Set 'Em Up and Knock 'Em Down (TOTC 2016, Day 2)

This day begins like most cocktail conferences, with a 5K run. Novo Fogo has sponsored get fit morning events, one of which is a run with historical tour put together by a New Orleans outfit called Sweat Social (as if that's not a term that defines New Orleans in the first place). Turns out we will do these four of our mornings as there's nothing quite like the righteous feeling of caring for your body by hurting it with exercise before a day of treating it too well by hurting it with a surfeit of booze and food. Running for 7 minutes, stopping to hear some local history, and running again is a fine way to beat the NO heat, too. Plus the two guides were great--running lead Gracie led us at a doable pace that left us time to pick our way through the treacherous French Quarter sidewalks, broken to the point it's practically a trail run, and Frank, our historian with Stravinsky tattooed on his leg, was both wise and entertaining.

The run might do something weird to me, as I have juice after it. Luckily we have a 10 am appointment to tour a micro-distillery, and nothing wipes the smug healthy glow off your face like sampling gin and absinthe well before noon. Atelier Vie is in a complex called ArtEgg Studios (a converted old egg refrigeration warehouse), and your cabbie will argue with you when you try to explain how to get there. He needs some absinthe.

Proprietor Jedd Haas almost seems more excited about the engineering problems (can you guess his background?) than the creation of liquor end of his business, but his Euphrosine Gin #9 Barrel-Finished Reserve is quite tasty and a bit unique, as gin with a bit of oak you don't come across everyday. As for Euphrosine, she was the Greek grace of good cheer, and New Orleans actually names some of its streets after graces and muses. Sure they're unpronounceable, but they mean so much. Haas makes both a red and a green absinthe, too, the red at 136 proof. He makes you taste it with water. You will be glad, even if you're not drinking it at 11 am.

We head back to the Monteleone to activate our bracelets, the ones you can't take off, so you scream "Tales-goer!" wherever you go in town even away from the conference, like Robert Donat trying to hide his handcuffs throughout most of The 39 Steps. (How did Hitchcock never make a film in New Orleans?) That's a bit annoying, as is having to use the chip in the bracelet to "sign in"--well, ok, sure--and out--hey, why are you tracking me so much?--from every event you attend.

Once we've been electronically tracked for less than three minutes we also get to taste Woody Creek Bourbon (yum – it’s a week of sip and yum) and have also received their gift bag that recalls the survivor’s kit Slim Pickens opens in Dr. Strangelove – complete with hand lotion, breath mints, and a condom with the tag line “It’s the wood that makes it good.” That leads to walking through the hotel lobby where Lillet is just setting up:

And there's the first instance of The Corner Bar, just off the lobby, which shifts sponsors and moods twice a day throughout the festival and is a spot we do our damnedest never to miss--sell to us, baby! It kicks off with Russian Standard Vodka with solid cocktails and for some reason, gherkins. Which reminds us we need lunch.

Today that's the nearby Felix's, an oyster bar so we take advantage of the bar part and order Bloody Mary's. I get the Felix DeuxLux, which comes with a shrimp hanging off and an oyster aside, and wonder if I could do enough of these as lunch before I got drunk on the drinks. We need po-boys (we've been in town 18 hours without ones), so get the shrimp and oyster combo, and Chryss gets the grilled shrimp (silly woman, trying to be vaguely healthy and skip the fired stuff), and we both get big smiles on our faces. Far from fancy, perfectly perfect.

Back at the Monteleone, after passing through the ever-unpleasant ad hoc smoking lounge on the sidewalk in front, there's a new Corner Bar, and it's Tequila Exotico. It's an old brand that's finally got some money to give it marketing muscle and that's good as the product deserves it. Plus they have a woman who will paint on you, so some Halloween-obsessed person I know gets a skull on her arm, but even better, she makes these great ghoulish friends too.

Chryss wants to get her haircut, as she was too busy at home to do such things. While she's getting gussied up, I wander about town, including hanging out in Marigny and the wonderful shop the Louisiana Music Factory, where I want to buy everything and learn all I need to know about New Orleans music. Sure, that means I might have to stay here for the rest of my life, but...hey, this could be a plan. Where do I apply for a grant? I do end up at d.b.a.http://www.dbaneworleans.com, instead, to sit and drink darn good beer (and it turns out the Mets are playing the Cubs on tv, to boot). There's something called a Snopes Family Pilsner, and the Faulkner-lover in me can't resist, but I like even more the Parish Brewing Company Envie, a pale ale with more hops than some IPAs, but without all the alcohol. Because you're drinking to beat the heat, not your liver, here.

