Cocktail Chatter: Pink Gin

By Ed Sikov

Straight gin has such a degenerate reputation that to drink it without mixing in some other ingredient is to invite either derision or an intervention. I have no idea why. Straight up, on the rocks, or neat, asking for nothing but gin simply isn’t done in public, and pouring a glass at home makes many people so self-conscious that they begin to think they can actually feel the cirrhosis nodules beginning to grow in their livers. Drinking straight gin is the kind of thing folks do with the blinds drawn.

This is sad and quite needless. Juniper-flavored alcohol has a long, formerly proud history as a tonic. Monks made it, for God’s sake – literally. People in the Dark Ages made that drab era a little lighter with it; they drank it as a way of warding off the Plague. Of course it didn’t really work to that end, but gin did make one’s buboes seem a great deal less repulsive for the brief period between their onset and the drinker’s unpleasant and smelly demise. Buboes are best experienced through a gin haze – on that I think we can all agree.

The 17th century, when gin was flavored with turpentine, will not be elaborated upon here except to note that the phase didn’t last long.

Juniper berries returned as the primary flavoring soon thereafter, though today’s premium brands often feature such an array of secondary essences that the roster resembles the ingredients in high-end organic shampoo. Beefeater gin, for example, features not only juniper but also eight other botanicals: the seeds and root of angelica, licorice, almonds, oranges, lemon peel and everybody’s favorite, orris root.

What the hell is orris root? Orris happens to be one of the “notes” in Yves Saint Laurent’s perfume Opium. It’s flowery, and heavily so when sniffed on its own. And apparently witches use it to pry into other people’s subconscious. (Note to readers: If someone you know – say, your mother – wears Opium, be very wary of having even the slightest contact with her, or else your wonderfully filthy fantasy life will be an open book.)

Which brings us to the subject of this column: Pink Gin. Tailor made for lesbian and gay drinkers, Pink Gin is even closer to straight gin than a martini is. Even the driest martinis have something in them besides the main ingredient. Pink Gin, on the other hand, contains nothing but straight gin that is faintly colored by the addition of Angostura bitters.

What’s in Angostura bitters? According to Rachel Maddow, who knows everything worth knowing, the recipe is such a secret that only five people on the planet know it. All the rest of us know is that it’s a tincture of herbs and spices that originated in Venezuela in the 19th century. One of the great Latin American liberator Simon Bolivar’s doctors cooked it up; he may have based his highly guarded recipe on the local Amerindians’ folk medicine. It does not – repeat, not – contain angostura bark, which is poisonous.

Angostura bitters have a very complex taste, one that’s difficult to describe beyond “herbal and spicy.” Easier to describe is the feeling one gets while drinking a Pink Gin – delightful! The botanicals of the gin are well complemented by the bitters. But don’t overdo it. The following recipe creates exactly the right proportion of gin to bitters. And the color is lovely.

Pink Gin

5 dashes Angostura bitters

4 Tbsp. Beefeater gin, chilled

Lemon peel garnish (optional)

Shake 5 dashes of bitters into a chilled cocktail glass. (Bitters bottles have caps similar to Tabasco sauce so you can’t overdo it.) Swirl the bitters around until the glass is coated with it, then toss the excess in the sink. Fill the glass with chilled gin and serve.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: The Gin Rickey

By Ed Sikov

“Whatcha makin’, hot stuff?” I was at the kitchen island mixing an experimental drink; I felt the hand slip around my stomach and jumped slightly before I heard the coo in my ear. Dan never calls me “hot stuff,” so I knew it wasn’t him. But whose hand was suddenly tweaking my right nipple?

“Chipper! You dog!” I gave a slight shiver and felt a certain stirring.

“Seriously, tiger,” Chipper whispered. “Can I try it?”

“My nipple or my drink?” I inquired in a lewd tone. Chipper made a growling noise and started to work on a hickey on my neck. I shook him off, finished making the cocktail and handed it to him. Wasting no time, he took a sizeable gulp.

“Yikes!” he said. “That’s strong! Strong but good! What’s it called?”

“Loooo-cyyyyy?!” was my response.

“The Ethel?”

“Good guess, but no. Not ‘The Ethel.’ Close, though.”

“Certainly not ‘The Fred.’ Not even you would name a drink ‘The Fred.’”

“Indeed not,” I sniffed. “Not ‘The Fred.’”

“The Ricky?”

“Right!” I cried. “You win the prize,” at which point I whirled around and grabbed his nuts. Of course that was precisely the moment for Dan to make his pointless entrance.

