A MONTH OF MARTINIS: BOA’S YETS AND MARTINIS GONE WRONG

We had a great time at Boa, the ultra-hip, ultra-expensive steakhouse on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. As it always is, the place was jammed with the preening and parading set I call YETS—young entitled tattooed spenders. (I couldn’t trademark the acronym, so go ahead and steal it.) It was the same crowd that had surrounded us a few weeks ago on Maui at the wonderful new Andaz at Wailea. Waves of pure cool radiate from them–you almost have to shield your eyes.  If you haven’t noticed, understand that YETS are the new prime demographic, openly pursued by all. They are the free-spending fedora-wearing guests the hotel wants. They are the super-cool stilettoed patrons Boa depends on.

Anyway, Boa’s standard clientele didn’t detract from the superb steaks and fine service. This is my terrific New York Strip.

What did detract, however, was how my martini was served. I specified Hendrick’s gin with a few drops of vermouth, stirred, with a lemon twist. When my cocktail finally arrived (slow was understandable if not optimal because we were a table of five, each with a specific drink order) it was presented in a small carafe with an empty glass—and no twist. The server instantly recognized that the twist was missing and promised to rectify the oversight posthaste, but poured my martini from the little carafe anyway. He returned quickly with the missing twist, presenting it to me on a plate.

But the moment was lost. Proper imbibing depends on timing. I was forced to stare at my martini until he came back, then had to pick up the twist and attempt to wring a little lemon oil from it before plopping it in. Here it is, but you can see how far below the rim it is.

But I got to thinking: What is the deal with the carafe anyway? Is it supposed to be an elegant and sophisticated way to serve cocktails? Is it intended to make it easier on servers who otherwise would have to handle the admittedly precarious task of delivering filled-to-the-brim cocktails? Does the mob control the carafe trade? Here’s one of them from my home museum showing how little of the cocktail glass its contents fill.

The more I thought about it the worse the carafe idea seemed. A cocktail poured into one means it loses some of its chill to the carafe, and then more of it when it is re-poured into a room temperature glass. Most of all, however, a carafe-delivered cocktail cannot avoid seeming like a short pour. I set out to test this theory, and as you can see here the standard cocktail carafe I used proves my point. It’s a short pour.

As a control, here is a martini of the proper heft and volume, served to me at The Palm. I rest my case.

WHEN MARTINIS JUST AREN’T ENOUGH: A LIME GIMLET WITH HAIR

It was happy hour at Wolfgang’s Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, just the right time and place for what was, let’s say, a most unusual product demonstration. There were misconnections, a trio of Dicks, a bottle that walked out the door, an offer among adjacent barstool occupants of a Hollywood deal, and if I correctly recall, something close to fisticuffs. In other words, it was one of your usual saloon affairs, only in a smart atmosphere with sophisticated barflies in the middle of the upscale dining and shopping area of Beverly Hills.

But I dither.

We were finally situated in a corner of the bar there to test-drive EVOL, a new entry in the world of spirits that presents itself in a blackened bottle with a skull as a label.  In case you didn’t notice, and despite the biker imagery, that’s LOVE spelled backwards. It is a new 74-proof grain-based spirit emphatically flavored with clove and cinnamon conjured up by a pair of young entrepreneurs, “Baltimore” George Antonakas and Torrey James Ward. It is made in West Los Angeles in one of only two distilleries in the city. And lest you might think that EVOL is not good for you, know that it is organic, naturally flavored and made without sugar. Instead, it is sweetened with stevia. It was, in fact, the world’s first distilled spirit in that category.

When I noted a passing similarity to certain other branded spirits, I was firmly advised that it was nothing like Fireball, the cinnamon-flavored whiskey, or Jagermeister, the sweet, flavored hootch favored in snowy settings and by younger tipplers. But let’s face it, I ventured, EVOL is aimed at a certain demographic, is it not, one that attends clubs when the rest of us are cleaning out the cat box or watching old movies in our Dr. Dentons? Well, kind of.

Things were going well, I thought, and soon Wolfgang’s head bartender Liam had been corralled for a demonstration. He put the establishment’s bottle of EVOL in front of us, the one brought for the purpose having disappeared in a blizzard of happenstance, poured a dram straight and waited for the tentative first sips. Pretty smooth. Definitely on the sweet side. Nice burn of decent alcohol content.  Brisk slap of clove and cinnamon.

