Northstar Cocktails

Yes, it could be a patch on a biker's leathers.

What's my new favorite cocktail book?  Hands down?

Northstar Cocktails by Johnny Michaels and the North Star Bartenders' Guild.

It's my favorite drink book for so many reasons - because, first, I want Johnny Michaels to make me one of the drinks inside.  I not only want Mr. Michaels to make me one of those drinks, I want him to make me a Handsome Devil.  Why do I want Mr. Michaels to make me a Handsome Devil?  Because I may never mix it at home and may never get out to the Twin Cities where he pours.

I mean, I should get out there, because if this book is any gauge, they take their drinking very seriously in Minneapolis-St. Paul.

Northstar Cocktails is also my favoite book because Johnny Michaels is an opinionated bastard - in the very best possible way - and he could care less what you think if you had the nerve to stand between him and the creation of a new drink. 

Pretend you're a cranky old sot.  Pretend you write a letter to the Times - or the Gazette or Inquirer or the Daily Mail - and pretend your letter derides bartenders who don't make cocktails the way God intended.  Pretend you write:  I don't want some lawyer from Philadelphia putting fruit in my Old Fashioned!  Whiskey, sugar and bitters only!

You know what Johnny Michaels will do if he reads that letter?  Of course you know.  He'll create a drink called The Lawyer From Philadelphia.  It's a "pink, bourbon based cocktail, which is served in a white wine glass and garnished with a pansy rested atop a floating lemon wheel."

And if that ain't thumbing your nose at the legion of purists who like it the way they like it - I don't know what is.  C'mon, a pansy?  That's inspired. 

So, Mr. Michaels has opinions.  He's serious about being the "steward of people's good times."  He's comfortable quoting the Good Book:  "Make thy neighbor's drink as you would have thy neighbor make a drink for you."  And the proceeds from the sale of his book go to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals International.  In fact, all events hosted by the North Star Bartender's Guild are charity based.

I want to be an honorary member of the Guild.

You know, for kicks.

The reason why I may never make myself a Handsome Devil?  It's the recipe, darling.  Most any cocktail book will have the occasional concoction that has an ingredient that has either not been available in twenty years or that calls for the home Maker of Drinks to labor for hours over an ingredient that you'll use once.

This book?  Johnny Michael's and the Guild's book?  It's got one of those recipes on every other page - and that's another reason why I love it so much.  Any group of people that follows their bliss down byways that call for the addition of Habanero-Butterscotch Syrup or Coriander Tincture to make the perfect cocktail - these are my people!

And so, I'd have one of them mix me up a Handsome Devil.  It calls for Jim Beam Black bourbon, an orange slice, a skewered brandied cherry and a blanched hazelnut.  But it ain't the hazelnut that will make you sweat.  It's the need for a 1/2 ounce of Devil Mix.  You want to make the Devil Mix for me?  And remember, this isn't the drink, this is just half an ounce of beauty you're adding to the drink.  Here goes:

Devil Mix

4 ounces Benedictine

4 ounces Frangelico

4 ounces Cointreau

1/2 ounce salt solution (see p. 31)

1/2 ounce Hot Pepper Tincture (see p. 195)

1/4 ounce Angostura bitters

1/4 ounce Regan's orange bitters

1/4 ounce Fee Brother's old-fashioned bitters

SALT SOLUTION:

1 ounce kosher salt

4 ounces hot water

Mix and store in an eyedropper bottle.

HOT PEPPER TINCTURE:

4 ounces crushed red pepper

1 1/2 cups Everclear grain alcohol

Add ingredients to a Mason jar and let sit 5 to 7 days, shaking once or twice a day.  Strain through a fine mesh strainer and store in a sealed glass jar.

Add two ounces of the Black bourbon to 1/2 ounce of the Devil Mix in a rocks glass.  Insert orange slice like a mohawk, so that the top of the peel is sticking out.  Insert skewered cherry and drop hazelnut in drink.

That, my friends, is one serious drink.

I wimped out.  My first try at making one of the Guild's drinks was

I Will Not Remember the Maine

3/4 ounce rye

3/4 ounce gin

1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur

1 (heavy) dash Angostura bitters

Pour liquids into double shot glass and insert a large ice cube.

