One painful element of losing your household pet is that no one else cares. Sure, family and friends may lend you a sympathetic sigh—before steering the conversation back to an update on their newfound passion for book clubs. To work colleagues, a lost pet makes about the same impression as a missed train. But the reality for someone who loses a pet is that it’s really sad. On a scale of mourning, it won’t rate as highly as losing an old friend, but it’s embarrassingly close.
Even other pet owners don’t particularly care. For twelve years you pass the lady with the frizzy hair in the street walking her dog while you walk yours. Your entire relationship is premised on a common passion for braving the outdoors in the middle of a downpour for the privilege of picking up canine fecal matter with a plastic bag for a glove. Then one day she sees you shuffling down the street, no dog, no plastic bag, a total mess, tears in your eyes. She hears the news: Mumbo’s passed. We had to put him down. Oh, she pushes some halfhearted sympathy your way, meanwhile thinking, Mumbo? That’s what that dog’s name was? Never knew… Frizzy Hair says the nice things, the right things, before passing along. There is no mistaking, however, her lack of genuine interest.
And why should anyone feel compassion for you? Caring for a pet is profoundly self-indulgent, an unjustifiable allocation of resources in a world where most of the population is starving. If you want to spend a few grand a year for the right to vacuum dog hair three times a week, people will look past it. That money could also support an entire orphanage in sub-Saharan Africa for a year, but who’s counting? Just don’t expect much sympathy when the jig is up.
For pet owners, the moral fuzziness and emotional strangeness of loving a pet makes the pain of loss no less real. And the very, very worst part about it is the final ride to the vet:
The affectionate hug. The sad canine eyes. The familiar panting (slowed and pained, it’s true) from the backseat. In the waiting room, forlorn patience from dog and master: what else is there to do? You limp into the back room and play a part in the unthinkable. Then the lonely drive home. No panting from the backseat, just eerie silence. For now, all of the callous nonsympathizers with their moral high ground and theories of transference can go screw themselves. This hurts.
Improved Cocktail
2 OZ SPIRIT OF YOUR CHOICE (6 CL)
3 DASHES RICH SIMPLE SYRUP
2 DASHES ANGOSTURA BITTERS
2 DASHES MARASCHINO OR ORANGE LIQUEUR
1 DASH ABSINTHE
2 LEMON PEELS
Stir all ingredients except for one lemon peel and strain into a cocktail glass.
Garnish with remaining lemon peel.
To understand what makes the Improved cocktail an improvement, consider for a moment the old-fashioned—a member of the oldest family of mixed drinks known collectively as “bittered slings”—made up of nothing more than booze, sugar, water, and bitters. The bittered sling is a winning combination to be sure, but rudimentary. The Improved earned its name as an upgrade, made possible with the introduction into the United States of a host of exotic ingredients like fancy liqueurs (e.g., orange or maraschino liqueur) and absinthe. And while we like our cocktails the old way as well as the new, “improved” is by no means an unfair description of what a little flavored liqueur and absinthe can do to a drink. Europeans would never think to water and mix these precious ingredients, but to gas-guzzling Americans, “waste” is a relative concept: hence American dominance in cocktailing and NASCAR both. With its use of fancy liqueur as a sweetener, the Improved can best be understood as a template for all the drinks invented at the cusp of the twentieth century that will forever reign ascendant; it is here that the margarita, the Manhattan, and the sidecar must pay their respects. If the old-fashioned is a Neanderthal (and never a more charming Neanderthal there was), the Improved is a Cro-Magnon.
What does any of this have to do with losing Mumbo? Very little, since we don’t care about your stupid dead animal. But given the flexibility inherent in the Improved—any kind of gin or brandy will do particularly well—it’s nice to know you can make this at home, using whatever you have handy, without having to show your gloomy face around town.
