A Review of "Cure: New Orleans Drinks and How to Mix ’Em"

 

What Marseilles is to the Mediterranean, New Orleans is to the Caribbean, a savory meeting place where countries and cultures, priests and pirates, hopeful and hucksters mix daringly and delightfully. It would be easy to call New Orleans the ultimate melting pot, but it’s probably more fitting to think of it as a cocktail shaker, given its long association with drink culture. So, who better to take us on a tipsy tour of the town than Neal Bodenheimer, founder of the James Beard Award-winning bar Cure? Heck he’s even co-chair of the Crescent City-based Tales of the Cocktail Foundation. (To produce this book he was ably assisted by longtime food and drink writer Emily Timberlake.) 

 Obviously the bulk of Cure: New Orleans Drinks and How to Mix ’Em (Abrams) is recipes, each one sounding more quaffable than the next, but one also may read the gorgeously photographed volume both as a guidebook and a history of the myriad ways the mercantile impulse charted cocktail history. For instance, in his Sours chapter Bodenheimer tells the tale of the effects of the Italian lemon trade in New Orleans—he asserts that by 1884 they were New Orleans’s third most valuable imported commodity, behind only coffee and sugar. How could a Brandy Crusta not have happened, with its horse’s neck lemon twist prominent inside the glass? And while Bodenheimer himself isn’t the biggest fan of that drink, he has to tip his cap to its more pleasing offspring, including the margarita and sidecar.

Want to read the rest then do so at the California Review of Books.

Why Can't I Drink It? (TOTC 2020 Home Edition--Day 1)

 

Any long time readers of this blog know I'm a huge fan of Tales of the Cocktail, the annual celebration-cum-conference of all things drink that usually happens late July in New Orleans. (Go search all the posts from our past visits in 2016 and 2012--which means, damn, we were due to go this year too.) Of course nothing is usual this year, but TOTC refuses to give in, even if people can't travel, or sit in rooms together for seminars, or crowd into bars. So it's happening now, online, and it's free for all! You still have time to "attend" the last three days if you want.

So, today I "participated" (this is going to be the land of air quotes, zipping about like the hummingbirds fighting above our nectar feeder) in five events and it's not even 5 pm yet my time and I'm writing this drinking one of those two Vespers you see at the top of the entry in honor of the last event I watched, "The Man Behind James Bond: Ian Fleming presented by Ford's Gin."

In a usual TOTC write up, I'd go on and on about New Orleans, which, to be honest, is a daily tales of the cocktail all by itself, of course, and talk a lot about great meals, large and small, and much sipping of many things. When I've told people I'm going to a cocktail conference, they always assume I spend my days one o-sized mouth shy of being blott-o, but it's rarely that, as there's just so much you sip and taste and dump and skip. And eat. And in New Orleans in July, walk and sweat. 

But to do five TOTC events and have no liquor.... Well, that was weird. But as I watched a very informative Amaro session this morning, I didn't go to my liquor cabinet and pour a shot. I mean, who drinks Amaro pre-noon? If your lunch needs a digestif, you're going to end up like Mr. Creosote. So while this Tales is plenty informative, it seems like a sensory cheat, especially since you don't get to hit brands doing their thing in the lobby of the Monteleone for quick tastes of things between sessions.

Many of the sessions are also pre-Zoom-recorded, too, so there's no chance for interaction, questions, etc. I only did one live session today, "Marie Brizard Low ABV Cocktails," and it was good to have Jonathan Pogash (aka The Cocktail Guru), the session host, reading our comments and responding in real time. But this session also made clear one of the usual red flags for TOTC--on some level it exists for sponsors to flog product. Of course, that means when you're there they buy you things--from drinks to Day of the Dead face paintings to lavish parties the like you only thought you'd read about in Vanity Fair. But when you're just watching someone on your computer, it's not quite the same.

All that said, I got to watch presenters like Chris Blackwell (yep, the founder of Island Records, who currently owns Ian Flemings' Jamaica estate, Golden Eye, and has turned it into a resort) and a host of brilliant writers on liquor, to learn how to make low ABV cocktails, to relish in a fantastic overview of Amari, to have TOTC Foundation President Caroline Rosen say "y'all" and sprinkle me in the linguistic equivalent of powdered sugar from Cafe du Monde's beignets. 

I've got six pages of notes. I left out pretty much any content in this already too long write-up. The folks who took part in the "Storytelling Behind The Bar presented by William Grant & Sons" session I watched would beat me up for not having enough of a through-line here, no doubt, and one of the presenters even teaches at my alma mater Johns Hopkins. So yeah, I'm having a good time (btw, I did take the week off from my day job, like I'm really "vacationing"). But how do I taste more? I'm going to have to figure this out and not pass out.

