The Perfect G&T

Years ago I swiped a G&T recipe from the NY Times which called for the muddling of lots of lime (5) skins, lots of gin (1 cup), a half liter of Tonic and handfuls (4) of ice.  Simple in the description...

But cutting the pith outta lime is not easy.  I discovered the beak knife does a pretty good job.  It's still a messy proposition but the pay off...

....isn't that great.   Maybe it was the 1.75 liter of gin for $9 I was using.  State Line Liquor (Liquor? I don't even know her!) has a private label for gin and while the label is as cool as all get out -- the gin itself is nothing to write home about. 

Still, this recession ain't over yet.  At least, not for me...So, nine buck gin it is.  Actually, this is the kind of gin you need for a Negroni --  The perfect cocktail for cheap gin but that's another story. 

It's not the time of year for a big Cabernet and a hot tub.  Nope, that ain't gonna cut it.  But a pitcher of this muddled G&T with a good friend in the pool or better, in a cold shower or maybe just between some cool linen sheets.  While it's still day light and you smell of Caswell Massey Lime soap...That's a perfect G&T. 

Manhattan MILF

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Parking Lot Wine Tasting

Croatian Zinfadel

The Echo X-Ray (EX)  installed an 88 bottle wine fridge in our kitchen for my 43rd birthday. It's not everyday a man gets a built in kitchen appliance for his birthday.  I think it had something to do with the Victoria's Secret negligee I gave her on her birthday.

It looked empty and pathetic with less than 40 bottles and so I was going broke trying to keep it full when a buddy told me about Costco's wine deals -- most under ten bucks.  I bought a couple mixed cases only to return a few weeks later and find  the cheap stuff I liked was, according to the articulate young salesman, "Du-huuude, long gone."

I don't like being called, 'Dude' or, Du-huuuude... I don't like people who call other people, 'Dude.' Especially when it's shouted and turned into two syllables, 'DU-HUDE!'  Most annoying because it almost always prefaces the greeting.  Me, I'm more a, 'Man' kinda guy. 'Man' almost always comes at the end of a sentence.  'Good seeing you.  Don't be a stranger, man.'  And it's never turned into two syllables.  How can it be?   'Man' is uttered softly, almost like a Canadian, 'Eh.'

You with me, man?

I went back to Cotsco, this time with a corkscrew and a glass,  and bought another mixed case from the Dude.  I carried the wine out to my car, put the case on the passenger seat, got behind the wheel and started my tasting. Using the parking lot as a giant spit bucket, I went through the case in less than half an hour,  strolled back in the Cotsco and ordered a couple cases of what made my parking lot tasting.  The Dude looked at me oddly...probably my purple teeth. 

The Cold & the Soul: Emilio Ballato

Cab drivers love this weather. Bitter cold but bright without snow or ice. A wind comes around a corner and slaps me in my face and wallet. Easily walked blocks a couple weeks ago turn into, "Are you fucking kidding me?" I hail a cab, jump in and tell the driver, "It's just a few blocks but I'll make it worth your while."

I learned to take the good with the bad in this weather after 20 years in Chicago. It didn't matter how warm you dressed, it was gonna hurt. Brain freeze headaches. Frost bitten ears. Toes and fingers, despite the cashmere, feeling like they were falling off one by one --

But the city is beautiful in this bright Arctic light. Buildings look taller - harder - steadier. Unlike Summer's undulating heat mixing with hot dog water from a cart and a smell coming up from a subway vent that's so bad -- you don't wanna know what it is. You'll walk the five blocks because you can. Heat is annoying but it's not out to hunt you down and kill like Winter.

Soft living in southern places didn't prepare me for Chicago. Just before moving, a buddy looked at my gloves, "You'll have to get rid of those." "Why," I asked, spreading my fine black leather fingers of  lined Brooks Brothers cashmere. "Because," he said, "Those are not Chicago gloves - They're pussy East Coast gloves." He was right.

I walked east on Houston and just before Mott there was a black wrought iron sign looking like something from Europe circa 1780. Severe and purposeful, it's magic worked. Peaking my curiosity, I look at the building it's attached to and see a restaurant window with fat gold script spelling out, "Emilio Ballato."

