leave Sunday for three days in Charleston, South Carolina, and already I can smell the aromatics and botanicals, those ultra-fragrant plant compounds often used in alcoholic potables, most popularly in gin. Aromatics and botanicals furnish a strong herbal, floral or fruity tang that sets flowery, pungent gin apart from insipid vodka, which tends to smell and taste like undiluted alcohol (and which is why producers are always grossing up their swill with flavors like cherry, vanilla, mango and peppar, whatever that is).
In Charleston is the award-winning High Wire Distilling Co., which claims to be the city’s first distillery since Prohibition. Like a boozy boutique, the outfit “produces a distinctive line of small batch spirits, including gin, rum, whiskey, and vodka using premium, specialized ingredients.”
I’m there.
And I’m taking the $10 tour and tasting, which (more canned copy here) “provide an overview of the distilling process and allow guests an opportunity to see the still, mash tun, fermentation tanks, barrel aging, and bottling operations.” Tour-takers“receive a traditional tasting flight of four High Wire spirits.” (Yes!)
This has got to beat the tragic, gimcrack Heineken Experience brewery tour I signed up for in Amsterdam last year (my head still hurts from the strobes and electronica). And it might just match the exemplary Russia Vodka Museum in St. Petersburg, where the tastings exuded high European class. Or the fine, frothy, free tour of the Sam Adams Brewery in Boston.
I have my eye on one of High Wire’s specialty gins, which goes for $27 a bottle (I don’t yet know the size), the “Hat Trick Extraordinarily Fine Botanical Gin,” described in detail:
“Made with crushed juniper berries and fresh lemon and orange peel, this bright and flavorful gin is well-balanced and pleasing to the palate. Balancing botanicals include licorice root, angelica root, coriander, and cardamom. From a straight up martini to a more complex Fitzgerald, this gin dazzles even the most discerning gin drinker.”
I’m sure I don’t know what at least three of those cocktails are, but they sound ravishing with this nifty gin, which, you never know, might suck. I’ll taste it during the tour’s tasting segment. If I like it, I’m buying a bottle. And then, you know, drinks on me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
GNASHING. 