Liquor Companies Love to Love You, Baby

So there’s a wonder-material fabric bracelet attached to my wrist that I’m not supposed to take off for six days, despite my wrist being attached to my body in the humidor that’s New Orleans in July — no doubt a clever inventor’s inspiration for the steam room. I’ll have to use the chip in the bracelet to sign electronically into and out of rooms, so it’s either a harbinger of a creepy future or a sign someone’s really worried about losing me.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

(Yep, this is my Indy overview of Tales of the Cocktail--the gift that keeps giving.)

Again and a Gin (TOTC 2016, Day 3)

If you're going to do a conference, you have to do panels, and day 3 was just such a day. Of course, most conferences don't offer you a cocktail or spirit sample or six, so there's that. So to prepare for sitting and drinking, we Sweat Socialed again. And this time afterward and safe in the Monteleone we got to visit a juice bar, hosted by Tanqueray. Yummy watermelon etc. juice topped with Tanqueray No. 10 gin--not a bad reward for a 5K of oozing our way through the French Quarter. Even better, people make extra room for you in line when you stink a bit, even in the South in summer where a bit of musky scent is as expected as a love of grits. Even best, there was a Kick Start Coffee Bar, too, so we got to latte just for having those bracelets. Gotta keep all the crucial bodily fluids balanced at something like Tales of the Cocktail.

We wanted some ballast, too, so after showering, which is more a reset than anything even slightly lasting in that humidity, we went to the nearby Cafe Beignet, which I remembered fondly from our previous visit. This time, not so good--if you can't nail your namesake you've got a problem. These beignets weren't puffy enough or fresh enough. Really are only food fail all week, though.

We checked out shops, including the Cocktail Kingdom pop-up shop. We wanted many things. Of course one of the draws of cocktail culture are all the nifty gadgets and tools that harken to days when design was something. That history, that continuity, that artful line. And sometimes a personal one, like Wyborowa Vodka serving kielbasa with their cocktails, and making me feel like a Slovak kid in Scranton PA again. It's odd how much stuff kept taking me back to my pre-drinking days (and there were some, if long ago and hard to recall).

Somehow it was already lunch time and we visited one of the few vegetarian-friendly spots in town, Green Goddess. Not that you can't get meat, but most items are prepared with and without an animal protein. Chryss went for the Vegi Cuban Luau (they could at least spell veggie correctly, but that's really my only complaint), made with kale, arugula, Manchego, Creole pickles, etc. and I had a special crabmelt, and our only regrets were we didn't return for the rest of our trip to try more. Why can't a place in Santa Barbara do such a cool menu?

After lunch was Panel 1, "Big Gin, Small Gin," where everyone made nice and the big producer, Bombay, insisted despite the volume, it was still a small batch process. The moderator Raj Nejera, House of Bombay Global Ambassador, opened saying, "Gin is cool, it's hip, it's fab, we have the fucking martini for fuck's sake!" and everyone in the audience exhaled a happy, Vermouth-scented gasp in agreement. Let's face it, Bombay products are tasty, and you can't evade the conglomerates easily if you want to be seen in public.

That said, the smaller distillers were doing some cool things. Mike Enright from Gypsy Distilling and the Ginstitute (I went to the wrong college), poured his Portobello Road, an on-the-nose London Dry that made you thirst for quinine. Even more impressive were the two gins from New York Distilling Company, repped by co-founder Allen Katz, who looks like he should have starred in Hal Hartley movies. One was Dorothy Parker, and she showed up herself! [Sorry it's taken so long to get a photo into this day's blog!]

Yes, she recited "after four I'm under the host." The top gin for me turned out to be New York Distilling's Perry's Tot: at 114 proof it's Navy Strength. (PS, don't mess with sailors, evidently.) Katz's line when we tasted it, "No one coughed, that's all I care about." And it is sneaky smooth for its power, a historic style brilliantly revived.

We learned more about gin, but I don't want to bore you. Take me out for a martini and I'll tell you the rest.

The second panel was titled "The Bartender Spy: Frank Meier." It kind of lied as there's no definite proof that Meier, who was the head bartender at The Ritz in Paris for decades, actually did help the Resistance during WW II, but he's a fascinating character to hear stories about for an afternoon. David Wondrich from Esquire was one of the head sleuths on the case as to what Meier was, and an academic historian would love his manner, with lines like, "He was the first, not really the first," as he offered ad re-thought in front of us. Plus we got to drink a Bee's Knees (gin, lemon juice, and honey) that was all the elegance of The Charleston in a glass.

Somehow we also squeezed into the last half of an engrossing demo called "Herbs, Spices, and Secrets: Explore the World of Amaro Montenegro." Not only did it feature this cool box that seemed designed by a soused Joseph Cornell

but then they wanted you to make your own cocktails at the tables you were sitting at. Hence my quote of the day, "I wanted to play with those tools." No, not the gorgeous Italian men who seem to market all Italian distilled spirits, but the barware at each table (see earlier paragraph about shakers and shot glasses and strainers).