Yes, it does call for equal parts rye and gin.  You know what?  It works.

So then, feeling emboldened, and because I had all the ingredients on hand, I went for the

Green Fairy

2 ounces Bombay Sapphire gin

3/4 ounce Green Tea Syrup (see p. 187)

3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice

1 egg white

7 drops St. George absinthe

GREEN TEA SYRUP

1 cup water

1 cup sugar

5 green tea bags

Bring water to a boil and then remove from heat.  Steep tea 5 minutes, squeeze bags, and discard.  Whisk in sugar and let cool.  Will keep refrigerated for 1 month.

Shake all ingredients, except absinthe, without ice.  Shake again with ice and strain into coupe and sidecar.  Top with absinthe. 


Did Karen wonder, out loud, why I was brewing green tea at ten o'clock at night?  Sure.  Did the absinthe, the last ingredient added to the cocktail, drop deliciously through the froth created by the egg white and add a hint of licorice to the gin and sweet tea?  Did the absinthe also give the drink its name, Van Gogh's green fairy being reincarnated as St. George's absinthe?  Bringing the drink and the Guild and yours truly full circle?  Since the drink originated in Johnny Michael's twin cities but needed to use that special last ingredient, the St. George absinthe - the St. George that is distilled less than six miles from my house, the house and the distillery both calling Alameda home?

Yes yes yes and yes.

The only trouble was, by the time the drink was ready, Karen had long since called it a night.  Way to late to call Edward - the friend who had tipped me off to the book.  Thanks, Edward!

And so I sat alone in our then messy front room, sipped happy, and put the drink down on the end table without noticing that Kristina had earlier hauled out a little pal, and that the pal - with his nose so bright - clearly wanted a sip, too.

I figured it was okay because I didn't think he'd be guiding any sleighs in April.

The important thing?  Now I've got an old pickle jar full of green-tea infused simple syrup, so if you're in the mood for a Green Fairy, just stop on by.  I really want to make this drink more than once.

So he sang – Manuel Patterakis, August 19, 1933 - April 8, 2012

As my cousin lay dying, we talked.  We talked a lot about his life.  About his childhood in Hiawatha, Utah, his early years there with my dad.  About moving to Modesto when he was nine.  About his sister, Grace, and his brother, Chris.

Manuel told me about attending Modesto Junior College.  About studying Accounting because he was going to be an accountant.  About the music instructor he was lucky enough to encounter there at MJC.  The instructor who - when my cousin Manuel told him he was studying Accounting - responded with a single word:  Bullshit.

And as my cousin Manuel told this story, he started laughing, laughing at the twin memories - the first, where he had envisioned himself as an accountant, and the second, the memory of this music teacher expressing the strong and salty opinion that Manuel's life would of course center around music.

So he sang.

And it was these many years later, as my cousin lay dying, that he laughed at the memories.  Still able, even under the cancerous circumstances that led him to Memorial Medical Center in Modesto, still able to laugh.

I was glad that Vicki - widow of Manuel's brother, Chris - I was glad that Vicki, who did so much for Manuel, who loved him so much, who showed her brother-in-law such care and tenderness, I was so glad that Vicki had sent me a reminder to visit.  To take the short trip from Alameda and say hello to my cousin.

My cousin Manuel - Manoli to me, always - played such an important part in my life.  If that life has a soundtrack, Manoli is the singer.  His voice - that huge baritone - was present at so many significant occasions.  When Karen and I got married in Modesto, in 1990, he sang us down the aisle the same way he sang my parents down the aisle at the old Greek church in Stockton in 1962.  When Elizabeth was baptized, and then Kristina?  His was the voice in the choir loft - singing, rejoicing.  Sang for my brother, George, and his wife, Karna - for my brother Dean, and his wife Laura.  So many happy ceremonies, so much singing.

Of course, Manoli was there for the more somber moments, too.  When my father died, Manoli sang him to his rest.