“I’m not jealous. You can have him,” he said to Chipper as he continued past the kitchen and into the living room. There is little more deflating than having one’s husband offer you to the nearest mouth.

Chipper and I moved away from each other quickly; our illicit fondling had been killed before it got interesting.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a Gin Rickey. What do you think?”

“It’s fabulous!” Chipper enthused. “What’s in it?”

“Gin and lime juice and seltzer and that’s all, except for the ice.”

“Wait a minute,” Chipper said. “I thought that was a Collins.”

“Good catch, shortstop!” I said. “A Rickey is a Collins without sugar and with lime juice instead of lemon. But like a Collins, a Rickey can be made with….”

“… various kinds of liquors.” Dan was finishing my sentence for me. “Rum, bourbon, even Scotch.”

“Very good,” I said with a certain edge to my voice. “Would you like me to throw one in your face?”

“No, thank you, darling dearest,” Dan coolly replied. “Just make me a standard Gin Rickey, and don’t be stingy with the gin.” The nerve of some people!

The Gin Rickey

3 Tbsp. Beefeater gin

2 Tbsp. lime juice, either bottled or fresh (1 lime’s worth, if the lime is juicy)

Seltzer

Lime wedge garnish (optional)

Put some ice in a highball glass (a tumbler); add the gin, juice and seltzer in that order. That’s all, folks!

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: Rimming

By Ed Sikov

“I can’t talk to you now. I’m rimming.” Dan was obviously aghast. There was a momentary pause on the line, after which he said only, “Who?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter!” I cried in triumph. “It’s not that kind of rimming.”

“What other kind is there?” he asked warily.

“I’m creating decorative and tasty rims on cocktail glasses. You know, like salt on a margarita?”

“Very funny,” he muttered, clearly indicating that he didn’t find my little joke even half as amusing as I did. “I’ll be home in an hour.” Then he hung up.

The truth of the matter is that I was initially inspired by a very, uh, captivating porn video I’d watched a few days earlier. To be a bit confessional here, the actual practice of rimming has never appealed to me. Before. Then I saw these two most attractive young men appear to be enjoying themselves fully, executing their task with vigor. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. And that’s saying something, because having been a video porn reviewer earlier in my checkered career, I have seen so much bad porn that it usually does absolutely nothing for me now. (I wrote for the late, lamented Inches magazine under the by-line “Joe McKenna,” which was Doris Day’s character’s name in The Man Who Knew Too Much; I added the e to “Jo” to make it conform to gender norms.)

It was through this filth that I got to musing on the word “rimming,” and in a flash of pure inspiration, I realized I had the subject of my next column. Why stop at salt for margaritas? There are many things you can use to beautify and spice up the edge of a cocktail glass. So I began experimenting.

The liquor cabinet was running low, so I was forced to use my imagination; I employed only a bunch of clean glasses, a saucer full of water and several small plates. A quick tour of my spice cabinet produced an array of spices and seasonings that I paired with imaginary cocktails. I suppose a wealthier cocktails columnist would have made real cocktails to try out the various rims I created, but stocking the liquor cabinet and refrigerator for all the following drinks would have meant going without food for a few days. I’m certain these combinations will work. I wouldn’t print them if I had any doubts.

Multicolored Pepper Rim
Hand-grind a saucer full of multicolored peppercorns. Take a tall tumbler, dip it in the water, and then in the ground pepper. Voila! Here you have the perfect topper for a Bloody Mary. Variation: shake some hot pepper flakes onto the peppercorns for a spicier crust, but don’t overdo it.

Cracked Fennel Rim
Either buy cracked fennel from Penzey’s spices or crush some whole fennel seeds in a mortal and pestle and dip your wetted glass into a saucerful of fennel. This would make a great Bloody Mary crust, too, as well as an interesting rim for plain frozen Absolut or the caraway flavored liquor, Aquavit. Cumin seeds would work just as well.

Sugar Rim
Pour some granulated sugar or superfine sugar onto a plate, and dip a tumbler in to form a sugar crust for a screwdriver or a Madras or a Watermelon or even a Manhattan, as long as you decrease the amount of sweet vermouth in the Manhattan to keep the drink from being cloying.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: The Caiprinha

By Ed Sikov

“Portuguese is easy,” Chipper explained. “All you do is speak Spanish through your nose.”

Hilarity ensued. “That’s so bogus,” Craig managed to get out through heaves of laughter. The other boys – Dan, Paolo and me – were too convulsed to say anything.

