The Brooklyn

There's a hole in the wall in Prospect Heights, and you decide to visit.

You walk too far past luminous hyacinth, the glowing white ghost of Grand Army Plaza, the faux-hieroglyphics of the Brooklyn Museum. It is two in the morning and you are probably already incredibly drunk. You are also probably dressed in a beach towel, slurring your words and looking for lazy and low-risk action. You will probably not remember this tomorrow, thank goodness.

Welcome to The Manhattans.

You've somehow found the dark storefront covered in newspaper clippings, you've somehow got past the Northern Liberation Front doorman and you've somehow let him bite your neck when you were trying to find your I.D. There is Lulu, the bartender, and she is pouring you a drink. You've, somehow, managed to forget to pay.

No matter.

Jessie's Girl is on repeat and there are people climbing ladders you didn't know were relevant. These ladders, in fact, are relevant. The people, in fact, are not. Upstairs there are endless crates of beer, a couple trouble-makers, and an amazingly good time. Below people drink Whiskey. Or maybe just you drink Whiskey. Or maybe the Whiskey just drinks you.

No matter.

The bathrooms are filthy. Offensive. Forgotten. You like it. And the signature drink, if there were one? Turns out it's the Brooklyn. Damn the Manhattans. Drink the Brooklyns. And good luck, lil darling, getting home.

Thank goodness you live in Brooklyn. Now if you could only remember where...

THE BROOKLYN

2 oz. rye or blended whiskey

1 oz. dry vermouth

Dash of maraschino liqueur

Dash of Amer Picon

shake all ingredients well with ice

pour into a rocks glass and garnish with lemon

try not to spill all over the table

Fractured and Flawed :: Sidebar

SideBar has a personality problem. The Top 40 blares at top volume here, and the bar itself is as reluctant to commit to an identity as its MacBook-playin’ DJ is to spinning an actual vinyl record. SideBar is painfully unsure: afraid to decide if the gray and glass space should be a sports bar for dead-eyed frat boys drinking away their Lehman Brothers past, or a pseudo night club for new students yet to learn that the Meatpacking District is on the other side of Union Square. What a choice. After spending an evening in SideBar trying to watch playoff baseball, I’d wager that anyone who frequents this mainstream, personality-less bar might know more about masochism than even a Mets fan could.

SideBar is the unfortunate offspring of Mike Sinensky and Sean McGarr, the same team behind the infinitely more enjoyable Village Pourhouse, located just a short trek to the south and east. There are worse things than walking another five blocks for a beer.

With its shoddy blend of Circuit City electronic displays and cheap Ikea bookcases, SideBar’s design evokes a lazy bachelor’s first attempt at nesting. There are the standard beers on tap, including Guinness ($7) and Bud Light ($5). The more impressive liquor selections are housed in cubbies out of the bartender’s reach. Don’t be surprised to find you can’t have a Four Roses on the rocks, simply because the lady manning the bar just happens to fall under 5’7” and, for all her bar training, hasn’t yet learned to climb a ladder.

SideBar is not entirely without merits, though. The impressive menu would make the place a destination for its bites regardless of the brews — if only a waitress would show up. Assuming an order can actually be placed, the sliders are truly memorable — try the lamb with mint (2 for $10 or 4 for $16) and forget, for a minute, the horrific space you’re in. Salmon nachos are another standout (seriously) and the French fries are graced with a delicious drizzle of aioli.

Late on a Friday night, once you’re well liquored up from a place that actually knows how to serve a drink, SideBar could provide a tolerable-enough end to the night. The music is made for dancing, even if the crowd is not. And who knows — maybe if the Red Sox lose (they’re still alive, as of this writing), SideBar’s standard-issue Yankee fans might even bust a victory move or two.

SIDEBAR :: 120 East 15th St. at Irving Pl.

Your Temporary Home Base :: The Duck Pond

The rougey seductive glow of a dimly lit bar. The delightful chatter of the friendly patrons, lubricated by whatever will loosen the joints. New research into beat science, ninja classes, and a daytime slip n’ slide to name a few other bonus features. At the Duck Pond, good friends are made and even better friendships are nourished with whatever is on tap, brought over, or perhaps some lovingly provided Glenlivet if you’re lucky and you know someone that resides there. The service or offerings don't really matter here, this place where sparkling mermaids and angels, pleather and lace, wings, fishnets, and finger puppets/Fun Dip are the tray passed hand-outs. It feels more like an ether where shamanic glowing moonstones are rustled out of backpacks and find their way into your hand, and headlamps and alkaline dust are donned into the wee hours. Please, feel free to splay yourself on a couch or dance ‘til it hurts, it makes no difference here. And be sure to depart at some indefinite time to find yourself more of the same or different. Repeat. Repeat until your dancing exhaustion, comedown, a warm body, or the sun puts you to sleep.