Manoli sang so many to their rest - his parents, his siblings.  All eight of the original Katsufrakis clan, my Yia Yia Elizabeth among them.  Manoli's mom - my Yia Yia's older sister.  Thea Helen the matriarch of the Katusfrakis kids.  Those eight pillars who are such an important part of my history, who still cavort in my head if I close my eyes.  Drinking Metaxa, turning a lamb on a spit.  Yelling, dancing, singing.  So much singing.

As my cousin lay dying, he joked - I worry I won't have the backbone or the bravery to face that final journey the way Manoli did - because as he lay dying, he laughed and wondered who was going to sing him to his rest.

The words we sing - the words Manoli sang so often for so many - are simple:

Eternal be, his memory.

But the words carry such great meaning - and so Manoli wondered aloud who would sing for him.  He said that Father Jon - who for so many years at so many of those celebrations and commemorations has had his beautiful voice complimented by Manoli's beautiful voice - Father Jon said he'd record Manoli and put a cassette player in Manoli's casket to cue up when necessary.  And as Manoli tells me this story, he's laughing with that great laugh of his, the laugh somehow always lighter and more playful than I expect.

He's laughing.

During that visit at the hospital, Manoli spent a lot of time talking about his teaching years, years that were relatively unknown to me.  I was a kid for most of them.  But my cousin sparkled when he talked about those days, especially about Peterson High in Sunnyvale.  His emotion was reciprocated after news of the severity of his illness began to spread.

First, some former students set up a Fan Page on Facebook (where I stole the pictures you see here).

Then, in early January, more than 100 of them traveled to Modesto to sing.  For him.  Traveled from up and down California, from Utah, to remind him of the incredible impact he had on their lives.  How, because of his music, his teaching, they'd always remember Mr. P.

And finally, these students who had traveled for him - then sang for him.  So he sang right back.


The next time I saw my cousin, the last time I saw my cousin, he was recuperating at a rehabilitation facility in Modesto.  They'd tried to class up the joint with dark wood paneling, and it of course was exactly what the doctor ordered, but there was no hiding the fact that it was a Dying Place.  It's there right at the end of Granger Avenue - near the apartment where my cousin lived with his mom for so many years after he retired from teaching.  Near the apartment where his mom, my Thea Helen, spent her last days in a hospital bed they'd set up in the front room.  So it was Granger again - a Patterakis again dealing with the dying of the light.

That last visit was a softer one - Manoli's voice not silenced, but quieted by the cancer.  There was less laughter, too - though still some.  God bless you for that, Manoli.  Bless you for that.

I had told him, I had said that if I could sing, I'd sing for him.  My brother Dean chimed in that Manoli definitely didn't want to undergo that.  Manoli laughed, though.  Manoli laughed.  Manoli laughed and said he would - of course he'd enjoy hearing me sing.

That's about when my Mom walked in.  I told her we'd been having a good visit.  A lot of that was just me reminding Manoli how much I loved him, how much the girls and Karen loved him, how important a role he'd played in all those momentous occasions in our lives.  And I told Mom how Manoli had laughed and said he'd be happy to hear me sing.

Mom recognized the foolishness of that idea and so she leaned in close and asked Manoli if he'd like to sing with her.

Manoli was quiet for a moment before he said, No.  No, Anna, he said, his voice so quiet - the strain of speaking those few words so evident.  But I'd like to hear you sing.

And so she did.

My mom sang a Greek song that she'd sung to my a dad a lot as he, like Manoli, lay dying.  Mom's voice is so pure, so clean - and as she sang, Manoli closed his eyes and smiled, smiled to the beauty of her voice.  The song is simple - a bird who's alone is urged to sing, and through the singing other birds will join in, and so the bird that was alone won't be any longer, will always have company through the magic of song.

I'm crying at this point.  I cried a lot during that last visit, and I was certainly crying then, listening to Mom sing for Manoli, watching him smile at the sound.  Because it made me acknowledge that even though I can't sing, I will - when we gather for Manoli's funeral.

