Pink of Perfection

When an acquaintance from college moved to New York two summers ago, Sebastian and I offered to put them up for a night as they began their hop from couch to couch. She was more of a friend-of-a-friend than a true blue bosom pal, but I was more than happy to host them. We had shared bowls of cereal together when the dining hall options were subpar, and I have an irrepressible sweetness towards anyone who went to my alma mater.  But more importantly, this woman’s mother had taken me out for lunch years ago when she was passing through an Italian city where I was stationed for a semester, homesick and melancholy. She fed me and gave me some wine, and sent me back onto the cobblestones feeling set right again. So we blew up the air mattress and turned the air-conditioner on high.

The poor things. They arrived carrying heavy bags strapped to every part of their bodies. They’d been searching for our apartment number for a good fifteen blocks, having accidentally gotten off the subway one stop too early. It was June, and very humid, and my heart went out to them. Carrying heavy things in humidity is one of my visions of hell.

We ate sharp cheddar cheese and triscuits and drank a very cold rosé, and when Sebastian asked how well we really knew each other, our guest’s response was a little embarrassing for me. “I know Sarah really likes cocktails.”

Guilty as charged. At the time of their stay, though, I was feeling much too poor to spring for giant bottles of booze. Instead,I would lay out crumbled singles and slide quarters across the wine shop counter to pay for a bottle of wine. Who am I kidding: if need be, I charged it.

Cocktails in summer are dangerous business. I get so wiltingly hot that I can suck something potent down in just a few sips. But cocktails in winter are practically required: a quick warmer, a medicinal antiseptic, a honeyed drop on the throat with a fun extra kick.

My friend Laureen served these at our most recent book club. I wasn’t feeling well that night and I only decided to have one for the––you guessed it––medicinal quality of bourbon and honey on my sore throat. Also, what goes with the steamy heat between Rochester and Jane better than a stiff drink? A gypsy costume! Kidding. Anyway, I am exceedingly glad I drank one (er, two) of these. It gave me the dramatic daring to conduct a stirring reading, complete with voices, of a passionate yet understated encounter between Jane her “her master.” And then, in two weeks time, I rushed out to buy the ingredients myself.

First, you’ll need a bottle of amaro, a kind of Italian liqueur from herbs. It’s commonly consummed as a digestif and is a bit bitter, a bit sweet, and a little syrupy (fernet, also a kind of amaro, is the bitterest). There are many different brands of amari out there, which is always a surprise when you’re introduced to an entirely new-to-you category of spirits. I scanned the shelf and bought the cheapest one, cause that’s how I roll after I’ve purchased a $25 bottle of bourbon.

Make two drinks for you and a friend (or “the master” in your life), nibble a couple crostini––one with blue cheese and fig jam, one with ricotta and pesto––and welcome the weekend. Cheers!

Italian Manhattan
from Bon Appétit
Serves 2

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons bourbon
2 tablespoons amaro liqueur
2 teaspoons honey
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
2 fresh thyme sprigs
ice cubes

Combine first 5 ingredients in a jar or pitcher and stir to blend. Fill two rocks glasses with ice and divide cocktail mixture between them. Bottoms up!

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