Chryss shows up and we head further into the Marigny, because you can't just hang out in the Quarter the whole time if you want any slight sense of what the whole town is like. It's a nice haircut.

We have dinner at Cafe Feelings, woah-woah-o-woah...which is a bad name for, well, just about anything, but let's give the place a pass since it's been around since 1979. The food was solid but not the best of the trip, although it's hard to argue with pommes dauphine, fried souffled potatoes whipped with farmhouse cheddar and scallions that you dip into creme fraiche because it's not enough enough.

Besides, we're holding tight for a party that doesn't start until 10 pm, which is late for us oldsters. (The average TOTC attendee looks about 30, but none of them call me Pops, so it's all ok.) We're going to The Spare Room presents the 5th Annual Ode to the Bowl in Partnership with Diageo. That's the official title, but mostly what it means is a chance to party for free at the famous Rock n' Bowl in Mid-City. Yes, this is town with concert venues at bowling alleys. There's lots of good punch, too, like a Smokin' at the Ballpark: Bulleit bourbon, Lagavulin scotch, lemon, barbecued watermelon shrub, Miller High Life. The first two ingredient totally outclass the last, promise--the Miller is basically "flavored" sparkling water. And lots of eats, too, including a square pizza with a thicker crust that took em back to Scranton, PA and my childhood visiting my grandmother. Hadn't thought about that pizza for years.

Even better, the special music guest is Freddie King, and since most folks are drinking or watching the bartender bowling competition (when a lane got a strike, they were serenaded by mariachis), we had King mostly to ourselves. I knew I wasn't drunk, because if I was I would have definitely tried to steal his suit.

We get back to the hotel by talking our way into a guy's Uber, who turns out to be some 40-year-old from Dallas who owns a string of bars, or so he says. He wants to walk Bourbon Street, and we leave him there, for as nice as he was on the ride, that's sort of creepy to do on your own if you're older than 30. But New Orleans allows all. Thank you, dear city.

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:

Sip This: Cooperstown Distillery Triple Play

Cooperstown Distillery Triple Play: Got a serious drinkin’ baseball fan that needs a gift? Who doesn’t? (It was just the All-Star game, folks!)

It turns out Cooperstown’s got more than the Hall of Fame and the hots for Natty Bumppo; the town’s namesake distillery is crafting fine spirits, and, even better, packaging the heck out of them. We’re talking bottles shaped like baseballs, three in a box.

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

Sip This: Panther Creek Willamette Valley Lazy River Vineyard Pinot Noir 2014

Panther Creek Pinot Noir 2014: This Willamette Valley winery doesn’t lack for history: Founded by Oregon legend Ken Wright in 1986, more recently it was bought by Bacchus Capital Management — the same firm that invested in Qupé in 2011 — and they installed Tony Rynders from Domaine Serene as consulting winemaker.

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

Eat This: Tres Leches Cake @ Julienne

It’s entirely possible the best dessert in town is the most deceptively simple. Tres leches cake has gone from a mysterious origin — practically every Latin American country claims its creation, and then there’s an ugly possibility a condensed milk company came up with it to sell its product — to a blanded-out cliché. Chef Justin West rescues it from both its murky and over-familiar history by paring it down to its core delights.

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

A Mighty First & Oak Grows in Solvang

If you can’t bring the people to you, you have to go to the people. At least that’s the way the Rosenson family saw it. Since 2005, they have owned Coquelicot Estate Vineyard just outside of Solvang. But knowing, as Jonathan Rosenson understated it, that “land use in the valley is pretty strict,” they opted to buy the Mirabelle Inn in Solvang as a hospitality center of sorts for their winery rather than build something on the estate itself.

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

Why Santa Barbara Might Need to Blush about Its Roses

To claim you don’t like rosé is about the same as saying you don’t like cheese or people. While Limburger or a crowded bus might be too stinky for you, have you tried a nutty-gouda delight like Ewephoria or met Pope Francis? While these particular examples might not float your cheese or human character boat, I promise there’s a rosé out there that will.

Especially if you’re drinking Santa Barbara County rosé. That point became transparently clear at a recent Santa Barbara Vintners Road Trip to Santa Barbara itself, the first after the group had such success bringing the brand to Los Angeles recently. On a relatively balmy day on Sama Sama’s back patio, 15 area producers poured a rosé or three and made clear, as usual, for variety this region can’t be beat.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Santa Barbara Vintners blog.

(P.S. that cocktail in the photo was from the rosé dinner later that evening at Sama Sama)