As Mom finished, when she straightened and wiped the tears from her eyes, when she turned to me to ask after the kids - we were all surprised to hear singing - quiet, beautiful singing.  Surprised to hear Manoli - singing.  Manoli with barely the breath to whisper responses as we visited - and yet, and then - reminded I think by the joy in my mom's voice, he sang.

It was a silly song.   A Greek song.  To Kokoraki.  Just a silly, Greek children's song.  Like Old MacDonald, with a different animal sound added to each verse, starting with to kokoraki - a cockerel, a young rooster.  But it made me draw closer to Manoli, still with his eyes closed, as the words came out - to kokoraki ki-ki-ri-ki-ki - as he sang the song.  I'd heard Manoli sing stronger so many times in my life, but this time?  With the words scarcely escaping his lips?  So soft?  Yet sung with such delight?

I have no idea how awful the pain, how terrible his discomfort - but as Manoli sang, he smiled.  As Manoli smiled and sang - I knew he wasn't in that little room overlooking a courtyard in a Central Valley rehab facility.

I don't know if he was in Hiawatha, a Sunnyvale cafeteria, maybe a choir loft in Stockton or Modesto.  But I do know for that moment, as he sang, as he'd sung so often before, Manoli was happy.  Happy because he was doing - even there at the very end - one of the things he'd always done best.

So he sang.

World Whisky Day

Today is World Whisky Day, and in its honor, I thumbed through Ian Buxton's 101 Whiskies to Try Before You Die.  His choices go from the readily available and relatively cheap Cutty Sark--


(before the whiskey boom in the States, Cutty Sark continued to be one of the most popular brands here - probably because it had remained available even during Prohibition if you knew the right people.  And how could the right people still get Cutty?  Why, through the efforts of master Bootlegger William McCoy.  Unlike some [most!] bootleggers who were responsible for, as one wag said, replacing good beer with bad gin, William McCoy skimmed the high seas in fast boats and was known for only supplying his customers with the best booze available.  That's why his efforts were deemed "the real McCoy," and the real McCoy was often Cutty Sark)

--and the Cutty, nowadays, shouldn't run you more than twenty dollars.

On the other end of the spectrum is the 40-year-old version of Highland Park (#57 out of Ian's 101).  It comes in a box with a precious little leather bound book - and it ought to because it will set you back ₤800.  (Buxton's prices are all in pounds because the good Ian is a Scot and his effort was printed by Hachette Scotland and not reprinted here - they just sent us what they had.)  ₤800 is roughly $1,300.  So his 101 Whiskies span the globe, yes - and also your wallet.

I wanted to try something tallied in the book - preferably, since we're talking about WORLD Whisky Day, something not from the U.S.  And it had to be something I already own because I'm trying to drink what I have before buying more.  Trying.  Not always successful, but trying.

Ian lists Buffalo Trace (#22), but I've had it and it's from Kentucky.  #27 is a Chivas, and that would've been great, in honor of my dad - an old Chivas man - but Ian had listed the 25-year-old, and that was not in Mother Hubbard's Cupboard.  I was also out of Cutty Sark (#30) and Knob Creek (#63) and was beginning to worry that I didn't have anything on hand that came from across the pond when I turned the page to #90.  The Macallan.

He'd chosen the 18-year-old sherry oak.

I'm embarrassed to say that just such a beast lay unopened in the back of my booze cabinet.  After my father died, and after my brothers and I came across bottle after bottle of the good stuff that he had owned - but saved - I had promised that I wasn't going to squirrel away good booze for special occasions.  Instead, I was going to drink the good booze with good friends.  Drink it and enjoy it.  But there stood the Macallan, unopened and waiting.

I don't even remember where I bought it.  I'll blame it on John at the Marina Deli.  One of his vendors may have had a few bottles that had dropped off the back of a truck that he wanted to sell on the cheap.  Whatever the case, I had it so I opened it.

In the bottle, the whiskey is lovely - it's colored deep and rich, like caramel.  I held it up, reading the tag tied to its neck. 

Like the whisky
your great great
Grandfather drank
with your great
Grandfather
to celebrate the
birth of your
Grandfather.

As I read, the embers from the fire we had enjoyed earlier were still snapping, shooting sparks.  The girls are asleep upstairs, tired from dancing to Prince - let's go crazy! - while daddy built the fire.

