Recently in drink Category
Photo by Austin Tolin
On one avenue, fire engines scream at the gridlock, demanding to be let through to douse a burning building and snatch the people trapped in it.
Farther south, a battalion of taxi drivers slams their horns in frustration as police reroute all cars that dare approach with late evening revelers beginning a night out.
Everywhere people venture forth looking for the R&R the angry sun, the smothering humidity stole from them during the day.
The evening begins at Highline in the no longer fashionable but still-frequented Meatpacking District. Highline, with its ground and lower levels, is described as a "Cornell bar." (If you can't get into Harvard, Yale or Princeton, you go to Cornell.)
From there, it takes a detour to Alphabet City before going to "some place near the bridge" on the Lower East Side. The names no longer matter. What's important is the scene.
But the scene tonight is slightly off kilter. On the first night after the first day of what will be an extended heat wave, DJs are off their groove and the bartenders are off their mark. One drink served tastes like too-sweet cough syrup laced with the bitter kick of bile, warning of what's to come.
"You'll be sick if you finish that."
"No wounded soldiers."
Machismo and indifference at its finest.
By 3:30 in the morning, the river of traffic has reversed its flow, running uptown instead of down and having a much easier time of it.
The magic hour approaches...
— Joe E. Lewis
About a week ago, I received an invite to Whisky Week at the Brandy Library in Tribeca, perhaps the most-mentioned bar in town that specializes in "brown spirits." (They have more than 200 different kinds of Scotch alone.)
The first thought was, "Great! Now I have an excuse to visit DeNiro's part of town." But on more careful consideration of the week's offerings, I dashed of a quick email to make a reservation for the Balvenie tasting.
Those who like Scotch will probably call me a wuss. Scotch, for years, was thought of as a man's drink, the kind of thing that would sear your eyes and put hair on your chest.
But maybe eight or nine years ago, Scotch got a marketing revival, and that's about when I started my own exploring. Thanks to the nice guys over at Wally's, I got to try a lot of different brands. Most of them tasted like dirt.
But there was one standout: the Balvenie DoubleWood. Here was drink of wood and vanilla, one that reminded me of log cabin fires in winter, one with no trace of peat: perfect for the colder months. Until recently, it was the only Scotch I'd ever bought a bottle of. (The Macallan 12 year Sherry Oak has since joined the list.)
So in the evening I took the train, dashed into the Brandy Library woefully late, spiraled my way downstairs and walked straight into a men's club. Here, for the first time, was a restaurant/lounge where the straight men outnumbered women of all stripes and gay men.
Most of them were in expensive-looking suits. A few of them were accompanied by women in expensive-looking dresses who draped themselves on their arms or over their shoulders or by their sides like cardigans and throw blankets.
Undaunted, I whipped out my best accessory for the situation: a smile and a hello to the man behind the bar.
Three bottles were on offer for the evening: the 12-year-old DoubleWood, the 15-year-old Single Barrel, and the 21-year-old PortWood — each distinctive, and each very good in its own way.
Unlike many of the men, I took no notes. Since taking a class in wine tasting a long time ago, I've come to realize that the sense of taste is very individual, as are people's reasons for enjoying what they eat and drink.
The point was driven home by the stocky spirits sommelier, Ethan Kelley, who said he grew up in New Jersey and used to be a kindergarten teacher. After about an hour of free pours and hors d'oeuvres (including some truly divine lamb shanks), Ethan began the real business of tasting.
Taste, he said, was personal, a judgment and comparison based on individual history — where you grew up, what you put in your mouth, what you breathed and felt and all the memories associated with those things. No two people will ever taste the same thing the same way, so tasting notes, in his opinion, are merely one person's opinion, no more important or valid than your own.
I decided I like Ethan.
And here's what I learned: sampling spirits is different from sampling wine. Don't stick your nose into the glass or your eyes will water and you might sneeze. Instead, hold the glass so it's below your chin, open your mouth and inhale slowly through your nose. Swirl if you want to, but most spirits have enough alcohol that the smell will rise on its own.
Try it and see if that doesn't improve your experience.
I also discovered the DoubleWood is still a wonderful combination of wood and vanilla. A short pour and a good book or magazine will still be one of my favorite ways to close out a long day.
The 15-year Single Barrel has the DoubleWood's vanilla, but a different wood taste (since it's only aged in, duh, a single barrel) and more bite because of the higher alcohol content. Add a few drops of water to cut down the alcohol if it burns. No one will say anything, Joe Lewis notwithstanding.
The 21-year-old Portwood might be my next purchase when the Macallan's is done: here, the Doublewood's smoky, woody character stays, but the drink feels heavier and tastes more like honey and nutmeg. In fact, many people in the room mentioned the word "pumpkin pie." (So much for the "individual" theory, huh?)
After the tasting was over, we were handed gift bags — mostly it was literature, but tucked at the bottom in white tissue paper was a pair of stout little snifters.
Scotch, anyone?
This makes finding an alternative all the more urgent. Not that I'm that price sensitive to my coffee (if I were, I'd get it for a quarter at the diner a couple blocks away). But it's one more reason to frequent places unique to New York — all the little shops will get priced out if not.
There are Starbucks stores on almost every corner of the city. Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration, but check out the Starbucks Center of Gravity map for some idea. It's pretty hard to avoid them.
A few weeks ago, I'd put a Swedish coffee shop on my list of places to visit. Like so many stores here, it's a tiny place. The women who work there are ice blonde, the men, brunet; and everyone speaks, or at least digs it when they speak Swedish to each other and to customers.
True to its reputation, the counter girl was very friendly, teaching me the correct pronouncation of "drömmar" (vanilla cloud cookies) and its singular form while stirring up some delicious hot chocolate. Their coffee and cappuccino are pretty phenomenal (and strong) too.
If they offered wifi and were open late into the night, I'd be there plenty.
While on the Lower East Side, a woman I met recommended the Roasting Plant, known in the neighborhood as "the tube coffee place" and only open since early April.
They roast their own coffee, which is sucked into the Javabot (Seriously. This is the trademarked name.) — a pneumatic tube attached to a grinder that shoots grounds into an espresso machine, which spurts superheated water through the grind and into a cup that then and only then is touched by human hands.
I've got to see this place for myself. I love the smell of coffee and only drink it occasionally, though more often now than I have in years. I guess New York will do that to you.