Pink of Perfection

The first time I had St. Germain was on a renegade vacation. We were due to stay in our vintage-y Napa motor lodge another night, but at the last moment we decided to check out. We threw our bags in the car, and drove on a steep, winding rode through dense wooks to Glen Ellen. There, we ate a greasy spoon breakfast, a prelude to the main event: I spied M.F.K. Fisher’s Last House from across a two-lane highway and at the little memorial to her in town, had my picture snapped next to a portrait of her at a typewriter. My ultimate fan girl moment.

Then we drove on to Sonoma, where the midday sun was beating down hot in the town square. Down a side street, I fell in love with a charming, busting airy restaurant, sat at the bar and ordered a drink. It contained St. Germain, a delicate elderflower liqueur, poured from the most glamorously tall, art deco bottle. There was also some gin, a cucumber spear, and maybe a splash of Lillet or champagne, though the specifics are hazy now. I just remember being so happy there, surrounded by dapper, quick-footed waiters, air-conditioning, the spirit of adventure that came from casting our plans to the wind, and, oh, the smell of cheese.

This is my bare bones attempt to recreate what I think is one of the most cool, crisp, refreshing and ladylike of summer cocktails. Drink this in your garden, when the gals come over to knock croquet balls in their spectator heels and talk about the rakish men they adore. I didn’t really drink this garnished with edible flowers as illustrated in the picture, though wouldn’t that be grand?

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There’s a bar a few blocks away from me that has kind of a weird vibe. I blame the inhospitable owner and the usual near-emptiness. But I keep going back there despite its handicaps. I’m seduced time and again by the white subway tile that lines the walls above the dark wooden booths-for-two, the bathtub planter in the garden, and the jukebox that, chances are, will play one of my all-time favorite songs. But most of all, I return for the creative cocktail inspiration. The bartender might not like me, but he sure makes a mean drink.

I met my friend there a few weeks ago on one of those thickly humid summer afternoons, the kind where a thunderstorm hovers like a sweet promise. We drank Monongahela mules: rye, ginger beer, a squeeze of lime and a garnish of crystallized ginger. We cooled off, they played my song, and it rained after all.

(That word is so intriguing, with its languorous, five-syllable waltz across your tongue, isn’t it? Here’s what I found out: Monongahela is a Native American word that means “falling banks,” like a landslide. The city of Monongahela is on Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Plateau, a few miles southeast of Pittsburgh on the Monongahela River that, when it meets with the Allegheny River, becomes the Ohio River. As for the mule––also known as a buck––it’s an old-timey term you might know that means a cocktail was made with ginger ale or ginger beer. But why the two came together, I just don’t know. Anyone?)

But here’s what you need to know about this drink, so that you will hopefully make one yourself. The ginger beer makes for a bracing cocktail. It’s spicy, and still a little sweet, and best consumed in the high, hot afternoon, preferably on a porch, with a guitar. It’s delicious with spicy, salty snacks, like these adobo peanuts or a pile of salty potato chips. Cheers!

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When it is crazy, crazy hot outside, I get specific about what kind of delicious beverage I want. In the morning: Iced coffee, preferably cold-press, or a triple iced Americano. In the afternoon: iced tea or Diet Dr. Pepper. And at night? I really love a wine spritzer.

Now, I’m not talking about wine coolers, those pink bottled drinks from the ’80s that moms liked to drink in the backyard when their best friend came over on summer afternoons. This “cooler” is simply a beautiful rosé or  white wine mixed with seltzer and served with a sliver of lime or lemon. Gussy it up with melon balls, berries, or an herb sprig, and you’ve distanced them from their early reputation as a dieter’s alcoholic beverage of choice. They’re just a nice, elegant way to cool off on the kind of hot day where condensation starts forming on the outside of your glass nearly as soon as you pour it. All without getting too tipsy, too fast.

It’s the kind of drink that––forgive me for the leap––makes me think of Cybill Shepherd in her Moonlighting-heyday. Cool, in control, glamorous in an easy, brushed-out hot roller curls kind of way, and unapologetically feminine. Cheers to that.

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On a warm spring day recently, my husband and I decided to meet at the long wooden bar of a neighborhood cocktail joint to celebrate the cherry blossoms. I ordered an Old Cuban, thinking its combination of rum and mint sounded decidely springy. I wasn’t expecting it to arrive on a small square napkin in a tall, elegant champagne flute. Well, swoon…and that was even before I took a sip.

