first sips and last words
on classic cocktails and living in the now
Up until this year, I used to think about what might have been. Not regrets per se, but rather an overwhelming desire to live forking paths and past lives. Ask anyone, and they would say, “Oh, Catherine longs for a different decade.” This is clear about me. Which decade? I can’t choose but would probably say: any one but this one. I’m nostalgic for places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met, years in which I didn’t exist. I’m a romantic. This, of course, is the Midnight in Paris fallacy: the idea that everyone longs for the time that came before them, when upon closer observation, we would find the political and social and economic climates just as fraught if not worse than the current state we’re living in.
But my personal style, my favorite films and records and books are all heavily rooted in and influenced by the distant past. Present-day activities such as streaming Hulu or watching TikTok dances or checking my email come and go, making a brief impression in my brain like a ghost’s handprint, but the first bebop notes of “Leapfrog” or the last lines of Casablanca are forever there. Why? I didn’t experience these things firsthand, yet they are deeply meaningful to me and define who I am.
I recently wrote a short story in which a woman—in the wake of her husband cheating and leaving—decides to completely recreate her high school glory days from 1986 for a summer as some sort of coping mechanism. The smart TV gets chucked through the window, the hair crimper comes back out, she quits her CPA firm to wait tables at a lakeside restaurant and splits cigarettes between dances at a night club’s 80’s Night. There’s fun and risk and romance. At the end of summer, she doesn’t want to return to the real world and its complications; deeper still is the pain and grief waiting for her on the other side. She has to make a choice: stay in what you believe to be your golden age or return to a time where the people who love you need you.
This current day and all of its demands never leave us. And according to the news, the future is quite grim. So I think there are two reasons why I love and “live” so much in the past: 1) my totems from these eras are imbued with a greater sense of ease, of slowness because the world was spinning at a less frantic pace compared to today and 2) there is an attention to detail and quality that comes with that pace. Yes, there is a case to be made for recent sustainable innovation, but this is only one newsletter and an ongoing conversation so let’s not digress. In these decades of distant past, there was more intentional creation than rapid-fire documentation, if you will. By living and loving these past influences, by immersing myself in them, when I return to the present-day moment, it becomes more bearable and beautiful to exist, to bring those two qualities (slowing down and attention to refinement and detail) into the moment. Because of this, I don’t mourn a past I was never a part of, I don’t have regrets so deep that I completely resent the technology behind this substack newsletter or the AirPods permanently installed in my son’s ears. No, I love my life all the more for this playing between the waves of time, the risk of being swallowed up by now or then.
So what does this have to do with cocktails, you ask. When I was younger, cocktails were a means to an end. Now they’re a journey in themselves. Taking the time to focus on a cocktail means I have time itself within my grasp, that I can trade it for a little more pleasure in this life. Making a proper drink slows me down and appeals to all of my senses: the sound of briskly shaking ice, the aroma of smoke or florals or herbs, the taste of bitter or sweet, the sight of a cheerful yellow lemon peel, the feeling of an olive pulled from a toothpick between my teeth.
My go-to cocktails reflect my personal style: simple, of the highest quality, deeply reminiscent of the past and a means of escape its promised sense of ease. A moment worth savoring, thanks to the best ingredients. When I say best, I mean best. No shortcuts.
In this newsletter there are three cocktails. You won’t find any umbrellas or overwhelming garnish stacks—I hate those, and don’t get me started on Bloody Mary bars. These require nothing more than three or four ingredients that can be combined in a matter of minutes but sipped over a long period of time. When you make a good cocktail, it shouldn’t leave you wanting more. Each is a drink that, for me, is made to be enjoyed in aperitivo, the Italian snack hour before dinner. All three drinks can wax and wane, shift and change with life’s seasons, go away and come back.
The Home Bar
Just like a bookshelf, I obsess over other people’s bars. A bar cart is a visual story of someone’s life. For example, my friend J. has an antique hutch he uses for a bar and it’s crammed with all kinds of rare liquors, homemade bitters in little medicine bottles, a hodge podge of mismatched thrift glasses, spoons and mats and cups and collected pieces like necklaces and keys dangling from the top corners. It’s very him, and it’s very messy, because he visits it all the time like a working artist’s studio, crafting concoctions. Another one of my friends keeps her vodka in the freezer and a bare-bones Art Deco cart in the corner because that’s all she needs.
Tools are not as meaningful as glassware, but both should be used often and enjoyed. Don’t build a bar you’ll never use. I could tell you about the tools I have and link to them on Bars-R-Us or something but that’s exhausting and really, my go-to’s are a double jigger, a couple of bar spoons, an etched mixing glass & strainer, a copper shaker, and a set of copper toothpicks in an old sea-marbled pottery cup. Oh, and a peeler. (But you have one of those already.) Invest in fun, lovely, reusable toothpicks. They make savoring the drink all the more enjoyable for yourself and your guests.
The Negroni
“There is rarely such a thing as a bad Negroni, which may hold the key to its popularity,” writes tastemaker and collector Matt Hranek. (I recommend his book, The Negroni, a wonderful collection and where I found the most luscious recipe for a Greek Negroni in which the three spirits are mixed then steeped in a vessel with dried figs for a few days before enjoying.)