Perhaps there was a nap. There was definitely a stay at the event billed "Discover the Legendary Elixir" at SoBou. While the promised Polish soothsayer never materialized ("your future will contain less saying of sooth"), and we waited out the Zubrowka rep till she gave us free drink tickets (the media wristband could be a plus, indeed), and we watched dancers with prosthetic ears (vodka makes you grow pointy ears? perhaps only if you're a fairy?)

the best part of the event were the two bartenders. One, the woman in charge as she heads the SoBou program, was Laura Bellucci. Coolest thing about that was she was a roomate of our daughter in college. Kids these days! She was featuring a drink with smoked rhubarb that was one of the cooler things I had all week. The other bartender was Ty Izquierdo, who happens to be a Gaucho. Even won the Independent's readers poll best bartender vote back in the day. So this world was very small, but very warm and fuzzy for a bit, and not just because of the alcohol. Here's Ty.

That's all just prelude to the official Welcome Reception thrown by Absolut Vodka at the ACE Hotel. A huge brand on its own, Absolut is now owned by even huger multinational Pernod Ricard, so that means there's a ridiculous pile of dough waiting to throw you a party. It's also funny they don't tell the media the dress code is white, so we're very easy to spot, the dirt amidst the gussied up snow storm of the paying guests.

Absolut totally delivered, though, with each room its own mythic, immersive world starring two cocktails and a model/actor it wasn't clear you were supposed to interact with, as they tended to be serious/fierce/imposing. Enough to scare you into drinking. Like, perhaps, test tubes of Bloody Marys from the steps on which Bloody Mary stood. (Each room had its own cocktail delivery system, too--no simple glassware here.)

And then there was Oak guy. The drinks weren't as tortured as he appeared. And you know us, we like our smoky. Not something you usually get in a vodka.

Finally, we were pretty glowy our selfie selves.

But so was the town. Although this could have been a different day--such is Tales, when time stands still, reoccurs, moves forward for you to ride its hip pocket.

Sucking the Heads at Tales (TOTC 2016, Day 1)

There are many ways one can be welcomed into New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail, a conference about drinks and those who love them, and do not giggle--it's more serious and there's plenty of money to prove it. Chryss and I were going for our second time, after attending in 2012, so had our hopes high. George Eats promises to take you through a day-by-day account, as much as I can remember, and luckily there's a great app to help. (How did people drink and remember even where they lived before smart phones? The world is a much safer place.)

So, you can be welcomed by being on a plane with all sorts of potent potable poobahs, from Brandon and Misty from Santa Barbara's fine Good Lion (and soon Test Pilot), to an Angel's Envy rep sitting next to you, to a Bacardi rep who commandeers the cab to downtown a bunch of you are in and puts it on his expense account. Or you can be welcomed by the Hotel Monteleone, ground zero for TOTC and our home for the first few nights of the adventure (until the rates went up for the weekend). Either because we stayed once before or because we're ID'ed as media, we land a lovely room, with all of downriver New Orleans out our window.

That's even better than up-river, since all the ugly/tall/new/can't pretend it's another century buildings are out the other side of the hotel. Why yes that's a steam-powered paddle-wheeler our way. Since we flew versus the time changes, we're pretty much famished, having left LAX at 11 and now it's 6 by the time we're ensconced in the lovely room. The good news is we've got reservations for the mere blocks away Kingfish, that wisely bills itself Kitchen & Cocktails. For here are the cocktails we soon dove into:

Perhaps they did glow all the way down. That's a First Word  on the left and an Amelia Earhart on the right. The Earhart is their clever take on an Aviation (get it?), featuring Ford's Gin, Lemon, Luxardo, Rothman's Crème de Violette, but also some fresh basil to give it yet more aromatics and drag the bar a bit closer to the farm, or at least the windowbox. Lovely. But it's the First Word that proved how simple cocktail magic can be at a mere four ingredients: Aperol, Green Chartreuse, Del Maguey Mezcal, and lime. What if the Negroni and Margarita had a baby in a rough Mexican back alley? Maybe, but that description makes the drink seem more a stunt, and not something deliciously integrated. My Tales was off and running with that one.

Of course, hungry at a place with too much goodness, we ate too much. If you ever go, you have to have the blackened barbecued shrimp and crispy grit cake that failed to survive long enough for a photo, plus our fingers where lusciously buttered when we sucked the heads (those kind of shrimp, yes). You can also get a panzanella with more greens in it than you'd expect in New Orleans. You'll start to hunger for those. Since greens usually means collards cooked way down with bacon to crisp them back up, which is fine but nothing close to tasting healthy.

