“And then he goes off on one of those run on sentences that little kids often do. Sometimes little kids are every bit as good as William Faulkner” – Jonathan Kozol.
Last night Jonathan Kozol was in town, which caused several individual bits of brain matter to have repeated orgasms. As they were unable to believe the fortune that had fallen upon their laps with the opportunity to hear the God of Pedagogy speak in the flesh. So they did what any obedient brain matter would do, they soaked up every bit of information and laughed heartily at anecdotes of the failures of education policy.
And this is how a week of complete nerdgasm ended. With my final, “Guess who I saw?!?!” and everyone surrounding me giving their best “I could give two shits” look of complete incredulity. It’s been fun to be bouncing off the walls because Anil effing Dash was three feet in front of my face and Jon and I had a nice chat about my shot put abilities and I knew David Paterson before he was famous. And yes this is all so very titillating (apparently it’s sexual innuendo day in these parts) to like 17 people. The rest of the free world questions if at any moment I had had more than three drinks. Funny! Because 90% of my OH you think I’m a complete DORK? I’ll show you complete DORK to the 89th power, week of fun was not so proudly powered by grey goose. In fact Tuesday night, when the BFFE came to town, my main and only course at dinner was vodka.
This my friends is the week that I realized that a) I will get sick of drinking. So sick in fact that if anyone at anytime in the next 24 hours presents me with any sort of alcohol, well, I cannot be held responsible for what I might do to that person. And b) Holy shit, I am such a flaming dork. So flaming that one might think that pocket protectors are going to shoot out of my ass.
I now need a nap. A very, very long nap. And if anyone feels moved to ask me about wine, then be prepared to lose an appendage.
French 75
“Everybody should believe in something; I believe I’ll have another drink. ” ~Author Unknown
Many many moons ago a group of us had drinks at the Warwick hotel in Manhattan. And like any other evening of drinks with girlfriends, we sat among each other laughing and catching up until the server arrived. The server, I still remember as he served two of us again months later, asked for our drink orders – and so far all of this very typical night out – and that is when dear Alexa chimed in that I should try the French 75. What could that be? I wondered out loud and read the description of gin, champagne and a little bit of sugar. Why yes! I exclaimed. For it was a balmy summer evening, I shall have one of those. Moments later the server returned with a champagne flute full of my drink. I put the glass to my lips as my mouth curled into a smile. Oh, that is good. And from there a love was born.
Later in the summer while in New Orleans and then Seattle I was surprised at the popularity of the French 75. Why yes, all bartenders responded, of course I can make that. And if you’re looking for true excitement, said a waitress in Seattle, We also have the Seattle 75 and Seattle 76. It seems they like to mix things up when mixing things up in Seattle. With each sip out of a flute and with my pinkie up, I spent two weeks of the summer drinking this divine champagne cocktail accompanied by raw oysters. For two weeks things were delectable.
But oh, there is always a sad bit to every story. In this story it is the return home to a town without oysters. A town that thrived on wings and burgers. Which is fine but I craved. Oh did I crave my French 75. And so to every bar I went asking tip hungry bartenders if they could make me one. What is that, they’d reply. And I’d shrug and request a deep red wine. Forever leaving my mouth unhappy as what it wanted was nowhere near by.
One evening I went to the Volstead. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? A bar in midtown Manhattan. There was a full rager going on there. The weekend had been solid so of course I’d be able to get my drink of choice to end the weekend in style. So I sauntered up to the bar – already full of liquid courage – and asked for a French 75. Hmmm, the bartender said. I’ve never heard of it. I’ll show you! I said eager to see if I could remember and remember I did. Some gin! And then some lemon! Now simple syrup! And shake it! Now pour it into a champagne glass. Pour the champagne on top. Add a twist.
Here, he put the glass towards me and I sipped. So?
Perfect.
I carted my drink around to friend after friend proud of my new skill to remember how to make a drink – or anything for that matter – without having the directions directly in front of my face. I offered sips and each friend found what I had in my hands to be remarkable. Gin? AND Champagne? Who would have thought of this? Surely not I but I was glad to bring it to the masses. Oh and that bartender, he was thrilled. I tipped him 50% and told him to remember me.
Weeks later I was walking from the Upper East Side back in the direction of Midtown and was parched. My iPhone led me to Uncorked where I sat down and politely requested a French 75, please. The bartender said sure. So I sat and we chatted about tattoos and he made me two(!) more.
What follows here are photos of a bartender making a French 75 after you’ve already had a French 75 and this what they call the ‘Lush Effect’ on Hipstamatic:
1 1/2 shots of gin
1/2 shot lemon juice
1/2 shot simple syrup
Shake, shake, shake!
Pour
Add Champagne.
Et voila! Enjoy.
Here’s the recipe on Esquire.