There's a picture from the '60s over the menu with a recognizable Warhol in line behind an unrecognizable taller man with his back to the camera. A man stops next to me and tells me it's a wonderful place and that I have to try it. He smiles and moves on, like he did his good deed for the day. I shout 'thanks' to his back and frame the photo of Warhol in my camera. I snap the pic and another man stops and tells me what a great place it is and adds that the man's back belongs to Jimi Hendrix.

A minute later, as I peek between the letters and see a long room filled with picture frames and a thick air of years, a woman walks by and without stopping shouts, "It's great." New Yorkers are certainly food and restaurant proud, but this isn't Atlanta or Denver where unsolicited advice to strangers on the street is considered normal and, y'all, friendly.' "Purdy bad weather, huh? Well, you know what they say about Denver -- If you don't like the weather - just wait a few minutes...a ha ha ha..."

I get home and there's a message on the answering machine from The Nephew who's in town from Chicago and looking to buy the Golf Foxtrot (GF) and myself dinner. I get him on the horn and tell him my Ballato story. He tells me he's game... but not to shoot him. A ha ha ha...

Despite having to hang up our own coats, there's a warmness to Ballato I saw from outside. Narrow, but not too close. It's honest looking. Nothing 'Olive Tree' about it. In fact, just saying 'Olive Tree' in this place should be completely horrifying to every civilized guy on earth. We're given some decent tasting tap water and a basket filled with a prosciutto stuffed bread. The Nephew orders a Montepulciano that's earthy and strong while I bogart the bread basket.

We start with grilled octopus. Long sexy lengths of tentacled brilliance tasting more like July than January. Green hunks of Broccoli di Rape, all garlicky with squeezed lemon, join the fork with the octopus. Granted, an Umbrian white would have been my choice but at this point I really don't care, keep my mouth shut and happily drink my red.

Unrushed, the three of us polish off the appetizers and wine. It's here some mention of my discipline must be made. Had I any, I would happily have ended dinner at this point. However, I didn't and three entrees came out and were served so we could share. Two pastas, Spaghetti alla Puttanesca and Tagliatelle alla Bolognese along with a pounded and breaded veal. All of it consumed with a lighter Primitivo from Puglia.

I have a friend from Chicago who told me, "The food's not very good at the Cheesecake Factory but there's lots of it." Just mentioning Cheesecake Factory here should be completely horrifying to every civilized guy reading this but... I do it to make a point. Ballato has that something indescribable and that's so damned hard to fake. Along with the perfect pasta... the veal... was average. Just okay. But who cares. Everything about Ballato was magical.

The three of us huddled in the back of a cab for the long ride up Broadway. The Nephew and GF chatted of work and rents and NYC challenges while I looked out the window and thought of how everything in this city comes at such a high price. The price of living, working and fighting for every scrap. It ain't easy, but I've never seen so much magic anywhere else. As far as values go -- Emilio Ballato's magic comes at a small price. Even more so if your nephew pays and... you can skip the pasta. I've said this many times before and I'll say it again, I may not be able to smoke, drink or screw much longer -- But you gotta eat and there's no city in the world I'd rather do it in.

Trad Xmas List: Flor Rose Prosecco & French Kissing in the USA

Flor Rose Prosecco : Not for your typical Commie

As vulgarity and coarseness become substitutes for wit and taste, it's important to remember that while the Cold War losing Russians & Chinese are buying up most of Manhattan and all reserves of Krug and Cristal, wine doesn't have to be expensive to be rich.

It's been said the Soviet Union went broke trying to keep up in the Cold War. That might stem from a poor judgement of value. The best car, the best tailor, the best art, the best missile system... like a newly minted Lotto winner, the Commies always associate the best with expensive.

A quick aside.  I went to a party on Park Avenue -- Somewhere in the 70's. You know... the private elevator, 15 rooms, flowing halls...striking. The owner, with homes in Beverly Hills and Palm Beach, sold his company for stock to a much larger competitor.  Problem was he couldn't sell the stock for five years.

As the stock price tumbled south, he called the new owner. "Look, you gotta let me sell some of this now before it goes even lower."  Instead, the owner just offers more stock. This fella tells me that reluctantly he takes more stock.