On Sunday night, as I told my beloved book club about my new favorite cocktail, one friend pointed out my pattern of late for liking a drink: “Add this and that and champagne.” You have to admit, though, that bubbly is a far more wonderful mixer than, say, seltzer.

Add so my new favorite spring drink is the Old Cuban. And my favorite spring snack is the same as it ever was: cold, ruby red radishes with a seasoned butter. This year’s upgrade to this snack comes courtesy of Heidi Swanson’s new cookbook (which I know I’ve been blathering on about, but, really, it’s that good): mixing the butter with goat cheese. The creamy, light cheese cuts the “I’m dipping a vegetable in pure butter” richness, making this snack both more virtuous and more delicious. Which is usually hard to do.

And so my best friend in the world came over and one Old Cuban was enough to make us giggle a little harder and get into a very serious discussion of the royal wedding. I only wish we’d had a brass band in the background.

Happy weekend, lovelies! And happy Mother’s Day to the mamas out there! Your kids are so lucky.

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“I’d like to live in the sort of house,” Sebastian told me last week, “where we always have a bottle of Lillet in the fridge.” Well, you don’t have to tell me twice! As soon as the weather warms––even a smidge––I want a little faceted glass of it, on the rocks, with a twist of orange. But what’s better than plain Lillet? Lillet and champagne! Holy heavens, people.

Thrifty tip: as I was buying the bottle at the liquor store last night, the clerk recommended Dolin Blanc, which he said he likes even better and costs less. “Plus,” I pointed out, “the label’s just as pretty.” He ignored this superficial comment and continued ringing me up, though clearly you and I know that packaging counts for something.

What I like about this combination is how the effervescence of the champagne lightens the almost syrupy sweetness of the Lillet, making it a little more refreshing (and even more dangerously easy-to-drink). You could also use club soda in place of the sparkling wine and sub the orange twist for a squeeze of lime, but that’s not in quite the same spirit of luxury, is it?

Inspired by a recipe of decadence topped with decadence, what unadulterated pleasures are you enjoying this weekend?

Continue reading “French Friday: Lillet Champagne Cocktail” »

My best friend and I hadn’t seen each other since Thanksgiving, way too long in our book. She finished grading papers, I met a deadline, and we reunited on a bitterly cold evening at the dark wood bar of a cozy tavern in the West Village. The banquettes were covered in plaid, and we both ordered a drink called the Forager’s Press. Made with rye, apple, honey syrup, and lemon, we felt instantly warmed and appropriately holiday. More drinks followed, we cleaned our plates. We took notes on the Ultimate Mixtape of 2011 and talked about how we’d spend imaginary millions if it could only be spent on jewelry. We both went home with our wallets a good deal emptier but feeling very, very rich. I can’t imagine a better way to ring in the holidays.

Still glowy from such fun, I had to replicate that drink. This is my best effort, a little twist on a recipe that was in a very fun cocktail feature in the New York Times. My husband was my taste tester. First he puckered his face up. “It’s very sour.” I added more honey. “I’m just not a mixed drink guy. It’s like Christina Hendricks said: men should drink Scotch.”

Whatever. I made my drink, purred at its deliciousness with each sip, and sat on the couch finishing some work. But you know what I looked up to see about thirty minutes later? An empty glass next to my Scotch-drinking beloved.

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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!

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It was a brutally hot day, and despite best efforts to the contrary, including a striped top and a crisp white circle skirt, our heroine was melting into the blacktop of the Brooklyn Flea. But lo, hark! Spotted in the distance was an oasis of sorts. There, tucked between the vintage tin signs and 1930s feed sacks was salvation: Brooklyn Soda Works. She felt too wilted in the punishing June heat to dilly dally with otherwise delightfully sounding flavor mash-ups like salty plum or jalapeno grapefruit. She needed pure refreshment, and fast. A cup of fizzy ginger lemonade was pulled from a rigged-up cooler keg combo (“How do they do that,” she wondered?) and placed before her. A few sweaty dollars seemed a small price to pay for such an expedient rescue mission. She sipped, she sighed, she was saved.

Continue reading “Fresh and Effervescent Mint and Ginger Lemonade” »