“No, really!” Chipper insisted, and he proceeded to demonstrate: “¡Buenos dias!” he cried while holding his nostrils shut. It was certainly adenoidal, but Portuguese it wasn’t.

“I happen to know a bit of Portuguese,” Paolo announced, “and that’s not the way you say ‘good day’ in Portuguese. It’s ‘bom dia.’”

“That’s what I said!” Chipper protested to no success. “Comeme!” he snarled, once again pinching his nostrils and sending the rest of us into spastic fits of amusement.

We were enjoying this especially inane discussion on the Saturday evening of a lovely spring weekend at Fire Island Pines; we’d all gotten together to open the beach house and launch another glorious season of hot sand, hot men, and – as far as Chipper was concerned – hot air. The particular topic suggested itself because I’d stopped at the amazingly well-stocked Pines Liquor Store and picked up a bottle of cachaça, the Brazilian firewater distilled from sugar cane. In Rio they practically give it away, it’s so cheap. The Pines Liquor Store charged a bit more, but it was worth it.

Cachaça is very, very strong. Drinking it neat would be asking for trouble – big-time trouble. It really must be mixed with something else to be palatable. Thus the Brazilian national cocktail, the caiprinha. (It’s pronounced KYE-pa-REEN-ya.)

To make a round of great caiprinhas, you need a lot of very juicy limes. This can be a problem in most of the United States and Canada, because in all but the warmest locations, limes are shipped to stores on the basis of their appearance, not their taste. How many times have you grabbed what looks like a perfectly ripe lime and sliced it open only to find desiccated, lifeless pulp? For this reason, I recommend that you augment your fresh limes with bottled lime juice. You’ll get whatever fresh flavor your limes will yield – and the rind is actually full of flavor and aroma – but you won’t be dependent on the probably low quality of the fruit inside.

Another peculiarity of the caiprinha is the fact that it’s better when the sugar you add doesn’t dissolve entirely, thereby giving the cocktail a slight crunch. Usually I recommend using superfine sugar when mixing drinks. (And to really milk the experience for all it’s worth, you have to say “superfine” the way the guy says “Super Fly” in the theme song from that great blaxploitation film from 1972.) But superfine sugar dissolves completely, and you don’t want that in your classic caiprinha. There should be a granular quality in each sip, if for no other reason than to remind you that you’re drinking sugar can liquor. Here’s the classic caiprinha recipe, modified to increase the lime juice by way of a bottle:

The Caiprinha

1 lime

1 ½ tsp. sugar

1 tsp. lime juice

3 Tbsp. cachaça

Slice the lime into quarters, and place the quarters pulp side up in a wide glass. Add the sugar and lime juice, the mash the lime quarters down with a pestle or other similar muddler. Add the cachaça and crushed ice and stir. Do not remove the lime pieces from the drink; this cocktail should have a rustic quality.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: The Greyhound

By Ed Sikov

“I can’t believe you’re serving us a drink named after a bus line.” This was going to be a long night. Craig was in one of his moods, and it seemed as though nothing anyone could say or do was going to make things any better. “It’s not ‘named after a bus line,’” I snapped. “It’s a classic cocktail named after….” I had to stop the sentence in midstream because I had no idea why the drink was called a greyhound.

“There! You see?” Craig cried triumphantly. “It was named after a bus line! How very middle America of you. Woman of the masses! Everygal! You think just because you’re serving a drink named after a bus line you’re connected to ‘the people.’ Well, you’re not. You’re still a prissy little snob.”

“Craig, dear,” I began in my calmest available tone. “We love you and all that, but shut the hell up. Do you want a greyhound or don’t you? That’s what the bar is serving this evening, and if you don’t like it, you can shove it up your….”

“Ladies,” Dan interrupted. “Ladies, please!”

“You’re no better,” Craig said turning his venomous attention to Dan. “In fact, in certain ways you’re worse.”

“Name one,” Dan challenged.

“First of all, your many Harvard degrees are tiresome, especially when you bring them up, which is once a day if we’re lucky.”

Dan looked stricken. He knew Craig was right. Fortunately for us, Craig paused and reached for the glass I was proffering, took a big gulp, and suddenly looked like he’d just been given the keys to heaven. “This is good,” he announced. “What’s in it?”

I had a momentary urge to make up a list of fake ingredients, but I chose the path of honesty instead. “Vodka and grapefruit juice, with a hint of orange Curacao. It’s basically a screwdriver with a citrus cousin.”