And while I had a handsome hunk of a porkchop, with some of those greens and rice dirty in a way that made me feel appropriately sinful, too (you know, gluttony), Chryss ordered wild Louisiana black drum on the half shell tacos--a time a deconstructed dish seemed more designed for flavor than clever. See photo below. The groaning board brought to her plate also featured a slew of accoutrements--corn tortillas, collard green chimichurri, citrus slaw, green tomato chow chow, and Sriracha aioli--things I almost wanted to slather directly on myself they were so good.

We refused to even glimpse at the dessert menu.

After a bit of a walk, both as a way to hope some calories might burn and from our desire to be in New Orleans, where the spirits aren't just from alcohol--a town can too have a soul--we got back to the Monteleone and had to enjoy the Carousel Bar, old time haunt of literary giants like Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner and Truman Capote. So we hoped maybe some of their greatness might rub off on us. Alas, the actual carousel, and the bar does very very slowly revolve around the bartenders' pit, was too crowded, but a table at the window meant we got a show both inside and out as Tales-sters poured into town, their tattoos practically glistening with excitement (or sweat--this is The South in July, aka god's hint for humans to invent mint juleps, air conditioning, a drawl, and fainting couches).

We both had to View Carre, for as the menu says: "This signature cocktail of the famous Carousel Bar was first mixed by Walter Berferon in 1938." And it's a lovely elixir featuring Bulleit Rye Whiskey, Hennessey, sweet vermouth, Benedictine, Angostura & Peychaud’s Bitters. What's better as a way to say good night, and can't wait to see and drink you tomorrow? For here's the look you give thinking it all over:

Telling Tales of the Cocktail

Cocktails are always about tales — whether tall or twice-told, honest or half-forgotten, centuries old or made up on the spot—so there couldn’t be a better name for the libation celebration known as Tales of the Cocktail, which just celebrated its 10th anniversary. Even better, it goes down annually in New Orleans, home to the oldest of drinking tales, and replete with bartenders both knowledgeable — such as the chap who poured me a drink named after Betty Flanagan, the 19th-century James Fenimore Cooper character who supposedly first stirred a drink with a cock’s tail — and quick-witted, like the nattily dressed mixologist who, while finishing a table of drinks with mist from what looked like a perfume atomizer, told an onlooker that the drink contained “Chanel No. 5.” (It was really absinthe.)

If you want to read the rest do so at the Indy's site. (This is the overall over-view feature that ran in the paper and online.)

The Blue Good Bye to You

Had to have one bayou-esque shot, even if this is just one of the lake-like spots in New Orleans City Park out by Bayou St. John. We spent a big chunk of this Sunday out here, since TOTC had pretty much wrapped up and we were in NO and wanted to see the sites, not just drink them. You can take the Canal St. streetcar out, even, which is good given the Charles St. one has a big chunk of its route closed for repairs, hence death marches like the day prior.

Day 5, Sunday, July 28

Weather:

It does not rain this day. We are sore afraid. And still sweat enough to make up for the lack of precipitation (which you can't spell without perspiration).

Quote o' the Day:

"Oh my, today the [Monteleone] lobby sounds of children, not barkeeps who look like the dream of the 1890s."

Event o' the Day:

We do nothing directly TOTC related this Sunday, as there are few events on the get-away day. We do not pass the Bloody Mary Bar. It is closed. We are lagniappe-less.We do enjoy the trip up to City Park, where just the park itself is gorgeous and then there's historic stuff like what was a casino and now, sadly, is a souvenir/snack shop but still has this great mural.

There's the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden, with plenty to contemplate amidst a bucolic setting, so much so nature often makes its own comment on the art.

There's the New Orleans Museum of Art itself, that we felt we barely got into but still enjoyed the extensive glass, pottery, and ceramics collection--how cool so much that was just usable house stuffs are now art (and how impoverished so much of our own daily wares seem by comparison)--, plus the small Dario Robleto exhibit was fascinating--how much totemic power do our fetishized pop object possess? Does that transform the mundane into art? And you can get basil lemonade at the cafe at NOMA. Very nice. Plus we learn that only in New Orleans would they try to save their daily newspaper by suggesting you drink cocktails. This is so totally my kind of town.

Surprises o' the Day:

Even a place that borders on one of the most touristy spots in town, Jackson Square, can still be good and not a trap. Stanley just does food straight and good, with fine service and Bloodys with zesty pickled beans and okra (had to pay for the darn thing, but I'll get over it). Here's an eggs Benedict with a brilliant addition--fried oysters.

Perhaps surprise of the trip, this is as close as we got to any of the town's magnificent cemeteries. No doubt we'll be back.

This is actually a comment for Monday, but I'm not doing a Monday entry as it would be--"damn, planes are small and we have to be in 3 of them to get home." In addition to that, the food at the New Orleans airport is surprisingly blah. While in San Francisco you can get a tasty tuna panini and a giant Speakeasy Big Daddy IPA and feel much better about flying.