A Negroni is made of 3 equal parts, so it’s easy to remember and hard to mess up. Officially my favorite drink, it goes with anywhere, anytime, anything. Is it basic? Perhaps. Is it classic? Definitely (born in 1919, looking good for its age). In this house, we drink what we like.
Vermouth is the most important aspect of any Negroni. I think it really does make or break the experience for me, and I always ask the bartender which vermouth they use when I order one so I can make a note afterward. Negronis always use a sweet vermouth. I love Cocchi (who doesn’t?), I love Gran Bassano by Poli—a merlot infused with botanicals and hints of rhubarb, vanilla, ginger, and pimento. And of course, Carpano Antico. I also use a good sweet vermouth in the Manhattan (below) so it’s best to invest and play until you find the ones you personally like.
My Negroni:
1.5 oz gin (Beefeater, The Chemist, or Bowling & Burch)
1.5 oz sweet vermouth (Poli Gran Bassano)
1.5 oz Campari
slice of orange
My method: fill a shaker or mixing glass with ice, combine all three spirits, stir for several seconds, then leave it alone while you tend to your sipping glass. Quickly place one large ice cube in an old fashioned glass. Grab the slice of orange, squeeze it oh so gently as you tuck it in by the ice cube (I like to express a hint of the citrus and juice). Go back to your mixer or shaker, stir the spirits one more time, then strain it all into your glass and enjoy.
A spin might be to take a burgundy wine glass, fill with ice and make a Negroni Sbagliato, which originates from Bar Basso in Milan and substitutes Prosecco for gin. A cold bubbly treat to be enjoyed al fresco, and can be made in punch bowl batches for a party…but do watch when lips start to loosen! It’s very potent.
You can also substitute the best bourbon you have for the gin and now enjoy a Boulevardier. I prefer these in cooler months, and I switch from gin to bourbon just as I switch from summery synth pop to wintry moody jazz. More on seasonal drinking & listening later.
The Martini
My poor martini glasses! So water-stained, but it’s what in them that counts. First appearing in the Modern Bartender’s Guide in the 1880s, no one can agree on where this drink comes from, but there’s no denying it saw its swell of popularity midcentury, becoming the lunch drink of choice. I think it’s experiencing a pleasant little resurgence.
My Martini:
3 oz. gin (Chemist Navy Strength, Bombay Dry, Boodles)
bar spoonful dry vermouth (Dolin)
bar spoonful olive brine juice
2-3 olives
My method: If you’re not an olive person, that’s okay. Use the recipe above but simply swap out the gin (this is key!) for a really flavorful and herbaceous gin like Uncle Val’s, leave out the olive brine, and gently run a lemon peel twist along the rim before dropping it in the glass.
My god, I do so love an ice cold, dirty martini. The combination of sophistication and naughtiness. About half an hour before I want one (or really, when I get home from work), I combine the gin and vermouth in the shaker and stick that in the freezer, along with a martini glass. Although I love coupes, my hands are more comfortable around a martini stem and this keeps my drink from warming up. The type of martini determines my method: stir a clean martini, shake a dirty one. There is no hard or fast rule for this, it’s just my preference.
When stirring a martini, I use the Daddy Tucci method (without ditching the vermouth) and stir for 30 seconds, let sit 30 seconds, stir 30 seconds, let sit 30 seconds, stir again quickly and strain. Why? It brings me joy.
I love to shake a martini with hopes of ending up with ice chips in my glass…a sensual little bonus. If you have neighbors who will bang the ceiling with a broom every time you shake a martini, then stir instead or invite them over.
The Manhattan
When I am preparing steaks, I make a Manhattan. There’s something about these two together in the kitchen that makes me happy. An Old Fashioned lover for many years, I began making Manhattans more and more during the pandemic in search of something familiar, but not too familiar. They arrived on the drinking scene around the late 1800s as well. You can vary the amount of sweet vermouth depending on your mood, and I generally go for a 2:1 ratio of rye or bourbon to vermouth.
My Manhattan:
2 oz. rye (Bulleit, Four Roses Single Barrel or Jim Beam Black in a pinch)
1 oz. sweet vermouth (Poli Gran Bassano)
tiny dash Jack Rudy aromatic bitters
2-3 Luxardo cherries
My method: I’m indulgent with my cherries. Don’t think another brand of cherry will suffice. It must be Luxardo. I tend to my martini glass first, putting it in the freezer to chill before my drink, then right after I mix my spirits, I take the glass out, drop in a toothpick of cherries still dripping with syrup, and pour the drink over them.
To make my Manhattan, I fill a shaker or mixing glass with ice, combine my rye and vermouth and bitters, stir-stir-stir while maybe humming a little “I Won’t Dance” to myself. Strain into the glass and enjoy while the steaks are marinating.
As I write these last words, I’m recovering from surgery and have been almost two weeks without alcohol. I almost didn't notice, and that may be the sign that I have entered my own golden age: a time where a cocktail is always waiting, but never fighting for my attention because I don’t feel stressed to need one. I dip in and out of the present of my day to appreciate its gifts, and then the sound of a needle dropped on vinyl or the clink of an ice cube in a glass simply awakens something within me: this happiness born out of nostalgia, the attention to the details that define us, and the traditions we make our own.
What I’m reading: The Negroni and The Martini by Matt Hranek
What I’m spinning: Billie Holiday, The Golden Years collection
Such a great article! Love the Negroni!!