But what cocktail might be made with it, Liam was asked. Perhaps a Manhattan? Foghorn-voiced Liam looked pained. No, he said, the sweet vermouth in the usual recipe would be supernumerary as would the bitters. What would be the point?

So Liam was set free to conjure a proper cocktail using EVOL. That turned out to be a nice little number with vodka, presumably to dilute the clove-cinnamon impact a megaton or so, and lime juice to mollify the sweetness. Not bad. Kind of a lime gimlet with hair.

Then, the requisite product appreciation behind us, my feisty host and I repaired to our martinis. Where, face it, we were most comfortable. And, more or less, everyone survived.

www.evolspirits.com

 

What is EVOL? (Pronounced like ‘Evil’)

EVOL

is the world’s first sweet-tasting, sugar-free distilled spirit.

EVOL

is a spicy new, 74-proof artisanal distilled spirit that has more alcohol than its sugar-filled competitors, and it tastes great at room temperature.

EVOL

is a versatile, naturally flavored, organic libation that can be enjoyed as a shot, on the rocks, or in mixed drinks (mixologists love its endless possibilities).

EVOL’s

proprietary spice blend with hints of natural cinnamon and clove is intermingled with a gluten-free, sugar-free, Stevia-sweetened base to create an easy-drinking spirit that has no equal.

Who is EVOL?

EVOL

is handmade in beautiful Los Angeles, CA by Baltimore George and Torrey James Ward. After winning a poker tournament in Atlantic City, George decided to go all-in and start the EVOL Empire with his old friend Torrey. Two guys, with literally no experience in the alcohol industry, set out on the improbable journey to create “The Best Shot in the Bar.” Along the way, they decided to make EVOL sugar-free, so as to have a truly unique product and a competitive advantage in the marketplace. They never listened to anybody who told them that it couldn’t be done. The product you see before you is the result of years of hard work and dedication. George and Torrey truly hope you enjoy it, and they thank you for your support.

BE GOOD. Drink EVOL

A Month of Martinis: The Madness in Palm Springs

We spent June in Palm Springs. If you know the California desert at that time of year, that turned out to be not such a hot idea. Take two. It was a very hot idea. The day it hit 114 made us wonder what had possessed us to do it.

It had seemed brilliant back in April. Coming up in L.A. was cool, often overcast June. It’s called “June Gloom” in these parts. Renting a place for a month in the desert, where it is reliably warmer but just 100 or so miles away, seemed like a smart move. Besides, the rates in the desert then are their lowest of the year.

It was a two-bedroom, two-bath condo at a small, almost-new complex called Villorrio. It was just a couple blocks from the center of Palm Springs. There was a 55-foot swimming pool steps from the front door and a rooftop patio with great views of the mountains. We invited friends, who came in waves from Seattle and San Francisco, flying right into the Palm Springs airport a five-minute drive away.

At first it was fine. Then the thermometer gradually began creeping up. The pool, big as it was, turned tepid. The air conditioning had a hard time keeping ahead of the heat. That rooftop patio became too hot to use, even at night.

Naturally, we turned for succor to the many of Palm Springs’ happy hours.

Now, “happy hour” in June in Palm Springs, which in some notorious cases begins at 11 in the morning and ends until last call, involves full-blown martinis for as little as $3. Maybe you don’t get top-shelf gin (Seagram’s seems to be the plonk of choice), but it’s decent.  It’s like getting an engraved invitation to AA.  Such serendipity is best approached carefully and with the understanding that the gates of hell are never far away.

Nonetheless, all involved threw themselves with enthusiasm into the effort, with mixed and still-uncertain results that may await the return of liver tests. The winners in our combined estimation included the happy hours held at Tropicale, Lulu, Kaiser Grill, The Falls and Frida’s. Wang’s in the Desert was thronged and cheap but, shall we say, a bit too…fevered. And when the fascination of a bustling happy hour waned, we went to quieter places like Citron at the Viceroy hotel. We never did get to some of the more corporate happy hours at Roy’s and Fleming’s. They were too far away in Rancho Mirage, and we had so many choices in our own back yard.

The gates of hell were beginning to clank open when we decided to leave Palm Springs a few days before the end of our rental.  A high of 115 was predicted. Two hours later we were home in the Hollywood Hills, cool again at last, with no happy hours nearby.

THE MADNESS OF COCKTAILS GONE WILD: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

Sometimes I think that I just don’t understand drinking any more.  This is despite vast experience in the matter, mind you.  What often passes for a cocktail today sounds more to me like an experiment in organic farming.  We have entered the age of Cocktails Gone Wild, and I don’t like it.