 Laughing hysterically, next to his grand piano, he raises his left arm and points to the ceiling while a $22 plastic Swatch sneaks out from under his shirt cuff, "Just as the five years comes up," he says, "Up the stock goes and it just keeps going up!" I watch his Swatch as he jabs it at his ceiling, "Up! Up! Up!"

A ten million dollar pile on Park and the guy's wearing a plastic Swatch. I know a Manhattan hipster who owns four watches worth $200,000, and he rents...in Little North Korea.

This guy probably serves Flor Rose Prosecco (availability here). At $17, it comes in an even more impressive magnum for around $28. That's a lotta holiday value for the buck. Served chilled, it's refreshing and bubbly soft with a grown up after taste that contrasts against prosecco's typical viridity. If champagne is like sex (and it is), then Flor Rose is a lot like French kissing. Not in China or Russia, but here...in the USA

Pulled Cork

Grits avec Triple Cream

Good slow cook grits available here. This is gonna take an hour to an hour and a half.  
1 Cup Grits, 4 Cups water, 2 tsps kosher salt, 2tbsp butter, 4 ounces Triple Cream Cheese

Bring to boil in a copper risotto pan. It does for grits what it does for creamy risotto. I use this.

Bring to simmer. Use more butter if grits start sticking to bottom of pan.  Stir, a lot. 

Set aside 4 ounces triple cream cheese (camouflaged butter) and trim rind off

Catch up on your reading while you stir.

After an hour, deposit triple cream chunks.  Or, you can microwave cheese and add for buttery depth.

No leftovers.

 Creamy grits, like creamy risotto, demand a lot of stirring and a lot of time.  I also happen to like a lot of butter. And that got me to thinking about risotto making and grits.  A risotto pan is perfect for keeping heat even and keeping grits from sticking to the bottom of the pan.  Last week a half wheel of triple cream cheese was left over from a party and I wondered if it would work with grits.   Not because I know food -- I just didn't want the cheese to go bad.

The first time, I microwaved the cheese and added it after 60-70 minutes, and stirred for another 10 minutes.  There was a huge and deep mouthful of butter.  Maybe too much. I tried it again and added slices of cheese without the rind. Still buttery but not overwhelming. This is a bit over the top and, to that end, it pairs perfectly with champagne.  It's for a celebration --  Like having power and a toilet that works.

Get Ready for Hell... and Kettle Corn

I have this reoccurring nightmare whenever I get a cold.  I'm walking across an attic in an old Victorian house when a Vampire reaches up from under the floor boards, grabs my ankle and tries to pull me down.  I look down at my feet and I can see him between the cracks of the floor.  He looks like Richard Nixon, is fluorescent green instead of pale white and he's laughing while I scream my ass off.  Then I wake up.

That nightmare might well stem from a 1974 viewing of Jack Palance in a made for TV movie of Bram Stoker's, Dracula. (Trailer Here)  I've never been a fan of horror but I watched this alone and very late one night -- strictly as a fan of Palance.  It scared the shit outta me.  Or, I should say Palance scared the shit outta me. 38 years later, I'm thinking of suing for pain, suffering and loss of consortium.

Boxer, WWII B-24 pilot, sportswriter, painter and poet, Palance, who also scared the shit outta me as Jack Wilson in Shane, was always worth watching.  If, for no other reason than -- you never knew what he was gonna do. This early observation was later confirmed by a buddy who worked with Palance on Young Guns.  Still, I think that's an actor's penchant for being a little crazy to begin with.

When I was married and living in the suburbs, I liked to play scary music in the house and hand out full size Hershey bars or Reese's Cups.  FULL SIZE.  I may have been the poorest bastard in the neighborhood but I wasn't gonna let some seven year old know it. There's some nice howling going on in the first part of Dracula here.  If I wasn't living in NYC, I'd play this opening scene over and over while I handout popcorn to the kids.

That's right. I said popcorn. Or, should I say Kettle Corn.