The Duck Pond :: 9:00 and Edsel, open only during the last week of August.

The Caipirinha

We’re getting excited here in the middle of the country - football is here, tomatoes are backyard-garden fresh and a couple times a day you catch that breeze that just starts to smell like fall.

But I’m still holding on to my summer cocktail: The Caipirinha.

It’s not a summer-only drink, though I had many of them on a crowded, all-inclusive beach in Mexico this year. It was felt like a true drink then, after too many Rum Runners and "Coco Locos." Like anything with lots of citrus, sugar and ice, the Caipirinha calls sun and heat to mind. But don’t lump this cocktail in with the standard summery counterparts, your margaritas, your mojitos.

While those drinks are best known for their prominent liquors and shiny garnishes, the Caipirinha is made with a strong muddle, out of which comes the strangely familiar, not too sweet, a little bit earthy taste of a sugar cane alcohol, cachaça.

Both the drink and its star liquor are Brazilian. The Caipirinha is Brazil’s national cocktail, but cachaça was created by Portuguese settlers in the 16th century, reserved as a liquor for the slaves and lower classes.

The name itself is a diminutive version of the word “Caipira,” a Portuguese term for someone from the countryside -– almost the exact equivalent, says Wikipedia, of the American “hillbilly.”

Now, of course, it’s Brazil’s trendy new export, with good cachaça brands making their way into American bars. The Brazilian government’s even tried to capitalize on the rise of the former peasant drink, writing presidential decrees and fighting with the WTO to trademark cachaça and distinguish it from rum.

The last Caipirinha I had was far after vacation, in a bar just blocks away from my downtown Cincinnati apartment and made by a bartender/law student named Brad. He made the first one well, with an entire lime crushed into the small glass and the sugar mostly, but not entirely, dissolved in the bottom.

Brad also tried to serve us the “Brad Caipirinha” which he promised free if we didn’t like it. His version substituted raspberry vodka for the cachaça, which–sorry, Brad—confused the blend with its call for fruity attention.

But the failed cocktail highlighted what makes a good Caipirinha for me: A new liquor and dependable garnishes muddled to the point of delicious ambiguity, simple ingredients creating a drink just beyond the familiar.

THE CAIPIRINHA

1 2/3 oz. cachaça
1/2 fresh lime cut into 4 wedges
2 tsp. white cane sugar

place lime and sugar in an old fashioned glass and muddle
fill glass with crushed ice and add the cachaça
garnish with lime

When Jury Duty Drives You to Drink :: Whiskey Tavern

Whiskey Tavern, in the bowels of side-street Chinatown and steps away from the courthouses, is slick on the outside but thoughtfully and thoroughly weathered at its core. Its snappy black-and-gold façade masks the army of battered bar stools, distressed wooden booths and sleepy colored-glass lamps inside, where the lack of pretension is comforting yet vaguely spooky, suggesting the eerie shadow of taverns past.



Although Whiskey Tavern, mere weeks old, is just a spring chicken in this neighborhood of ancient justice and timeless Chinese eateries, the Tavern’s address has been home to bars since the second World War. Not long ago, the spot was known as the Baxter Pub—a straightforward semi-dive with the primary perk of being across the street from a cluster of bail bond businesses. Location, location, location.



Whiskey Tavern—79 Baxter Street in its current incarnation—is strong proof that brothers George and Justin Ruotolo aren’t new to this business. The two also own Whiskey Town, off the Bowery at East Third Street, and they—along with Tavern’s third owner, Rob Magill—are clearly familiar with the essentials of a successful neighborhood bar: beer, nice bartenders and a laid-back vibe.



Whiskey Tavern repeats the formula but adds an outdoor garden (open until 11 p.m. on weekdays and midnight on weekends), suds-soaking food (see below) and an extensive list of, yes, whiskeys, including Black Maple Hill ($10), Pappy Van Winkel ($15) and The Famous Grouse ($9), as well as bourbons and whiskey-based cocktails like the Manhattan-esque Traveling Secretary ($10 for a very generous pour). If, by chance, the hard stuff doesn’t appeal, there’s a decent variety of draft (Guinness is $6) and bottled beer (but please don’t get an Amstel, $6). While the wines are listed by color only, one can still celebrate a "not guilty" verdict with a bottle of Moet White Star ($125). Hooray! That’s less than the bail bonds across the street.