For the record, what you see here is a proper cocktail—a straight-up Bombay Sapphire martini—immediately pre-consumption at Koi in Los Angeles.  It’s a restaurant that has done many things well for more years than is usual in L.A., cocktails among them. Here are some scenes of the scene there, with the tasty kobe beef crispy rice and an unidentified local pawing chef Robb Lucas.

But back to those silly drinks.  Let me give a random example of CGW found while thumbing through a print publication called The Tasting Panel, which for some reason (fine, I know which reason) shows up in my snail mailbox regularly.  Smokin’ Irishman, reportedly served at a Manhattan Beach, California, establishment called American Farmhouse Tavern, is said to contain Jameson Irish whisky, peach nectar and elderberry liqueur; it is garnished with a bacon-wrapped spear of sugarcane; and finally it is “spritzed” with Glenlivet Scotch.

Huh? It sounds to me like something Gordon Ramsey should be reducing to tears.

There are more.  Oh, are there ever more, and they are not only confined to the stranger parts of the U.S.  The same magazine credited above reported on a place called Ruby in Copenhagen that muddles a cocktail using leafy green carrot tops.  No, not kidding.  The place also makes a daiquiri with rhubarb jam and an apple-celery margarita.  Another Copenhagen bar called The Union, also cited in the article, makes drinks using lemon curd, local weeds and (wait for it) edible gunpowder.

Yes, gunpowder.  It gives an entirely new meaning to shooting one’s mouth off.

THE MADNESS THAT ISN’T A MARTINI: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

Yesterday was Easter and we were at home with a turkey slowly smoking over hickory chips in the back yard.  Indolence naturally ensued.  With a doff of the fedora to the fussy grammarian at the center of the late Lawrence Sanders’ Archy McNally novels, one do get thirsty at times like this. (Please, no gear-grinding over this construction, just take it like a person.)  So I stirred up what you see here.

Yes, I know if you can’t see through it, it isn’t a martini.  Get over it.  This is a manhattan.  Life is full of surprises and serendipity.  Besides, it was time to see if anything could taste as good as gin and dry vermouth massaged over ice of a late afternoon.

Allow me to blame this excursion on Chris, another of my martini-swilling pals. Sure, he lives in San Francisco, so what can he know about real cocktailing? Still, he had recently turned me on to the forbidden pleasure of top-shelf Bulleit bourbon in a manhattan made with the brown stuff down the hill at Spoonful.  Lordy, was it ever tasty.

Sometime later, however, my muddled mind had turned to the manhattan and its origin in the city it is named after.  And it dawned, perhaps more slowly than in years past, that the original cocktail on its home turf invariably was made with rye whiskey—or at least a whiskey like Canadian Club that is distilled partly from rye.

That was then.  Now the super-premium spirits revolution has given us a handful of exalted rye whiskeys made entirely or almost so with that grain as the primary ingredient.  And Bulleit, wouldn’t you know, is one of them.  This remarkably smooth, rich whiskey is 95 percent rye, and man is it ever good in a manhattan.  Just employ a generous hand with the Angostura Bitters and a restrained one with the sweet vermouth (use one made with real sugar).  And find that little jar Maraschino cherries that you put in the refrigerator years ago somewhere in the back.

But now to answer the question surely on everyone’s lips, yes Bulleit rye has made it onto the top shelf of better saloons and retail establishments.   And like twice-named New York, New York, we have added a second picture of that Easter manhattan.

THE MADNESS MOVES TO BALBOA: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

Our martini-loving pal Glenn somehow manages to turn up when there’s the possibility of his favorite beverage being served.   He has an MBA.  He’s smart.

Glenn’s been with us here in the Hollywood Hills for more than a few home-made models and has come along for forays to various watering holes.  This is his martini at Watermarc in Laguna Beach.  And there’s mine without all volume-stealing olives. And there’s mine

without all volume-stealing olives.

 

Last year we drove down to his Balboa Peninsula home in Newport Beach for an overnight stay.  Naturally, he mixed up a batch of martinis, poured it into a container, grabbed the glasses and appropriate garnishes, and we walked it all to an electric boat he had rented for a leisurely afternoon promenade on Newport Bay.  Here’s one displayed for your delectation as we buzzed past the houses and yachts of the swells.  Yes, buzzed.

THE MADNESS OF GOOD FRIDAY AT THE PALM: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

We ate lunch at the Palm in West Hollywood.  Again.  Couldn’t help ourselves.   We were back in L.A.  And It was Good Friday.