Craig polished off his greyhound in just shy of 90 seconds and asked for another. Dan glared at me as if to say “Don’t you dare,” but the drink seemed to be taming Craig’s inner rhinoceros, and I was glad to serve him anything as long as he stopped being so obnoxious.

“Am I obnoxious?” Craig asked in an abrupt change of disposition.

“I wouldn’t say ‘obnoxious,’” I said, lying through my teeth. “You’re, you’re, um, opinionated.”

Craig looked pensive, as though he’d just been handed an enormous box of assorted chocolates and was deciding which one to start with. “I just say what I feel,” he said mildly. “That you do,” I concurred. “That you do.”

The Greyhound

Absolut premium vodka

Grapefruit juice

A small splash of Orange Curacao (optional)

Like the screwdriver, much depends on the quality of grapefruit juice you use. Tropicana makes a delicious grapefruit juice that tastes almost as though the juice has been freshly squeezed. All you do to make this cocktail is pour the Absolut over some ice and fill the glass with grapefruit juice. If you decide to add the Curacao, do it after the vodka but before the juice. (It mixes better that way.) Stir. Serve.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: Above and Beyond

By Ed Sikov

My brother-in-law introduced me to a new liqueur last week – well, new to me, anyway. It’s an Italian aperitif called Aperol, and it’s quite delicious. Think Campari, but with less alcohol. According to Wikipedia, Aperol’s flavors include bitter orange, rhubarb, gentian and cinchona.

What’s that you say? You’ve never even heard of either gentian or cinchona? Well, my dears! Step out of ignorance and into the light of knowledge! (Truth alert: I had never heard of them either and had to look them up on – where else? – Wikipedia. Gentian is derived from the root of a flowering Alpine herb; cinchona is an Andean plant that serves as a source of quinine.)

My aforementioned brother-in-law, Paul, used Aperol as one ingredient in a delicious cocktail named “Il Sorpasso.” He’d found the recipe in the New York Times. Perhaps needless to say, I was confident I could improve on the recipe, so I’ve been experimenting with proportions in an effort to make the cocktail less sugary. I’ve come up with a more balanced drink – to my taste, at least. But for history’s sake, I’ve included the original recipe as well. In short, I eliminated the extra sugar but kept the original honey. I also dislike club soda because it has an unnecessary touch of salt, so I use sparkling water instead – and less of it. Finally, I find recipes that lurch from ounces to teaspoons and back again to be a huge pain in the ass. We aren’t all human conversion calculators! So in my version I use standard kitchen equipment: a measuring cup and a teaspoon.

I’m certain you’re all wondering what “il sorpasso” means in English. Translated without regard to the way any of us actually talk, “il sorpasso” means that which is surpassing. In consultation with my multilingual pal Steve, who lives in Rome when he’s not living in Paris (don’t you just hate him already?), I’ve come up with a looser, more fluid (if you will) translation: _Above and Beyond_. This cocktail is certainly that. It’s got the booziness of bourbon, the bitter orange of Aperol, a whiff of herbs, and a faint kiss of honey. It’s a winner.

“Il Sorpasso” (From the New York Times)

1 oz Aperol

1 oz bourbon

3/4 tsp honey

1 tsp lemon juice

1/4 tsp sugar

2 oz club soda

Combine everything but the club soda in a cocktail shaker and shake; pour over ice, then add the club soda and an orange slice to garnish.

The Above and Beyond (my adaptation)

¼ cup Aperol

¼ cup bourbon

3/4 tsp honey

1 tsp lemon juice

sparkling water (it only needs a bit to provide fizz)

In a cocktail shaker filled with ice, combine all the ingredients except the sparkling water; shake. Strain and pour over fresh ice, then add club soda and – if you’re fond of pieces of fruit batting against your face when you sip – an orange slice for garnish.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: Pisco Punch

By Ed Sikov

Call me the Pisco Kid. Yes, I’m still on a Pisco kick. The attentive reader will recall that my last Cocktail Chatter column concerned the Peruvian firewater called Pisco, a delicious and hard-knockin’ brandy distilled from Muscat grapes. Research into the drink’s history yielded the unexpected information that a punch made out of Pisco and pineapple syrup was San Francisco’s most fashionable cocktail in the late 1800s. Nowadays, the Pisco Sour appears more often on cocktail lists than Pisco Punch, so I decided to take the more adventurous route and make a round of the punch for Dan and me.