Best Food Non-TOTC Edition:

For dinner we went to the dopily named GW Fins that overcame that initial disadvantage to be a treat. I started with the seafood gumbo that was richly rouxed with seafood that wasn't mere over-cooked floats but shrimp and crab with flavor. Chryss had the lobster dumplings, more like potstickers but feathery light with a bonus boost from some lobster butter. Then for mains Chryss had the blackened swordfish as you've got to have something blackened in Louisiana, and they do it right, not searing the crap out of the fish but giving it a quick shot with some very good spices--it added, and wasn't meant to hide. I had to try their signature dish, Scalibut, which sounds like the name from a very bad musical about gossip on the Gloucester fishing fleet but is actually scallops sliced and "fused" around halibut as a sort of scallop-coat. The two textures and flavors play well together, indeed, and while it's a bit of a stunt, it's yummy, too--not that some lobster and tomato risotto hurts the plate any. Sorry this iPhone photo isn't so great. And we paired it all with a bottle of Tablas Creek Patelin White, to get us ready to come home.

Other Drinks Not Mentioned Above:

Since we had the time and didn't get there prior, we pre-gamed for dinner at Arnaud's French 75 [sorry, that link opens with music], directly across the street. This is another NOLA classic, richly woody with funny monkey statue lights and dressed up service and incredible cocktails. Somehow we passed up things like a Herbsaint Frappéthat was barrel aged and a N'Awlins Christmas in July Chatam Artillery Punch (that truly would punch you as it features tea. Catawha wine, rum, gin, Cognac, rye, orange and lemon juice, sugar, Benedictine, Champagne, and love). Instead we opted for The Dealers Have Chosen, with Chryss enjoying two "shaken and "refreshing" stimulants from the PDT Cocktail Book and I had two "stirred and boozy remedies from the Northstar Cocktail Book. Do we exactly recall what went into those cocktails? Alas, no. But they--all four--pleased perfectly, doing exactly what their descriptions suggested. My second, that I could swear he called a St. Martin (or should it be St. Marteen and Dutch?) was a mighty yet smooth blend of gin, Aperol, and Averna, and I wish I had one now. We also got a shrimp roll, as we were drinking and not eating and hadn't since Stanley, and didn't want to go all Kowalski on the refined crowd thanks to our liquored-up empty stomachs.

And then after dinner, after a last loop about the Quarter avoiding the sodden sadness that is Bourbon Street, we settled back in to the Monteleone and had last call (ours, not the bar's) at the Carousel, as it was easy to fit and nearly quiet and Faulkner and Williams drank there, so here's a corpse reviver #2 and a sidecar and a wish to be back very very soon. So many tales, and not nearly enough time to tipple them all.

A Streetcar Named Perspire

Two different ways of looking at NOLA, one a bit more romantic than the other, although I never felt much defended against--everyone seemed more than welcoming. Still, there's that part of New Orleans that seems a bit wild that makes it more thrilling, isn't there? The air feels a bit like sin.

Day 4, Saturday, July 28

Weather:

Today's daily downpour comes courtesy of the people who decide to shutdown their establishments for a week (or more--one place was closed since May 19!) in the summer. How European of them, and miserable for us, as we did a lovely hike that slowly converted into a miserable death march through the Garden District this day. Plenty of cool shopping and architecture and people watching along Magazine St.

One fun stop for a beer (see surprises). Then a lot of disappointment trying to find a place to: eat lunch, stop sweating, stop moving, avoid the deluge clearly on its way. Domilise's closed. Casamento's closed. Le Petit Grocery turns us away at 1:40 even though they supposedly serve lunch till 2:30 and we assume we look too bedraggled and be-touristed (caps! a big camera!) for their preciousness, or did I mean pretentiousness. (Ha, no good review for you!) A fourth place whose name is washed away by the beginning rain also on vacation. We wonder if we missed the "Garden District--Closed for Summer" sign when we entered. Luckily we find Slice, with solid pizza with an intriguing cornmeal-featured crust and a good enough salad. And a roof. Best restaurant feature, ever.

Quote o' the Day:

"After four days of cocktails, don't you want a beer?"

(Clever marketing by Newcastle, giving beers away at Happy's, which just happened to be a breastaurant, and schoolgirl outfits and beer after lots of drinking, well, they might just have something there if their goal is to part middle-aged men from their money.)

Event-and-a-Quarter o' the Day:

After recovering from our Garden Street debacle a bit in the hotel, we hike back out to the Hyatt Regency, which seems too corporate a place for Tales, in a way, but there's a Taste the World's Best Spirits Grand Tasting to attend. It's the kind of event where all the Johnnie Walker's are on a table for you, through the blue, green and gold, next to a table of the Classic Malts (when in doubt, seize the name and make them pry it from your peat-y fingers, I guess)--Talisker, Dalwhinnie, Lagavulin. Yeah, and that's just whiskeys and leaves out my favorite, Aberlour's A'bunadh, aged in solera casks and presided over by this dandy chap.

