Cocktails in the "Old Square"

On one of our many trips to Dutch Kills, Heather and I decided to order a "bartender's choice." What he came up with was a Vieux Carre--a sweet and savory mix of Benedictine, cognac, sweet vermouth, rye whiskey and bitters. The name of this drink is French for "Old Square," a reference to the French Quarter of New Orleans. I'm not particularly a football fan (baseball is my game,) but since the Saints are in the Super Bowl and Heather has family in that part of the country, I figure now is as good a time as any to share this recipe with you fine people.

Easter Egg alert... If you look at the reflection in the window towards the end of the video, you can see Heather's reflection. We would have shot it again--but it's such a cute reflection...

Benedictine

On one of our trips to Dutch Kills, we challenged our bartender to come up with something good for us. We're too good to order off the menu. And when I say "good," I mean "obnoxious." What he came up with was a vieux carre, a drink originating in New Orleans involving Rye, Brandy, Sweet Vermouth, Bitters, and a "Benedictine rinse" as our server put it--which means the glass was coated in it before the rest was put in. It was served in a highball glass and, as a side note, it had a single giant ice cube in it that was about as big as the glass. I was highly amused by it. I would love to make ice cubes like that but there's not enough room in my freezer. Heather keeps cluttering it with baggies of chicken stock.

I really liked the cocktail. It was exactly what I needed: fairly sweet but not sugary, thick, acceptably boozy, and calming. It had a nice syrupy texture to it which no doubt came from the brandy. I kept the cocktail in the back of my head for a while as I lived my life. I owned pretty much all the ingredients save one--Benedictine. I didn't know much about it so I did a little research. It's a sweet aromatic liqueur that dates back to the early 1500s.

One of the main selling points for me is that it shares its name with a religious order--the Benedictine Monks. I like the idea of a religious sounding liqueur. It gives the impression that booze is handed down from God. It's a little ironic though that many things that liquor inspires are associated with Satan--bar fights, promiscuous sex and public urination to name a few. I did some preliminary price comparison shopping in New York and learned that a small 375 ml bottle will run you about twenty bucks. I thought I might be able to do better in Pennsylvania until I learned that the state store doesn't even carry it. I guess that's what you get when the government oversees your liquor supply.

When I got back to New York, I was feeling saucy and purchased a bottle. I got it home and Heather and I took a little taste from a shot glass. When Heather brought it to her nose she reeled back with surprise. When they say aromatic they mean aromatic. It has a taste that vaguely reminded me of cough syrup. Not in a nasty, stale jagermeister way but in a classy medicinal way. To put it another way, it was like something you would expect to find an an old apothecary and not in an expired bottle above your bathroom sink. I then proceeded to make a vieux carre of my own. The recipe I had read as follows:

• 1 ounce rye whiskey
• 1 ounce Cognac
• 1 ounce sweet vermouth
• 1 teaspoon Bénédictine D.O.M.
• 2 dashes Peychaud's Bitters
• 2 dashes Angostura Bitters

Mix all ingredients in a double Old Fashioned glass over ice; stir.

I didn't have Peychaud's bitters so I left it out and just used angostura bitters. Baby steps people. Only one liquor adventure at a time. I garnished with I cherry and a lemon twist--a style I stole from the good folks at Dutch Kills. It was a good cocktail and I think the Benedictine really added to the flavor profile. I'm all about little things that give a cocktail a little extra flourish. Will the drink still be good without Benedictine? Probably. All the other stuff in it is good. But like a chemist, I like to see how one element reacts with another. I will be playing with this drink in the future.

Dutch Kills

We Finally got around to visiting Dutch Kills last week. Dutch Kills is a bar that just opened fairly recently and takes its name from the archaic title of the area it inhabits (It encompassed most of what is now Long Island City.) It has a very old-timey theme—think early twentieth century, Gangs of New York—a couple of the bartenders have handlebar mustaches (see: last week’s blog) and it has a piano area in the back where I imagine patrons relaxing, sipping libations, and enjoying a peppy rag by new sensation Scott Joplin.

One of the most appealing things to me is that this bar models itself on prohibition speakeasies. First off, we had a little trouble finding the place because of its unassuming exterior. The whole area looks rather industrial [auto repair, wholesale carpet stores, etc.] so we were looking for some sort of giant sign. It’s a good thing we had the address handy because when we got there, there was only a modest placard that bore little more than the name of the establishment. There was no menu outside, no window sign, no posted happy hour specials. I was expecting them slide open a little eyehole and ask me for a password or a secret handshake. As I was coming up with likely passwords, Heather opened the door and walked inside.

As the hostess asked us how many were in our party, I started blurting out words that I would use as a password if I ran a speakeasy. “Rhubarb…President Warren G. Harding…Pantaloons…” The hostess looked at me funny and then frowned and then showed us to a table. Honestly I would think that this kind of thing happens all the time; it is a speakeasy after all. What's a speakeasy without a secret password? Once our eyes adjusted to the darkened room, we looked over the drink menu. Aside from a few beers and specialty drinks, the menu was pretty sparse. I suppose they figure if we’re savvy enough to find the place, we’re competent enough to order a drink.

I ordered the Queen’s Park Swizzle (see: last weeks blog) and it tasted remarkably similar to the one I made myself; at least I know I’m doing it right. Heather’s first round was a Separatist, a cocktail of bourbon, amaro ciociaro (a bittersweet digestif liqueur,) lemon juice, sugar and blood orange served in a highball glass. The result was a dark, fruity, rich cocktail that was right up her alley—right up to the moment she dropped the drink and the glass shattered on the table. As the great poet William Carlos Williams once remarked, “Condensation is indeed a cruel mistress.” He may not have said that, but he might have if he ever awkwardly dropped a spirited beverage. Think about it.

Fortunately for us, the staff cleaned it up in a timely fashion and brought her another one at no extra charge—score one for service. She apologized as the new one was brought out and the bartender said, “No problem, just don’t throw this one across the room.”—Score one for sarcasm. I must say, the staff was very accommodating, the bathrooms were nice (a stack of cloth hand towels; what am I, the Pope?) and the drinks were reasonably priced (nine bucks a pop, not bad for New York.)

For our next round, Heather got a Buccaneer’s Daisy, a blend of spiced rum, grand marnier, lemon juice and orange juice served in a cocktail glass. I, being the adventurous sort, challenged the bartender to surprise me. I am not the type of person who goes into bars and does that, but it was advertised on the menu so I figured it was a point of pride and not one of annoyance. I don’t know what the drink was called but I was told it was a daiquiri served neat and modified with apricot liqueur. It was sweet and chill and Heather actually preferred it to her own drink so we traded off. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I capped the night with an IPA on tap (three drinks in one night, and it’s not even my birthday.) We live only one subway stop away so the ride home is a breeze.

I believe I am a fan of the modern day speakeasy. You get all the fun of sneaking drinks in a darkened room with old-timey and eccentric surroundings while not running the risk of a raid or having your drink fortified with varnish. If you want varnish in your drink, you have to go home and do it yourself.* I will say this though: We are experiencing a resurgence of an extreme economic depression and a renewed popularity of speakeasies. If history is any indicator we can look forward to the escalation of a global war and a robot that can smoke a cigarette. Drink up young people. It's going to be one hell of a ride.

*I probably don’t need to say this but we live in a very litigious society. Do not drink varnish. It is poison and will kill you. Besides, turpentine is where it’s at.**

**Also a joke.