I removed the lead foil surrounding the Macallan's cork.  The sound a cork makes?  When you pop it off a bottle of 18-year-old whisky for the first time?  It's beautiful.

Pop.

So I poured the Macallan into crystal, over ice, and swirled - held it up in front of our warm, dying fire.  The scent coming out of that glass?  Powerful.  This is not an unobtrusive drink.  But then I sipped.  I'm not very good at telling you that I could detect leather or marmalade, but I can tell you that it's a little bit smoky and unbelievably fine.  Is that good enough?

I took another sip and thought about my dad.  My kids and Karen.  My mom in Modesto.  My family and friends that I'd like to share this with.  Randy, where are you?  Nick?  Harry?  Brad, are you home? 

Next time, gentlemen.  Just ask and I'll share.  For now, I sip again and salute Captain William McCoy, that fine seaman who did his best to keep the best in American glasses.

To you sir, and to you - wherever you are.

What Fresh Hell is This?

The call came yesterday.  From Kristina's school.  The instructor's voice was a little strained, a little hurried.  Not the voice a parent wants to hear coming from one of their children's teachers - certainly not in the middle of the morning.

I sat down at my desk and turned my back to the open door.  One hand running through my hair while the other - that hand clenched, holding the phone with greater urgency than when I had picked it up just seconds ago.

It happened on the playground, Teacher D said.  Yesterday.  They just discovered it today when another parent, a concerned parent, let them know.

Let them know what had happened on the playground.  Yesterday.

There are play structures in the school's yard, and a few of them provide convenient hiding places for the kids.  Kristina had encouraged one of her little friends to follow her up and into one of those structures.  Apparently, my daughter is a Pied Piper and our city Hamelin, not Alameda.

My hand on the phone clutched it even harder.

What happened? I asked.  And while saying the words, my mind raced - what could it have been?  Had she hit her friend?  Or had my daughter taunted her, made her cry?  Surely she couldn't have scored a pack of smokes or a six-pack from the market on the corner - they card kids, don't they?  Isn't it illegal to sell cigarettes and alcohol to four-year-olds?  It was in my day.

My god, what had gone down?



Wellll, Kristina's teacher said, and the way she lengthened the sound of that simple word - afraid to continue, to take the next step, to let me know what horror had befallen Bayside, the preschool that had been home to so many warm memories.

Then, finally, she revealed the awful truth.  Kristina, our beautiful little daughter, Kristina had given her friend - a makeover.  Yes, while hiding in plain sight inside that confounded play structure while twenty other kids romped merrily under the watchful eyes of three teachers - my daughter applied lip gloss to her friend's smile and then...god, the shock is almost still too great.  And then - and then, Kristina painted her friend's nails.  Caterpillar green.

Karen and I don't know what to do.  What's next?  Pedicures?  Facials?  Oh, the embarrassment - oh, the shame.

Pray for us in our time of trial and keep us in your thoughts.

In Search of a Good Muddler

This is why I love America.  I need (want) a muddler, and the best ones - PUG! Muddlers - are hand-made by a guy named Chris.  Chris Gallagher.  Only he's in New York, the muddlers aren't sold in stores, and his website is under construction.  Still - only in America, right? - if you need one, like I do, he asks you to send an email.  And bingo, he hooks you up.

Mr. Chris! (went my message) I'm a bookseller by day (I know, an industry with such a future!) and a writer and drinker by night.  I first heard tell of your muddlers when I was trying to find a good one.  And there they were!  But then, out of nowhere, this really fabulous bottle of Rye jumped in my lap, and I bought that instead - apologies apologies!

Though if you've ever tasted Thomas H. Handy Sazerac Straight Rye Whiskey, you'd forgive me.

But now?  Now I'm in the market again and would like to buy a muddler from you.

So, what's the deal?  I'm out in Cal-i-For-nie-A, and you, you're on that other coast.  How does this work?  Do I get on a train and meet you at Grand Central?  I could do that.  I'll wear a yellow carnation.