Well, sports fans, it was a punch in both senses of the word. The cocktail knocked us off our feet. We ended up ordering Chinese delivery for dinner, because after a couple of these babies neither one of us was capable of cooking. Besides, given the alcohol on our breath, lighting the cooktop would have put us at risk of blowing up the kitchen. Like Planters’ Punch, Pisco Punch is so delightfully drinkable that you don’t know you’re getting snockered until it’s too late to do much about it. Do not – I repeat, do not – go to the trouble of creating a multi-course meal if you’re planning to serve Pisco Punch as le cocktail du nuit. By the time you’re ready to serve your laboriously created Beef Wellington your guests won’t care if you served them Alpo straight from the can.

Here’s both the classic recipe and my time-saving and less watered-down variation.

Pisco Punch (The Classic Version)

Cut a fresh pineapple into chunks, or – better – buy a container of cut-up fresh pineapple, and place the chunks in a larger sealable plastic container along with 1/2 cup of Really Simple syrup.* Refrigerate overnight so that the fruit macerates. The next day, mix the following in a cocktail shaker or pitcher for each portion you plan to serve:

2 TBS pineapple-infused simple syrup from the container of pineapple

4 TBS filtered water

3 TBS lemon juice

6 TBS Pisco Portón

Refrigerate the shaker or pitcher until you’re ready to serve the drink. Do not serve the punch on ice unless you haven’t chilled the punch enough; it shouldn’t be watery. Serve with a chunk of pineapple in each glass.

*Note: Simple Syrup is a pain to make the classic way; it’s much easier to mix equal parts of sugar and water in a jar, put the lid on the jar, and shake it till the sugar is dissolved.


Pisco Punch (My Quicker, Punchier Variation)

Buy a can of pineapple chunks in syrup. In a cocktail shaker or pitcher, mix the following ingredients for each portion:

2 TBS pineapple syrup from the can


3 TBS lemon juice


6 TBS Pisco Portón

Chill the cocktail thoroughly in the refrigerator before serving; again, do not serve over ice. And forget the chunk of pineapple stuck in the glass since it’s just going to take up space that would be better served by the cocktail itself. Moreover, you don’t really want to see your guests digging the thing out of their glasses with their fingers and then wiping their sticky hands on your nice throw pillows.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: ¡Oh, Pisco!

By Ed Sikov

“Oh, Pancho!” “Oh, Pisco!” I knew I was being annoying, but that only spurred me on.

“Oh, Pancho!” “Oh, Pisco!” My Mexican accent was becoming broader and more offensive with every iteration. 

“Oh, Pancho!” Oh, P…”

“Stop it. Now. If you say that irritating thing one more time I swear I’m going to pick you up and defenestrate you.” Despite his excellent word choice, this was a surprising threat of violence coming from Dan, who usually assumes the Longsuffering Husband perspective and simply sighs with resignation. 

“It’s classic television history,” I sniffed, taking the pedantic perspective and feeling suddenly huffy and put-out. “Didn’t you ever watch The Cisco Kid?”

“The Cisco Kid?!” he said with a tone of stupefaction. “When was that even on? 1940?  Even you, Methuselah, are too young for The Cisco Kid.”

“No need to turn personal,” I chided. “If it weren’t for me and my nerdy friends, the entire history of television would evaporate just like this.” I made a dramatic poofing sound and looked outraged.

“OK, forget it. I know when I’m licked.”

“Grrrr, tiger!” I said and made an obscene licking gesture with my tongue.

“What is wrong with you?” He turned and quickly headed to his computer. Having had my audience walk out on me, I had no choice but to return to the kitchen and resume my exploration into the liquor called Pisco.

Pisco is a type of brandy that is fermented only in Chile and Peru. These two nations have been feuding with each other for literally centuries over which one may claim to be the original birthplace of the brandy. Pisco Punch, which is made of course from Pisco, comes to us however from San Francisco, where it had the reputation of being the most fashionable of that city’s cocktails in the late 1800. You may also have heard of the cocktail called the Pisco Sour. It was invented in Lima, Peru, and there appears to be no international kerfuffle over that fact.

I began my own Pisco explorations by drinking it by itself, neat. Pisco Portón, the brand I chose, is fine enough to drink solo; I can’t vouch for any rotgut Piscos one might find at the local liquor store in the States or some roadhouse in Peru.

It’s got a kick to it, this Pisco stuff! Reminiscent of grappa, it’s got a healthy burn when it hits the mouth, but it immediately blossoms into a faint fruit taste – in this case, the Muscat grapes, which serve as the liquor’s source. It goes down easy, if you like it a bit rough. I mean to say, Pisco is a drinking person’s drink when consumed by itself. It’s the kind of thing of which people remark, “That’ll put hair on your chest.” I’ve been counting new ones on mine all week.