You can eat at Whiskey Tavern, too. Their burger ($8) is a thick oval of meat slapped onto a crusty hunk of French bread and served with pleasantly crispy fries; a nominally daintier option is the blue cheese, bacon and avocado-laden Cobb Salad ($12). Slightly out of keeping with the bar’s boozehound appeal, Whiskey Tavern also offers a two-egg sandwich for $5 (as if beer were not the breakfast of champions!), dressed with roasted garlic mayo on a club roll. 



Whiskey Tavern opens at 11 a.m. daily, and, if you feel like surviving five hours of firewater, you can catch happy hour (4–7 p.m.), when Miller Lite drafts and Miller High Life bottles are $3, Buds and Bud Lites are $4, well drinks are $6, and (why not?) cosmos and apple martinis are $6, too.



Digs: Snazzy on the outside, worn on the inside, with a loved and lived-in feel. From the old wooden barstools to the tiny amber votives, it’s good-looking but not uptight, comfy but not sloppy. 


Vibe: A neighborhood bar that aimed for the local drunks but got the local drinkers. Smart, friendly, outgoing and, above all, unpretentious.



Music: A great mix of Motown classics segues into punk and rock at night. The piano player is a highlight on Tuesdays and Wednesdays (from 6–9 p.m.); with a mix of ‘70s rock and pop, it’s an update on old-timey that fits the bar well.



Bottom line: For patrons transient and not, Whiskey Tavern feels like some kind of home—or at least one that’s saturated with alcohol and goodwill. In other words, what you need on your one-hour jury duty lunch break.

WHISKEY TAVERN:: 79 Baxter St. between Bayard and Walker Sts. 
212-374-9119 



The Pisco Sour

The weather in San Francisco can be appallingly inappropriate, most especially noted in the summer time. Like in late August, for example – it is not unheard of for it to be cold and foggy in the middle of the night… or day… or afternoon. Not that it keeps us from darting around trying to imbibe cocktails that hearken back to warmer, more seasonally appropriate weather and cocktails. In the case of my latest episode, the pisco sour was my ticket to said times, and apparently, those Peruvian and/or Chilean good times that I've only ever vicariously experienced with the help of this fair city.

The pisco sour is a refreshing, if not bizarre, by American standards, concoction/frappe of pisco (a Peruvian grape brandy), lemon juice, egg white, sugar and bitters. Not requisitely consumed by the Rocky-emulating set of hipsters and yuppies, but more so by those looking for a wonderfully refreshing cocktail drinking experience in the sea of stateside classics and novelty. The debate between whether the Peru or Chile was originator of the drink is, to this day, still going strong, but the methodology of both versions is the same.

By the vigorous shaking of any given beloved bartender that is so inclined to serve said cocktail, a good pisco sour, when poured into a delicate glass untouched by any rim accoutrement, will be virtuously topped with what almost resembles the fluffy, alcoholic, unsweetened beginnings of a meringue. A dash of (regional Amargo) bitters, whether or not expertly toothpick-carved into a "heartbeat," tops this lovely thing off and officially makes your cocktail the envy of all others that are within range.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it" has always been a mantra that everyone seems to understand; it is a successful and diplomatic alternative to "leave me the hell alone and let me do what I want" when embarking upon any potentially questionable meal, drink, date, flirtation, or life decision. I suggest you do the same and find a pisco sour immediately.

And if you're in San Francisco, having your own National Pisco Sour Day might just be a welcome aide in helping you forget about that third layer you're going to have to put on when you step back into the outside world.

The Pisco Sour

3 oz pisco
1 oz fresh lemon juice
2 tsp sugar
1 egg white
1 dash bitters

Shake the first four ingredients in an iced cocktail shaker… shake, dammit… and strain into 1 or 2 glasses. Top froth with bitters. Salud.

Speak Easy ... with a Twist

Cocktails prove the idiom that the whole is worth more than the sum of its parts. Well, this blog is drunk on axioms as is, so let's put some posting where our typepad is. 

From here on out, Speak Easy will have multiple authors -- and will showcase the best cocktails and drinking parlors in not just New York, but also San Francisco and Cincinnati. It's the East, West and Nearly Center of drinking in America, and we're delighted to seek out the best cocktail lounges, wine bars, beer gardens, and studio apartment mini-fridges throughout the country. 

So welcome, all those who drink and tell. Sidle up to the bar, order a drink, and share your city's haunts with us. Cheers! 

After all, it's five o'clock somewhere.