Many years ago, in a bar, far, far away an elderly lady taught me everything I needed to know about being a mixologist. It was a slow, Sunday afternoon in the middle of a hot July. I had barely opened the bar – which was in the basement of a building – when I heard a voice at the top of the stairwell calling for assistance.
I walked over to the bottom of the stairs and was surprised to see an elderly lady with a walker at the top of the landing. She wanted to come down and asked for my assistance in doing so. Of course, I obliged and helped the grand lady down the twenty odd steps; one step at a time her fragile fingers grasping my arm and making each tentative step.
She chose a bar stool, over the comfortable captain’s chair and sat smack dab in the middle of my bar her head barely above the counter top. I made the usual small talk and talked about the weather but this lady had other plans. She ordered a Brandy Alexander, with an extra shot of brandy poured on the rocks and told me to be prompt as she did not have a lot of time.
This is a three ounce drink for a woman I guessed to be in her early nineties. My bartender logic was disarmed and my respect for my elders kicked in. I poured the grand dame a nice Brandy Alexander in a snifter and served it to her on the classist of beer coasters.
She took one sip, and then a second and smacked her lips.
“You know, my husband and I used to drink these every time we visited New York.”
“I have never been to New York I chimed.
“You must go. The Waldorf Astoria is brilliant. My husband and I had cocktails with Cary Grant once there. That was about 1942. In 1952 I think we saw four shows on Broadway. Coney Island had the best rides. I remember rides in Central Park. What an amazing city”
She talked on for what seemed like hours about her fifty year marriage. Trips to New York, and Los Angeles, Hawaii and Fiji, Japan for the Olympics, and so many other places. She talked about the cottage up on Manitoulin Island when she was a little girl and described how her family would take a boat in the summer and a horse drawn sleigh in the winter. She talked of her children, the doctor, the lawyer and the dentist and how the oldest grandchild was now a father himself.
I was awed by her stories and recollections. Her husband she informed me had been in the government as a diplomat and they travelled far and wide to promote Canadian interests.
The drink disappeared and she eased herself off the barstool much spryer than she had been before. She reached in her pocket book to pay and I offered her the drink on the house in exchange for having entertained and educated me.
I asked her what she was doing for the rest of the day and she floored me with her response.
“My husband died recently. The kids think I need twenty four hour care and so they have me in a home down the street. They are coming to visit at four today and I needed this drink in order to be able to handle them. They forget that I raised them and I still speak my mind. I’m old, I’m not useless. Just remember, you. We all get old. That does not make us useless.”
She refused my help up the stairs and climbed them as well as I could with the help of her cane. I followed after her and watched as she walked down the street tall and proud. I had learned a lot from this little old woman. Wisdom comes from age and experience and everyone you listen to you can learn from.
BRANDY ALEXANDER (recipe made for the 21st century)
1 tsp Nutella
3 oz table cream or milk
1 oz crème de cacao
1 oz brandy
Blend the nutella and milk and then pour ingredients over ice in a snifter or martini glass.
mrbarmaster
A mixologist is a cross between parent, psychologist, and priest. I am simply the guy behind the bar willing to listen and advise if asked to.
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MY BOURBON LOVE STORY
Bourbon was foreign to me until my first night in residence during university. One of my floor mates, who I would quickly learn was an alcoholic at a tender age, had packed a case of Jim Beam when he moved into residence, rather than clothing. His closet was full of bottles of booze, three t-shirts, two pairs of jeans and a beat-up pair of cowboy boots to go with a well, worn Stetson cowboy hat. I later was to find out that this “Marlboro Man Wannabe” was from an affluent family in Vancouver. Who knew there were cowboys in Vancouver? After he noticed my collection of scotches on my bookshelf we developed an instant rapport. We cracked open a bottle of Beam one night and I sipped on this liquid for the first time realizing I had been missing something unique.
The American cousin to the Scottish Whisky, or Canadian Whiskey, bourbon excels at being the black sheep of the whisk(e)y world. For too long it has been considered a poor man’s libation because it came from the rural world of Kentucky; a part of the United States that is known for mining and thoroughbred horses. Bourbon is needed by both hard workers and celebrants and therefore an obvious complement to the citizenry of this area of the world and a gift to the rest of us who get to enjoy it when the opportunity arises. I graduated sober, with my liver intact; unlike my floor mate who I heard dropped out in second year. My curiousity had been peaked and when bourbon was available on a bar menu I would try selections I had not tasted before. The selection available at the time in Ontario was miniscule as compared to today’s market in the GTA but nonetheless I sampled enough to appreciate the differences offered by different distilleries.
A few years after I graduated I was in Ohio at a pool tournament and went to a liquor store with my team mates to stock-up our hotel room. This trip was an eye opener. There were dozens of bourbons available. I selected a few based on the recommendation of the gentleman seated behind bullet proof glass with his finger attached to a string which was attached to the trigger of shotgun pointed at the customer under the counter in front of the cash register. He was knowledgeable, helpful and I avoided him having to use that hand attached to the gun trigger. I picked up some small batch bourbons and also a mason jar of something labelled as corn whiskey not aged more than thirty days. Amongst my purchases I clearly remember Makers Mark as hitting the mark in flavour and character. It was to be appreciated and not to be hastily shot down one’s throat like the cowboys of the old west. The corn whiskey was interesting to say the least and an introduction the unaged alcohol. I met a pool league operator who open my eyes to bourbon appreciation. He had been born in Kentucky and claimed to have drunk bourbon before mother’s milk. I was not going to argue with a purebred son of Kentucky. One afternoon, in between pool matches he introduced me to Blanton’s a newer bourbon labelled single barrel which meant no blending – this was as pure as the spring water it was made from. I liked bourbon before this. After tasting this libation I now loved bourbon and have ever since.
Our pool tournament experience was successful as well that weekend. My team mates and I finished third and collected $3500 for our efforts. We dined on a scrumptious steak feast with beers, bourbons, and lots of dessert before making the drive back to Canada but not before another stop at the string-attached-to-the-trigger-of-a-gun-liquor-store-clerk’s shop for a refill on Maker’s Mark and a several bottles of Blanton’s. I had become a bourbonphile. STORY TO CONTINUE!!
mrbarmaster
A mixologist is a cross between parent, psychologist, and priest. I am simply the guy behind the bar willing to listen and advise if asked to.
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