Pisco Neat:

Just pour a healthy amount of room-temperature Pisco into a liqueur glass or brandy snifter. I recommend Pisco Portón.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: The Pickleback

By Ed Sikov

“Are you pregnant?” Dan asked me the other day. 

“I’m not sure,” I said through the chomp of a pickle – my third in so many minutes – “but I rather doubt it.” It’s true that Dan and I have been experimenting sexually lately, but I am confident that nothing we’ve tried would result in either one of us having been impregnated.

“So what’s with the pickle obsession?”

“I question the word obsession,” I said after another satisfying crunch. “It’s not as though I’m serving you pickle souffles or pickle-tofu casseroles.”

“You have successfully turned my stomach,” Dan noted with a sour expression on his face. I curtsied and headed back to the refrigerator for another pickle. “It’s wintertime,” I yelled from the kitchen. “Time to eat preserves and pickles! I think they’re supposed to have a lot of Vitamin C.” I pulled this theory out of my, um, head. Hey, it sounded plausible.

“You pulled that out of your ass,” Dan countered. “It’s more likely that you’re pregnant.”

I shrugged. What difference did it make if I was hauling Claussen’s pickles home by the case? There are worse vices, I thought to myself.

That’s when inspiration struck: a pickle juice cocktail! I was elated. I’d just invented a hip new drink! It would be an instant sensation – I’d be famous, albeit briefly and only in limited circles. So I hurried to the computer, went online to check whether indeed I’d come up with something new, and was immediately crushed to discover that I’d been beaten to the punch. Apparently “The Pickleback” is already a hipster hit.

The recipe is quite simple, but it’s also needlessly exacting in its ingredients: A Pickleback is a shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey followed by a shot of pickle juice. Although it was only 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoon, I had to have one immediately. Fortunately, we had most of a fifth of Jameson, and of course I had more than enough pickle juice. 

Usually I drink Jameson – and all whiskeys, Scotches, and bourbons – on the rocks, but the Pickleback demanded that the shot be served neat. I eagerly poured a shot glass full of Jameson and a twin glass full of pickle juice. (I strained out the bits of garlic and spices with a tea strainer.) I didn’t bring them into the living room, knowing I’d just end up being the brunt of Dan’s mockery, but instead downed both shots while standing at the kitchen counter. The Pickleback was delicious! The smooth, sweet whiskey found its soul mate in, of all things, salty-sour pickle brine! Who knew?

I’ve subsequently experimented with other whiskeys and even bourbon; they all work. Why the recipe specifies Jameson is unclear. It’s a great combination, but so is Jack Daniels and pickle juice, Knob Creek and pickle juice, and so on.

My stealthily created Pickleback, safe from Dan’s critical eye, enabled me to make another one of them without his knowing, so I was a bit looped when I emerged from the kitchen smacking my lips. Dan noticed my heavy-lidded eyes immediately. “Better watch the hooch, honey,” he advised. “It’s not good for the baby.”

The Pickleback

1 shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey (or any sweet bourbon or sour mash)

1 shot of chilled, strained pickle juice (I recommend Claussen’s)

Down them in order. Then make another set. Serve, of course, with pickles.

Ed Sikov is the author of the e-book, The Boys' and Girls' Little Book of Alcohol, a novel with recipes based on his Cocktail Chatter column.

Cocktail Chatter: Without Ice, Part 1

  By Ed Sikov

“What did you drink during the Great Blackout, Daddy?” It’s just too bad I don’t have kids! If I did, they’d ask this crucial question around the age of 6, when their dawning awareness of history’s imperative met their equally fresh-awakened interest in their father’s love of a dwinkie. Maybe it’s just as well I’m childless. In any event, Hurricane Sandy is beginning to fade into the mists of the past, but your intrepid columnist is still musing on Sandy’s effect on his cocktail hour. Hours. Days. Whatever.

As you may recall, Dan and I spent the night the hurricane slammed ashore without electricity drinking Kirs Royale while fondly remembering the superb casting of the old sitcom The Mothers-in-Law, with two inimitable gay demi-icons – Kaye Ballard and Eve Arden – playing the title roles. We could enjoy the Kirs Royale only because the lights went out after we’d opened the champagne; our first round was thus properly chilled. By the time we’d polished off the bubbly, we no longer cared that it was nearing room temperature.