And just to get ahead of myself - I've got this side-gig.  Only "gig" might lead you to believe that I get paid, and of course I don't.  But the gig is my blog, DrinksWithNick.blogspot.com.

What's that, you say?  Do I really hate the sound that "blog" makes?  Yes.  Yes, I do - but a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.

And what this guy wants to do is purchase one of your beautiful muddlers and then sing its praises online.

Why now? you're thinking to yourself.  Well, the story has come full circle.  See, it was the Sazerac Straight Rye Whiskey that led me astray, and of course the Sazerac is the official drink of New Orleans.  And I have just received - in time for Mardi Gras - illegally, I might add, through the US Mail, from New Orleans no less, a bottle of King Cake Vodka, and one of the concoctions I want to try calls for the muddling of 12 coffee beans - but I don't have a muddler, did I mention that?  So I want one.  Of yours.  Because New Orleans led me back to you.

Thanks!

--Nick

I Heart Books

Yes, I stole the idea from Diesel, a bookstore - I hope Alison and John won't mind.  But then after the amazing Samm put the books together, and I took pictures, I couldn't choose.  A shot with context, like the one above? 

Or would the Heart channel Norma Desmond and whisper, All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my closeup.

Then I realized it didn't matter.  Happy Valentines Day from Books Inc. in Alameda.

World Book Night

What's World Book Night?  Just about the coolest thing to hit books since Gutenberg.

Conventional wisdom says, Books are Dead.  Of course, CW also once said that Zeppelins were the wave of the future.  Go figure.

But the Book isn't all dead.  Could it use some love?  Sure - couldn't we all?  So last year, some smartsters across the pond came up with WBN.  It was a way to take the love of books that so many have and share that conviction with those who might not be as enamored with the word-made-paper as they could be.

What was their plan?  They picked a night - April 23rd - to go out and spread the word.  Why April 23rd?  Not because it's the birthday of Lee Majors.  Because both Cervantes and Shakespeare shuffled off this mortal coil on that day - also because it just so happens to be that great William's birthday, too.

So April 23rd.  On that night, in 2011, book lovers fanned out across England and Ireland and gave away a million books.  Just gave them away.  Why would the book industry be interested in giving away their product?  First, because it's fun.  Second, because there are those among us who might not be able to splurge on a book.  Third, because it's fun.

Word spread, and we decided over here not to let those over there corner the good times.  So welcome to World Book Night, American style.

What can you do?  Well, here's the deal - the organizers are looking for Book-Givers.  Could you give away 20 free books in one night?  If you think so, and you're available on April 23rd, then go here to sign up.  DEADLINE IS MONDAY, FEBRUARY 6TH.  Here's the list of 30 books that Carl Lennertz and crew picked out.  It's broad and amazing.

They'll ask you some questions.  Don't do what I did.  Don't try and be funny.  See, they want to know how you plan to give away your books.  I got to thinking and decided it'd be a blast to do a bar-crawl.  We got us some pretty fine bars here on the island - lots and lots of them - and I thought it'd be a hoot to go drinking, carrying my bag of books, and start conversations.  Start talking to people and then present those unsuspecting imbibers with a gift.

Instead of saying that, I responded to the official World-Book-Night query To whom do you intend to give your books? with the reply, Drunk hot chicks!

That was a joke, but we book people have notoriously poor senses of humor - witness the joke itself - and now I fear I may have made a mistake.  So don't do that.

But - please! - if you think this sounds like the great idea I think it sounds like, join me.  Join me and turn someone onto a book that they wouldn't have read otherwise - and have fun doing it.

April 23rd, friends, April 23rd.

And tonight, in celebration of the free-book idea, I thought I'd mix up a fancy-free cocktail.  So here she is, from the 75th Anniversary Edition of Mr. Boston.  Page 206.  Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce the

FANCY-FREE COCKTAIL

2 OZ. BOURBON WHISKEY

1/2 OZ. MARASCHINO LIQUEUR

1 DASH ANGOSTURA BITTERS

1 DASH ORANGE BITTERS

STIR WITH ICE AND STRAIN INTO CHILLED COCKTAIL GLASS.