But, honestly, there was a good reason.  We received an e-mail while we were out of town that the Palm restaurants nationwide were in mid-March beginning a new lunch menu.

And get this: a martini—any real martini—would cost $8.37 (which, as Palmistos and Palmistas know, is the 2^nd Avenue address of the original Palm in Manhattan).  Not a special.  Every day from now on.  Now that’s lunch.

That would be $8.37 for any top shelf martini—as long as it’s a classic martini and not a faux one like a cosmo or apple .  So naturally my eye went to the apex of the top shelf and Hendrick’s.  Yep, Hendrick’s included, the manly beverage (with couple drops of dry vermouth, I’m pretty sure) pictured here on the afternoon of Good Friday.

It went stupendously well with swordfish and cheesecake.  Was this a good idea?  Was it anti-religious? Was another ordered?  Were there consequences?  Only the next time will tell.

THE MADNESS ADVANCES: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

We live in the Hollywood Hills, which means we have access to an endless number of top notch gin joints in Los Angeles.  This is your faithful writer at Esterel in the Sofitel Los Angeles, the standard bearer for things French in town.  (No, the French aren’t big on martinis, but neither do they hold back for cultural reasons if a franc is to be made.)

Naturally it’s difficult to pinpoint all the best martinis in L.A., so this is only a start. The frosty one here was served up at La Boheme in West Hollywood, which is not only a good hang but a spot locals know that nicely priced fine food can be found.

But I’ve saved one of the city’s most revered drinking destinations for last.  This martini was made by longtime barkeep Michael at Dan Tana’s, which is on Santa Monica Blvd. just shy of the Beverly Hills border.

The saloon serves New York-style Italian food to faithful throngs of locals, most of who are somehow involved in show business.  Largely a tourist-free zone, here is where you will see familiar faces at their ease.  Be aware that Tana’s is open only for dinner,  the bar itself is tiny and usually packed three deep, and be warned that in an expansive mood Michael will insist on pouring you a tot of his personal bottle of slivovitz.

THE DESERT MADNESS: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

This martini was created of Bombay gin and a wash of dry vermouth at the Riviera Palm Springs’ Starlite Lounge well before the sun had disappeared to the west behind Mt. San Jacinto.

Palm Springs is a fine place to obtain a righteous martini.  The desert resort town has been floating on gin for years, stretching back to the Rat Pack days and before.  The vibe has been kept alive by restaurants like Mel’s, whose bar seems left over intact from the 1960s.  But none of the retro joints does the old days in the desert better than Riviera Palm Springs.

The Riviera was alive back in the day too, but it’s been updated to fold in the best of the new millennium with just enough of the old to foster authenticity without the reverting to slavish period reliance.  So you get a good gym and spa, a freeform resort swimming pool, nice rooms, and fine food in the Circa 59 restaurant.  Yes, this does refer to the hotel’s birthdate.

These two desert thirst-quenchers are from other towns in the toasty Coachella Valley.  One was made in the wonderful Morgan’s at La Quinta at the far eastern edge of the resort region.  The other showed up lagoon side at Rockwood Grill in the Marriott Desert Springs.  There are plenty more desert martinis to come when we explore desert happy hour in a future posting.  Stay tuned sots.

 

THE MADNESS IN COCKTAIL GLASSES: A MONTH OF MARTINIS

Martinis back in the day were served in dinky little cheap stemmed glassware.  Maybe two ounces of gin mixed with a little vermouth was the maximum pour.  Olives robbed way too much room.

That all changed with the drinks revolution.  First came the cocktail glass with greater capacity and far wider diameter.  The four-ounce martini (and more) became the norm in better bars.  The one served at the Palm restaurants, shown here, is the benchmark.

This also became the standard for those of us who shake or stir them up at home.  This is my martini buddy Chris and I at my home in the Hollywood Hills. (For those of you far too interested in these matters, the wonderful cocktail glasses with the slightly curved sides you see came from IKEA, of all places.)

The next change was the better-quality cocktail glass analogous to the finer wine glass.  This one is found at Craft in Los Angeles’ Century City.  Yes, that’s my hand caressing it.

Now we have the artisan cocktail glass.  The sky-high one seen here is at the exclusive 10 Pound in the Montage Hotel in Beverly Hills.  This exquisite piece of glassware must cost the hotel more than the equivalent of 10 Pounds Sterling.

And the fantastical martini glass below is from the Martini Bar aboard Oceania Cruises’ Marina.