On the day you receive the bad news about your job—i.e., that you no longer have one—the facile advice you once gave to your laid-off friends will come back to haunt you. All those rousing halftime sermons you gave about this being the opportunity of a lifetime suddenly ring hollow. When you enjoyed the comforts of a steady paycheck and a dependable, if dependably stifling, routine, visions of a more inspiring future danced in your little head. But your morale is suffering from the unexpectedly cold snap of rejection that accompanied the pink slip. Your coffers are running low. The next stage of your life wasn’t supposed to kick off like this; it was supposed to happen on your terms. A future as an entrepreneur/singer-songwriter/country innkeeper strikes you as a bit less compelling right about now. To your own dismay, you find yourself working every lead you can think of to weasel your way into a new job as similar as possible to your old one—in other words, right back into the same life you were leading. The same life that wasn’t all that fulfilling anyway.
It is now our turn to step up to the podium for a rousing sermon. Here we go:
Herodotus, the Greek historian, recounted how the Persians made decisions. He reported that it was the Persians’:
general practice to deliberate upon affairs of weight when they are drunk; and then on the morrow, when they are sober, the decision to which they came the night before is put before them by the master of the house in which it was made; and if it is then approved of, they act on it; if not, they set it aside. Sometimes, however, they are sober at their first deliberation, but in this case they always reconsider the matter under the influence of wine. —Histories of Herodotus, 1:133 (trans. Davis, 1912)
We like this. It’s a fairly accurate description of how we wrote this book. And we think it’s a damn fine way to claw your way out of pink-slip depression and into a life of your own choosing. Any future worth holding onto will require a bit of inspiration and bravery—stuff you may not feel while sitting on the floor in the Career Planning aisle in your local library. So act like an ancient Persian. Turn to the bottle for heroic vision, and then let your sober midday self cut back the excess and determine what’s feasible.
Your future is there for the taking…a cocktail just may be the price of admission.
Herb Saint
1½ OZ GIN (4.5 CL)
1 OZ ST-GERMAIN ELDERFLOWER LIQUEUR (3 CL)
½ OZ LIME JUICE (1.5 CL)
2 SPRIGS FRESH DILL
7–8 LEAVES CILANTRO
TONIC WATER
Gently but firmly press the herbs on a flat surface or in the mixing tin, then pour remaining ingredients.
Shake and strain into a highball glass—in fact double strain, using a mesh strainer or a tea strainer if you have one. Top with tonic water.
Garnish with lime wedge and sprig of cilantro or dill (optional).
The Herb Saint is another of Mr. Altier’s original creations. It admittedly requires a bit of artistry, but what else can you do with all that time on your hands? Masturbating, social networking, and self-laceration will only take up so much of your day.
This is an aromatic, floral, and we think exciting variation on the gin and tonic: extremely palatable, morning, midday, and night. Fresh herbs and elderflower liqueur are—there’s no other way to put it—life-affirming. More life-affirming, might we suggest, than your recently departed career. So if you truly are ready to swear off the corporate world that has recently shoved you out, then stay positive, strive for a fresh perspective, and be a hero: get off the grid, plant your own garden, and start harvesting herbs aplenty for a daily dose of the Herb Saint. You will never look back.
Throughout this book we have been careful to skirt the uncomfortable if glaringly obvious fact of your craven addiction to alcohol. Don’t be embarrassed, now. Alcoholism happens to the best of us. It isn’t the end of the world. From our perspective, the stained breath, the suspended licenses, the pickled liver, and the mounting sick days are regrettable, but somehow necessary to a greater cause. In a certain light, it’s all quite romantic. The irritating, really charmless thing about becoming an alcoholic is that everyone wants you to stop drinking. Now, you can drive your loved ones away and keep chugging merrily along: always a fine option. But you can’t very well (1) admit you have a problem and (2) set out to fix it without, in fact, cutting out booze. Like, forever. And that sounds just awful.
BITTERS, PART 4
In July 2009, Modern Spirits (the environmentally responsible producer of the all-organic Tru vodka and Tru2 gin) held a bitters competition to celebrate the lost craft of bitters-making. Mr. Altier’s own Baked Big Apple bitters, featuring Hudson Valley green apples, cinnamon, and gingerroot, was one of three winning selections (it won first prize in the “fruit” category) that will be distributed by Modern Spirits starting in 2010 as the first certified, all-organic bitters collection in the world.