I'm not talking about the handful of stale and unsalted popcorn - wrapped in saran wrap - from the little old lady who lived alone and on the fringes of the parent prescribed area of trick or treating.  I'm talking about kettle corn and I can't stop eating it.  Angie's sent over a 24 package bag, especially created for Halloween, and I hoovered the whole thing in a couple days. This stuff is cooked up in cured kettles (I see Macbeth's witches) with a little corn oil, sugar and sea salt resulting in a sweet - saltiness that I swear -- pairs nicely with red wine. Just don't tell the children.

Angie's Kettle Corn (where to find it) is gluten free (whatever), Kosher certified (I can dig that) and the 24 pack sells for $7.99 at selected Target stores.  The bags are only 0.5 ounces each so you may wanna give the kid a couple bags. I know I would if I still lived in the suburbs. Buy more than you need because you'll have no problem taking care of the surplus -  with, I suggest, a nice Pinot Noir, chilled in the fridge for just 10 minutes to give it that vampire cellar temp.

Finally, there's my favorite and often overlooked Dracula. Ian McKellen is looking like a cross between Richard Nixon and Ed Sullivan but he gets the girl -- from Neil Tennant -- Which is really strange now that I think about it. 

¡Firmes! El Gaitero

I meet this college kid from Spain on the gun deck of the Castillo de San Marcos almost 30 Summers ago. St Augustine had been a Spanish colony, on and off, from 1565 to 1821, and was a popular destination for Spanish tourists, especially ustedes from Barcelona and northern Spain.

I remember it was about a hundred degrees with matching humidity on the gun deck. What we called a thermal inversion. No breeze whatsoever. I'm wearing an eight pound wool coat based on the Spanish artillery uniform of 1740 with a black felt cocked hat, linen breeches and blouse, red stockings and reproduction 18th century buckle shoes.




The kid, blonde hair and blue eyed, is from Barcelona and tells me he plays the bag pipes. The heat is getting to me. "Sorry, you play the what?" "The bag pipes," he tells me. "You know, northern Spain is very Celtic." "No shit," I'm thinking to myself as the gun deck tilts to a 45 degree list and I see mortars and canon sliding through the embrasures into Matanzas Bay.



Heat exhaustion is no laughing matter but the National Park Service didn't think it fell under Worker's Compensation. Today, I know better... and yesterday, I found this odd bottle of Spanish Cider, in an even odder wine store (PJ's Wine) way the hell up in the Bronx where God left his shoes. El Gaitero or The Piper, is $5.50 for a 23 oz bottle. The colder it gets -- the dryer it gets.



Pretty nice with Gazpacho soup when there's a thermal inversion outside. I don't have to sweat the eight pound wool coat anymore but drink enough El Gaitero and I can watch the buildings slide off Manhattan. It might even be work related.

Chartwell Booksellers

55 East 52nd Street - In the lobby















Writer, Churchill-expert and owner of Chartwell Booksellers (see above), Barry Singer has a new book out. 'Churchill Style' is a primer of Churchill's food, wine, cigars, women, books and good country houses. Churchill is what John Fairchild would call, "A Civilized Man." I admit to never reading Churchill but I have read a couple biographies.

Somewhere in those books... or was it a London pub? -- I heard my favorite Churchill quote: "The definition of a Greek -- is a Turk -- trying to be an Italian." Singer made my day, hell, he made my year, by confirming that attribution. But - he saddles the famous Lady Astor/ Churchill rebuff, "I may be drunk, madam, but in the morning I'll be sober and you'll still be ugly" to Sir Frederick (F.E.) Smith, a close friend of Churchill but not of his wife, Clementine, "who believed him to be a bad influence on her husband as a drinker and as a gambler. He was, however, in every sense, Winston's equal."

In appropriating a style - you could do a helluva lot worse - Joe Stalin and Mao Tse Tung come to mind. Those Commie world visions have clearly soared off course as their descendants grab capitalism like a gibbet around a neck while making JP Morgan look like a girl scout selling do-si-dos outside a grocery store.

But Churchill is still English and the English are still Churchill. Thank God.

I'll review the book tomorrow. It's perfect for Father's Day. Even if Dad has to buy it for himself. Beats the crap out of a tie -- Unless it's a navy polka dot bow tie from Turnbull & Asser. Bloody hard to go wrong with that pairing.