The ensuing four nights and days without power would have been hell on earth were it not for the fact that certain types of liquor can, and sometimes should, be consumed at 70 to 75 degrees. While others were scurrying around Manhattan buying superfluous items like batteries and bottled water, I concentrated my emergency preparations on procuring enough booze to see us through the storm and its aftermath. That’s just a joke. Although Dan makes fun of the Spam I keep on hand, the truth is that I’ve kept our apartment stocked with batteries, water, canned goods, and candles and the equally mandatory liquor ever since 9/11. Only on Day 2 of Sandy did I realize that our ice supply had
melted. Quelle horreur! Also: Duh!

What doesn’t require ice? Well, Scotch and whiskey for starters. We had more than enough on hand to keep us toasted and toasty after the sun went down. The apartment was a little chilly without our usual central heating, but after we each had a hefty dram of The Glenlivet, we warmed up just fine.

Some Scotch connoisseurs insist that the best way to enjoy the classic whiskey is not, in fact, neat – at room temperature without the addition of a mixer – but with a single ice cube. This delivery method is said to open the Scotch’s bouquet. I think they may be right, but there’s something to be said for the pleasant kick to the nose and tongue offered by plain, unadulterated Scotch. It grabs your full attention in a way that a one-ice-cubed drink does not. It’s like smelling salts, only pleasant. For this reason, I like to serve Scotch neat in a big-bowled wine glass or brandy snifter.

Try it. Pour a healthy jigger of your favorite Scotch into such a glass. Hold it between your third and fourth fingers with your palm cupping the bowl so the heat of your hand warms the contents slightly. Then shove your nose into the glass and inhale. Ahhhhh! That’ll wake you up!

Snob that I am, I prefer single malt Scotch to blends; I like the raw, individualistic character single malts present to the mouth. The Glenlivet, Aberlour, Talisker, Oban, Longmore, Strathisla, Redbreast…. They’re all quite delicious and run the range from peaty to smoky. 

These single malts tend to be pricier than blends. The exception is Chivas Regal, the best blend insofar as easy drinkability is concerned. (Then again there’s the rare Royal Salute, a scrumptious blend that’s been aged for 25 years; I’ve seen it offered on the Internet for as much as $179.99. It’s not surprising to learn that Royal Salute is made by the bonnie folks who produce Chivas.) So next time you find yourself in the path of a hurricane, make sure you’ve stocked some Scotch. Ye can tell your wee bairn that – och! – ye was prepared for the blackout, an’ it dinna faze ye at all.

Cocktail Chatter: The Hairy Navel

By Ed Sikov

Hairy navels make my mouth water. I’m referring to guys’ belly buttons here, not the cocktail. (I’ll get around to that in a minute.) I’d go so far as to say that a hairy navel is my favorite part of the male anatomy. My fascination with fuzzy abs far exceeds my interest in more obvious erogenous zones, and despite many years pondering my own, I still have no clear idea why. Is my attraction to men’s stomach hair rooted in the fact that women don’t have it? No. After all, women don’t have penises, either. (News bulletin! Stop the presses! Your intrepid columnist has just discovered something big!) And unlike some of my gay brethren, I’m not averse to women’s bodies at all. 

Another explanation: Shirtless guys were all over the place when I was a kid, and I eroticized what I could see. The locker room at the local swimming pool was a terrifying space, so I avoided looking around as guys of all ages changed in and out of their swimsuits. But out by the pool I could stare slack-jawed at swim-trunked high school boys making out with their girlfriends in the broad daylight. Those boys were hot! And the ones I most wanted to see up close were those that had a fresh, new field of boy hair on their chests and stomachs. I was captivated.

And TV offered up a buffet of beefcake on a daily basis. I’d be watching some western when all of a sudden some cowboy’s arms were being held behind his back and another cowboy would walk up and rip his shirt open. I’d be riveted with delight, especially if the guy had hair on his torso. Freud would have said that I was displacing my desire for dick – that I couldn’t deal with what I really wanted, so I sublimated that attraction into something less threatening. 

I’ve been mulling this over for a week now. Dan and I had dinner last Friday with a guy I knew from childhood and his partner. Billy and I reconnected on Facebook, and we met at a restaurant in midtown. The cocktail menu listed the Hairy Navel, and I couldn’t help but order one. Dan was appalled.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m stone cold serious,” I replied. 

“He never orders stuff like this,” Dan informed Billy and Dave. “What’s gotten into you?”

I found this annoying. Yes, I do tend to reject cocktails that veer to the sweet side. But cripe! Can’t a guy order a Hairy Navel without his husband making a federal case out of it?