There was Lillet with their new Rosé, that you want to drink straight and fiddle with at the bar too, and Del Maguey Mezcal with a good 8 varieties to try and you want to linger just to play with their little clay tasting cups. Somehow, the only edibles at this event, though, were chips, popcorn, pretzels, and nuts. Seemed like they thought it was a light beer fest, and, alas, nothing was light about these fine sips.

So, our spirits emboldened by consuming the world's best spirits, we take the escalator down a floor and discover the Spirited Awards are beginning and no one is really paying attention if you want to sneak into the pre-event reception. We figure, as long as we don't go in and sit down for dinner, who will know we don't belong? Part of it is this is the first and last dressy event, so we might stand out a bit for being too casual, but cocktails make everyone civilized, as long as you don't cut in line when they're hoping to score a slider or grill cheese. We have some more drinks, one a pinkish straight martini, and that makes me wonder if I've had too much.

Not that we saw this while there, but it seems they really do the awards portion right, too, based on the videos they ran during the event that are kindly now on YouTube like this one, "Shit Brand Ambassadors Say":



Surprises o' the Day:

House Spirits Distillery out of Portland, OR doesn't just make Aviation Gin, and will make you a fine whiskey Bloody Mary. Conveniently this will be in an art gallery on your way to Cafe Beignet.

In swagland, the loot is always greener in another conventioner's hands. Where did those leather-looking books go at the Herbsaint tasting room? How did we miss that one attractive bag? Why do we think we need everything given to everyone at TOTC?

Parasol's is our dream of a neighborhood bar--big scary dog that's actually nice allowed inside, people of all ages and races, locals and us, smokers and not (OK, not my favorite part about New Orleans bars--I've become a true anti-cig Californian), a hipster bartender with a Dr. Who obsession, and NOLA Brewing beers on tap, including my new favorite, Hopitoulas...of course a West Coast IPA.

The Columns is nowhere near as fascinating when Susan Sarandon and Brooke Shields aren't staying there.

Best Food Non-TOTC Edition:

Even closer to the Monteleone, Cafe Beignet has better beignets than Cafe du Monde. There, I said it. Much doughier, less sugar, better coffee. It has nothing to do with having had three Bloody Marys before the first fried dough hit my stomach, promise.

We also had a lovely late dinner at Eat New Orleans, a place that takes the classics and freshens them without going frou-frou. A mustard green and artichoke gratin to start was everything you could hope--rich with the two different textured and tasting greens, just enough of a creamy sauce but not so much you need a defibrillator nearby, and some crunchy pita-ish chips to scoop it all with. Chryss has a butterbeans with shrimp bowl, I had the trio--cup of gumbo, cup of red beans, a roasted stuffed red pepper, rice, and a Caesar, and we both hailed our meals. Simple, satisfying, soul-quenching. We also got an inadvertent show out the window as a drunk crashed on the curb, letting his two dogs loose to wander out into Dumaine Street. Luckily, they didn't get run over; the cops visited the guy but left him; our waiter brought out a to-go tray with water for the dogs. Ah, the humanity.

Other Drinks Consumed Not Mentioned Above:

Eat is BYOB, so a six pack of Abita Jockamo IPA from the corner shop down the street did the trick. At one of the Saveur Snack Stand events we got a pleasing Breckenridge Rocky Mountain Rickshaw, zipped with some ginger. Martini (as in Rossi) concocted a very elegant The Monteleone Cocktail--not to be confused with the different one the Carousel Bar serves--of cognac, Martini Roasto Vermouth, Amaro Avena (which will be in the surprise list tomorrow)--and then a misting from a perfume atomizer. When asked, the one bartender said it was Chanel No. 5. (Actually it was Herbsaint--even better.)

And we finally got to the Sazerac Bar in the Roosevelt Hotel to enjoy the namesake drink in a truly swank location ringed by Paul Ninas Art Deco murals that make you expect to see some unholy drinking party of Huey Long and Noel Coward to wander in. A very civilized spot, and fine drinks, although their Sazeracs are much redder than mine--perhaps that's because I use both Angostura and Peychaud's and they only use the carmine latter. No matter, can a lovelier thing be done to rye than make it into a Sazerac? Even I'd be better with the perfect combo of bitters, citrus, sugar, and a bit of sticky Pernod.