If you are on your way to an addiction support group, we strongly recommend you say good-bye to alcohol with a drink: one final, sweet, and perfectly crafted cocktail to toast the countless good times you’ve had. We are confident, totally sure, that you will stop after that one last drink. One drink will be just enough. Then you will lock up the liquor cabinet, throw away the key, and mosey along to the meeting. It’s going to happen just like that.
Hudson Monarch
1 OZ RYE WHISKEY (3 CL)
1 OZ APRICOT BRANDY (3 CL)
2 DASHES BAKED BIG APPLE BITTERS
BRUT CHAMPAGNE
Shake, strain into a champagne flute, and top up with Brut champagne.
The Hudson Monarch, another of Mr. Altier’s own inventions, is fruity but amply structured. We recommend it here because you shouldn’t have to say good-bye to booze without the help of a little rye, a little brandy, and a little champagne to send you off into sobriety’s cold tundra. Enjoy the meeting—sounds like it will be a blast.
Two hours later, as you hack away at the liquor cabinet door with a fire ax, consider whether the next time you have your “last” cocktail, you might try something less whimsical than the Hudson Monarch, to, like, bring more finality to the situation.
So for your last last drink, try this:
Arsenic and Old Lace
1½ OZ GIN (4.5 CL)
½ OZ ABSINTHE (1.5 CL)
¼ OZ DRY VERMOUTH (4–6 DASHES)
½ OZ CRÈME DE VIOLETTE (1.5 CL)
1 DASH ORANGE BITTERS (OPTIONAL)
Stir and strain into a cocktail glass.
Garnish with lemon peel.
Crème de violette is hard to find, and perhaps now is not the wisest time to bring a new bottle into the house. But Arsenic and Old Lace is an extraordinarily good cocktail, and who can really think of swearing off booze without a good-bye kiss from gin? Given its strong pour of absinthe, this enhanced martini will leave an impression—while its flavors are delicate and floral, its effect on the system is anything but.
- Insist on continuing the farce by refusing to purchase a new bottle of crème de violette? Don’t fret: you can still make the classic (and classy) Tuxedo No. 1 without it. Cut the absinthe down to ¼ oz and keep the other ingredients as they are. Orange bitters strongly recommended.
For the next dozen or so “last” drinks, try this: unscrew a bottle of Irish whiskey, tip your head back, and chug. Who needs all that ice-stirring, lemon-peeling, and bitters-dashing, anyway? Cocktails always were just a bunch of bullshit.
It’s not as if we didn’t have any notice. The warnings have been piling up fast and furious for a few millennia. And when the end finally arrives—dark red sky, cities aflame, twenty-four-hour news coverage mercifully silenced—the smell of vindication won’t just be emanating from the crazy guy on the corner waving a placard. It will be coming from you, your neighbors, and, however hypocritically, all those bastards who made fortunes bringing on doomsday by over-leveraging pension funds, strip-mining coal, and subdividing farmland. Everyone who has a finger to point and a rearview mirror with which to make historical predictions will feel a sense of smug satisfaction, even as they scramble to grab what’s theirs and ammo up for the inevitable man-eat-man aftermath. Saints and heroes are few and far between. Hence the chaos and destruction before you. And really, did we ever do anything to deserve something other than hell on earth?
So be grateful the young ones arrived at the party before the music stopped. Be grateful that there will be no more “breaking news” coverage about topics that are neither breaking nor news. And just take it all in stride as best you can. All things told, the end of days marks a fine time for a cocktail, so gather up the last of your melting ice and settle onto the porch for the ultimate showdown. Just remember to load up the AK-47 in case someone tries to mess with you before your drink is finished.
Spiced Colada
2 OZ SPICED RUM (6 CL)
2 OZ COCONUT CREAM (6 CL)
1 OZ LIME JUICE (3 CL)
1 OZ SIMPLE SYRUP (3 CL)
½ OZ LEMON JUICE (1.5 CL)
½ OZ PINEAPPLE JUICE (1.5 CL)
1 DASH ANGOSTURA BITTERS
Shake vigorously or, if the electricity is still running (this is one drink for which we do recommend a blender), blend with 4–6 ounces of crushed ice. About half a cup of fresh pineapple can be used instead of juice if you are using a blender.