I responded too personally, I admit: “Since you shaved your entire chest and stomach last weekend without even informing me of the decision – and I do have a stake in the matter – I decided to drown my sorrows in the only kind of hairy navel I’ll get to taste for the next month.”

“Are there no boundaries with you?” he asked.

“Look!” Billy suddenly declared. “No, look here!” Dave echoed. They each pulled up their matching rugby shirts to expose two of the hairiest navels I’ve seen in a long time. 

“I’m a married man,” I protested with not much enthusiasm. And wouldn’t you know? When our server – clearly an aspiring actor, judging by his flawless physique – came over with our check, he asked, “Is there anything more I can do for you?” and yanked up his tight black T-shirt to expose one of the finest hairy navels I have ever scene. 

Narcisstic show-off. So hot. So unavailable. I tipped him 40 percent.

The Hairy Navel

1 oz. Absolut premium vodka

1 oz. peach schnapps

Orange juice to taste.

Fill a glass with ice, add all the ingredients, and stir.

Cocktail Chatter: Dill-Vodka Martini

By Ed Sikov

When we left our hero, he had just ruined yet another dinner party with a rare but deadly combination of bad memory and gracious seasonal taste. I had made dill-infused vodka and served it to a good friend who, I’d forgotten, had auditioned for the role of Dill in the film adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird and, having not gotten the part, has spent the rest of his life in mortal dread of the very word dill, let alone the herb it signifies. I mentioned that the dilled vodka was delicious, and I gave instructions on how to make it, but the following weekend’s (shall we say) full-throated reception of the cocktails I made from it was so overwhelmingly positive I’ve actually decided to expand on the recipe and offer one particular suggestion for a cocktail to make with it.

I acknowledge that I’m not the world’s most humble human being; I can be quite a blowhard sometimes. But I must say plainly and simply that dill-infused vodka is by far the best drink I’ve ever made, and it was greeted as such by our housemates last weekend. They polished off practically the whole fifth in less than an hour. I barely had enough to experiment with, and I wanted to create a martini-like cocktail using the infusion as the base. I snatched the bottle right out of Craig’s pudgy fist to get the last ounce before he gulped it down.

“Heyyyyyy!” he whined.

“Hay is for horses, dear,” I clucked. “How many times must I tell you? What would Princess Grace say if you were at the palace and said ‘hey’ at the dinner table?”

“Outa my way, Letitia!” Craig side-butted me and sent me flying into the refrigerator. He attempted to grab the vodka bottle but I held firm. “Oh, why are you such a douchebag?”

“Douchebag?” I said it as though I was a Harvard anthropologist quoting another anthropologist’s study of self-reporting users of vulgarities in Appalachia. “I simply want enough to try a recipe….”

“Which you naturally will drink yourself,” Craig batted back. ‘OK, fine. Have it your way. You always do. What’s Dr. Mengele’s experiment this weekend?”

“A variation on the martini….”

“A Dill-Tini! Wait, no. A Dill-a-Tini! Or for you a Dill-a-Tante-Tini!”

I was putting my concentration toward measuring a tiny amount of dry vermouth, not Craig’s chatter, so I didn’t hear Dan and Paolo and Chipper come into the room. Their sudden barks of laughter caught me off guard and I nearly dropped the shot glass.

“You know that I hate those stupid ‘tini’ suffixes,” I said huffily. “I’m not inventing the best cocktail of my career only to ruin it with a dumbass name.”

“So what are you calling this masterpiece, Dr. Goebbels?”

“The 57.”

“I live with this,” Dan said to no one in particular.

“I’ll bite,” said Chipper. “Why?”

“It’s an homage to the Heinz pickle. The garni is a cornichon or two. Dill? Pickle? Dill? Pickle? Get it? Heinz 57?”

“We’re so lucky to have you in our lives,” I wish somebody had said. But they all turned and went their separate ways. I downed the tiny 57 and felt just fine.

The 57

1 fifth Absolut premium vodka

1 bunch dill, washed and dried

dry vermouth to taste

cornichon for garnish

Make the infusion: stick the dill in the vodka, leave it alone for two days, then remove it; this is easy to do if you leave the stems sticking out the top of the bottle and cover it all with plastic wrap. Put the cap back on and stick the bottle in the freezer.

Make the 57s: Just make a vodka martini according to your own taste using the dill infusion and dry vermouth; I like a 4-1 ratio. Rinse a few cornichons under water and dry them on paper towels; drop a few into your finished drinks and serve.