Let's Slip Out of These Wet Clothes and into a Dry Martini

No, that's not me after just one day at Tales of the Cocktail, that's Papa Gede at the Voodoo Museum, because when in New Orleans you need to know how not to become a zombie, let alone know enough not to drink one. (We won't even begin to consider the Hurricane--if you want to drink just to get smashed, it's cheaper to buy a mallet you can reuse and just thwack yourself in the temple with it and repeat as necessary.)

Day 2, Thursday, July 26

Weather:

Does this photo capture the thrill of t-storms tearing down the Mississippi? The rain eventually made it to our side of the river, too, and we tried to wait it out, but finally ran a single block in it, and were soon ice cubes, as we'd been soaked and then back into an air conditioned inside.

Quotes o' the Day:

"This Blackwell pool party is kind of like MTV meets rum--so many yo-ho-hos."

"Why isn't their promotional giveaway one of the Becherovka chick outfits?"

Event o' the Day:

The only seminar we attended, one called "The Drunken Botanist." It was a sneak peek of science writer Amy Stewart's next book, and she presented very well, doing that "I've come across a whole bunch of cool things, wanna see?" style of a "lecture." Her tag line was, "You're taking plants and putting them into bottles," but then she told the tales of some of the coolest plants we've done that with, including a bunch that might be a titch poisonous, like tansy and gentian. Yes, there was a cocktail, too, a Pineapple Surprise, redolent with a pineapple sage leaf as a garnish, and with that sage, tequila, Kummel, agave nectar, and lemon juice.

Drinking event of the day was the Diaego Happy Hour "A World Class Affair," like the Absolut party the night before, but not quite as magical even with a wider range of liquors used to make the 25 or so cocktails available to sample. And, for something odd, a strong drink with which the bartender offered a shot of granola back as a way to cut the kick.

Surprises o' the Day:

A mouthful of granola after a shot of strong drink is pleasing.

One scientist swears that the variety of apple doesn't matter, it's the type of yeast that makes the flavor difference when you make hard cider. It's not that I find that fact so odd, it's that somewhere on a college campus a professor gets to do this for his research. I want to start my career again.

The margaritas at what seems to be the tourist trappy El Gato Negro by the French Market are quite good, with actual pulp from the fruit that's supposed to flavor the drink (mine was pineapple-cilantro). So if you get stuck there in a rain storm, don't feel too bad.

DBA doesn't open until 5. So if the door is ajar and you walk in at say, oh, 3, and then walk back out, the guy who finally realizes you were in there will act like you were trying to rob the place.

Best Food, Non-TOTC Division:

This was our best overall day of eating, a very good lunch and even better dinner. We hiked out to Butcher, the deli component of Chef Donald Link's (also owner of Herbsaint from the evening before) Cochon. Now, this wasn't exactly the perfect place for pescatarian Chryss, but they kindly made a roasted turkey sans turkey (arugula, tomato, Fontina, and basil pesto aioli on 7grain) for her and even cut the price a bit. I went whole hog, and couldn't refuse the pork belly with mint and cucumber on white. This place even does white bread well, and since mint and cucumber are two of our favorites to play with in summer cocktails, this sandwich called out to me like a long lost edible friend. There was also microbew in bottles, totally needed after the walk out along Tchoupitoulas (its name is as long as our trek), and mine was particularly southern, a nut brown made with pecans. That cucumber-tomato salad side was summer, too.

Then, for dinner, Bayona. I've been a huge fan of Chef Susan Spicer since she published her cookbook Crescent City Cooking, so keenly anticipated this meal and it didn't let me down. To get in the mood I sipped a Bayona martini, Hendricks gin with a cucumber slice for garnish and a bit of rose water instead of orange bitters--very sophisticated. Then the food started, with Chryss having a special "salad," crabmeat with a jalapeno kick in an avocado soup.(Oh, excuse the no flash iPhone pictures--it's a classy place so we acted as restrained as we could.)

I had to try her famous sweetbreads, because I'm offal like that. She does have the recipe in her book, btw, but I haven't attempted to convince my butcher I need the "noix" and not the "gorge" sweetbread, or as she calls them, tenderly, the "heartbreads," aka pancreas. (Never underestimate the power of naming.) They are a wonder of eating, though, fried crispy, yet so tender inside. Again, in her book she explains a randy old chef taught her the procedure and that he suggested "they should have the feeling of a firm, young breast, and would say that looking directly at me to see me blush!" We've got all our hungers so easily cross-wired, don't we. But back to the plate, beneath the richness of the sweetbreads are little squares of beets and then super-crunchy pan-fried mushrooms, and those two totally ground the dish. The sherry-mustard butter sauce sends it all singing.

Trying to avoid going on and on, for mains Chryss had the triple tail special, done very New Orleans style over peas that weren't black-eyes, but certainly seemed to be.

I had one of the best pork chops of my life, truly done medium rare and not in the slightest chewy despite being very thick, with mango salsa and a deep sauce and great green rice--more Caribbean than New Orleans but totally delicious.