Strain over fresh crushed ice in a highball glass or tiki cup.
Garnish with a generous dash of Angostura bitters over the top of the ice. Umbrella, pineapple, and cherry are each optional garnishes.
Because there is no better way to bear witness to Armageddon than with shameless frivolity, put yourself to work on prepping the ultimate in laid-back drinks. The spiced colada is a variation of the classic borrowed from one of our favorite watering holes for tropical drinks, the Rusty Knot in New York.
The traditional version of the piña colada (which is the official drink of Puerto Rico, we feel compelled to mention) can be made with 2 oz of rum, 1.5 oz of coconut cream, and 3–6 oz of pineapple juice.
However you go about mixing your drink while the world goes up in flames, do try to use Coco López coconut cream if possible. If you don’t have any in your cupboard, try raiding your neighbor’s house. And grab whatever else you can find while you’re at it. No need to obey the rule of law now.
Our lives are slipping past us, and few, if any, can boast that they will leave no fruit to wither on the vine. There will come a time in each of our lives when no opportunities are left to fritter away. Nothing left, seemingly, but a final chance to make peace with choices that have already been made. A last few moments to ponder: What the hell did I do in an office for forty-five years? Why is there a tattoo that says “RACCOON” on my ass cheeks? And why didn’t I kiss Lisa Schiller at the seventh-grade dance?
Deathbeds aren’t any fun. What’s really a downer—besides the horrendous pain, the aforementioned regret, etc.—is the irritating fact that all the people moping in and out of the room will carry on with their lives well after your lights go out. And in fact your death will just serve as one minor event among many that will mark their lives. No matter how long or well you have lived, that part just won’t seem fair.
At this late hour, you seize on a new conviction: everyone should go at the same time, and be done with it. And as it happens, that time should be right now. You suddenly gain some respect for those pharaohs with their buried wives and servants, and you start feeling out your children, your grandchildren, and the nurse staff to see if anyone is willing to go along with the new plan. Just as you start calling out for a giant vat of poisoned Kool-Aid, someone ups the morphine dose and the room blurs. All you feel is that fuzzy remorse again. Lisa Schiller! Damn her!
All we can suggest to quiet your fixation on Lisa Schiller is that minimizing the possibility for deathbed remorse involves an act of willful blindness. Training yourself, over time, not to look back at all is the surest technique for ensuring there will be no final, futile moment of regret. If that’s too much to chew on, and if no one in the room seems game for live burial in the family pyramid, then the next best thing we can offer is that you spend your last few earthbound moments stirring up a good drink, settling into your favorite chair, and enjoying one last indulgence—with no pause for introspection at all.
Does your heart ever stir to the spare, solemn call of funereal bagpipes? Then the Rob Roy, a Scotch-based variation on the Manhattan, is for you. This well-loved classic is evocative of Scotland’s rough, rural majesty but also, like the Manhattan itself, unmistakably urbane. It is as worthy a drink as any to sign off with.
Rob Roy
2 OZ SCOTCH WHISKY (6 CL)
1 OZ SWEET VERMOUTH (3 CL)
1 DASH ANGOSTURA OR PEYCHAUD’S BITTERS
Stir and strain into a cocktail glass.
Garnish with lemon rind or (more traditionally) maraschino cherry.
How you prepare the Rob Roy has everything to do with your choice of Scotch. A complex, peaty single malt may stand up to a generous pour of vermouth and may not require any bitters at all; a Highland single malt or any smooth blend might call for less vermouth and go beautifully with Peychaud’s. And no Scotch, no matter how top-shelf, should be considered off-limits: the drink will showcase the spirit’s strengths beautifully, and in any event, what are you saving the stuff for now? Just like your insistent regrets, your useless bladder, and the pain-in-the-ass dentures that you have been cursing for the last decade, your beloved home bar isn’t coming with you. Sad to say it, but this time, you are leaving the booze behind.
Common botaincals used in the production of gin.