And we couldn't, ok, I couldn't, resist dessert, a classic chocolate caramel tart with the crust made with the wisdom of a thousand mothers, and hazelnuts, and for a bit of twist, some Earl Grey ice cream.

Other Drinks Consumed Not Covered Above:

Bloody Mary from the Absolut Bloddy Mary Bar (every hotel needs free Bloodys from 8:30 - 10:30--it's a reason to wake up); a couple of drinks at the "Tales of Two Cities: Bean Town and the Barbary Coast" thingee Anchor threw; a Woodford Reserve Bluegrass Breeze; some Blackwell rum drink; Becherovka, a Czech liqueur, so close to my Slav (no, not slob) roots; and an adult chocolate milk. Note: this day as every, many of these drinks I sipped twice or thrice and then put on the clean-up trays. Nonetheless, I am a professional food and drink writer, so do not try this amount of consumption on your own.

The Muse Is Always Half Drunk In New Orleans

Tales of the Cocktail is a marathon, not a sprint, as one of the drink descriptions at Arnaud's French 75 put it, but I did have to write the sprint version for the Indy, the long but not long enough feature that will run August 9. In the meantime, I want to provide some daily snapshots to give you even more of a sense of what a festival honoring the cocktail, in New Orleans, means for one's mind and liver and deodorant.

Day 1, Wednesday, July 25

Weather:

Post-plane touchdown thunderstorm, Thor v. Zeus division. Even after that, hot and humid, which I'm pretty sure is human-controlled as a clever plot to keep you inside in air conditioning, eating and drinking.

Quote o' the Day:

"This is insane--I've only been here two hours and I already have icing on my arm."

Event o' the Day:

Welcome Reception at the Contemporary Arts Center sponsored by Absolut

You know there's this dream in your head of the perfect happening party, the kind even movies never even seem to nail properly, when the setting is magical, the drinks tasty, the people fun, and a row of models greet you as you enter? Well, that was this shindig. It snowed. Inside. The blue lighting added to that effect, but then there were all these separate bars to go to, themed sort of internationally, like It's a Drunk World After All, but without the insipid earworm of a song. (Instead, a DJ not quite getting people to dance, but perhaps that's just because we were all too f-ing cool.) You could get temp tattoos (not many takers, as most people there didn't have enough un-tatted territory on their bodies for one). You could pose with New Orleans appropriate costuming (masks, etc.) for an Absolut ad photo. You could get a t-shirt silk screened with one of 8 designs. You could drink, plenty--probably 20 different Absolut cocktails, including one made with dry ice, one featuring ice cubes carved into diamonds. One spot featured Dale DeGroff and Audrey Saunders side-by-side making you drinks like the king and queen of boozy prom. The waitress with the little grilled tuna cubes remembered you liked them and that one of you was prescatarian and kept hunting you out with a fresh tray. All the models went back to your room at the Monteleone afterward. Perhaps I made a part of this up.

Surprises o' the Day:

At a tasting called Better with Age, where I somehow avoided any jokes about my magnificence because of my midlife status, during a blind tasting I actually preferred the young Glenfiddich to the 15-year aged one, mostly because it packed more punch so stood out in a room of fantastic tequilas, whiskeys, and Armagnacs, and a bit because it was aged in old Solera barrels, giving it a pleasing Sherry push.

You can make a lovely sipping whiskey...from wheat. At least Bernheim Original Wheat Whiskey can.

Evan Williams does a single barrel whiskey that you can buy for $21. Maybe the best value tasted at TOTC.

You actually can make interesting cocktails with vodka. It's a challenge, but that's the fun, no?

Best Food, Non-TOTC Division:

Herbsaint. We'd do further homage to Chef Donald Link on the trip, but this was on the way back from the Absolut party so we decided to do a bit of the small plate action and everything was pitch perfect with prime ingredients. Simply the fries, with pimenton aioli not so simple, were divine. We also enjoyed Seared Louisiana Shrimp with Summer Squash and Chili Oil and Butter Poached Gulf Tuna with Criolla Sella Chili and Lemon--the seafood clearly the stars of each plate, but all the other ingredients whipping up spectacular supporting symphonies. We had a dessert, too, that the receipt calls a BB tart a la mode, but somehow we can't remember what the BB is--butter and bourbon is what I'm going to say.


Other Drinks* Consumed Not Covered in the Above:

Tito's Cherry-Vanilla Limeade, Jasmine-Spiked London Lemonade, a Sazerac at Herbsaint, a Vieux Carre at the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone, and an Abita Turbo Dog draft at Acme Oyster House, where we ate after our long, foodless plane flights out, a soft-shell crab po' boy and an oyster po' boy and some raw oysters, too (see below)

*Note, this really does just mean cocktails and beer, so liquor straight is left out of the equation.