If you didn’t know that, you’ve admittedly lost a good chunk of your opportunity to celebrate on the actual day of honour (see what I did there by putting a “u” in, just like the Scots do?). Good thing I told you while there were still some hours in the day to raise a dram and do the day up right.
Not a fan of scotch whisky, but still want to partake? Are you scared by some past experience you may have had or by what another person may have told you? Have no fear, and allow me to recommend something for you, the rookie:
I’m killing time before this evening’s Los Angeles Philharmonic concert by drinking an old fashioned — a really good one, BTW, care of the bartender at the Omni Hotel near Walt Disney Concert Hall.
Anyways, I started thinking about tonight’s world premiere of The Gospel According to the Other Mary, a modern bit of social commentary-cum-oratorio by John Adams told from the point of view of Mary Magdalene. So I’m guessing “the other Mary” is a reference to the protagonist, identifying her as a different Mary than the mother of Jesus.
Now I’m no bible scholar, but I’ve spent some quality time in church on Sundays, not to mention spending a few formative years of my youth being taught by nuns (God bless the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians). And one thing I know is that despite all the confusion about the various women named Mary in the bible (a confusion which, according to the program notes, the libretto allegedly avoids), there actually is a woman referred to as “the other Mary” — and she is NOT Mary Magdalene.
Kinda reminds me of the issue some people (like me) had with the title of The Da Vinci Code and how it would have been more proper if it were called The Leonardo Code. Yeah, I also get annoyed when people say “very unique.”
Of course, there is one other thing that John Adams’ musical piece and Dan Brown’s book share: they are works that start with Christian-related subject matter, but in actuality are entirely non-Christian . . . or perhaps extra-Christian.
As long as we all know this going in and treat it as such, we’ve put it in the right context.
I’m out of bourbon-based refreshment and should really get over to WDCH instead of getting another round. Feel free to discuss more amongst yourselves.
Review of tonight’s concert coming in a day or so.
Any drink with Blood Orange can't be too bad: Sun Also Rises
I cannot eat often enough at Manhattan Beach Post. In less than a year, it has gone from South Bay newcomer to So Cal institution. The most recent of their many noteworthy accolades was the announcement that Chef David LeFevre and his very popular “social house” are up for two 2012 James Beard Awards (“Best Chef, Pacific” and “Best New Restaurant”). Unlike at one of their newer neighbors with an ocean view, the food at MB Post is the center of attention, and rightfully so.
That said, the drinks are a a worthy compliment to chef David’s consistently kick-ass cuisine. GM Jerry Garbus has put together a lengthy, eclectic wine list, with an extra 30 labels available by the glass as 3- or 6-oz pours. There’s a strong beer selection too. In addition, the folks behind the bar (Beau du Bois, Greg Westcott, and Sais Roses have been the mixologists) offer a constantly changing array of “hand-crafted cocktails” (their description) that invariably involve them putting their own spin on classic drinks. For example, there is “Virgil’s ascent:” negroni w/ hendricks, aperol, pomegranate seed, clove (it was good, not great).
For the most part, I’ve found their cocktails to be somewhere between pretty good and very good, though none of them have depth of flavor that the best ones can have. I will give them credit for going well with the food, and if the objective was specifically to create drinks that would pair with Chef David’s food without overpowering it, then mission accomplished. The one cocktail I’ve had there that could stand on its own was the “Manhattan Avenue” — a Manhattan w/ Sazerac rye, vanilla, caramel, and bacon dust — now that was good stuff.
The first time I ever ordered a drink at Milk & Honey in NY, I asked for something scotch-based and they brought me a Blood and Sand. I’ve had a soft spot in my heart (and liver) for it ever since, so last night, I decided to try the “Sun Also Rises” — a riff on a Blood and Sand with Compass Box “Oak Cross” scotch, rhubarb, and blood orange. Compass Box seemed like an extravagant, if tasty, choice as the base. In the end, the whole concoction was enjoyable, if a bit one-note. The rhubarb and blood orange matched up together nicely, but I would have preferred a little more scotch flavor coming through.
I’ve also tried having them make a Penicillin for me once, but it wasn’t quite right. I wondered whether or not they had actually used any Islay scotch because there was no hint of peat or smoke whatsoever. Moreover, the honey and ginger flavors were a bit cloying and out of balance.
Next time I’m there, I’ll probably go back to drinking wine or beer — at least until they change the cocktail menu again.
The name might scare you, but don’t let it. There is nothing frightening here, especially if you want a grown-up place to get a good drink and hang out.
Strictly speaking, Death and Company is not a speakeasy since it isn’t hidden from view, it’s location is public, and it even has a guy out front manning the door even on a weeknight. It also has some magnificent drinks, a vibe that feels contemporary without being hipster, and a staff that is refreshingly cordial and friendly. I like to think of it as Milk & Honey without the mystery or, alternately, Milk & Honey gone to grad school.
The legendary entrance to PDT. . . . Seriously, it is.
At first blush, Please Don’t Tell (or “PDT” as it is often called) takes the nouveau speakeasy concept of Milk & Honey — nondescript entrance leading to bar with limited seating manned by a mixologist — up a notch or two. Despite those similarities, a visit to the two venues feels completely different: where Milk & Honey is a hideaway where the focus is on the beverages, PDT seems like more of a gimmick destination that luckily happens to have some very good drinks.
The most famous thing (dare I say, the best thing) PDT has going for it is its kitschy entrance:
You first have to go into Crif Dogs hot dogs, easily identifiable by the large hot dog shaped sign hanging over the sidewalk with “Eat Me” scrawled across it in faux mustard.
Once inside, you will find an unmarked phone booth (BTW: have any twentysomethings ever used a real working phone booth before in their lives?).
Once inside said phone booth, you pick up the phone, follow the instructions in front of you, and voila! — the “wall” of the phone booth opens to reveal a person who asks if you have a reservation.
For me, Milk & Honey is kinda like the music you listened to in high school: regardless of how much your everyday tastes may have changed or your repertoire has diversified, you’ll always have a soft spot for it and return to it often.
It may be tough to say who reignited the speakeasy and mixology movements, but a case could probably be made for Sasha Petraske, Sam Ross, and the other folks associated with this SoHo watering hole. What began as a small, unassuming neighborhood place on an unlikely street near Chinatown is now a legend. Some things have changed over the years, but its primary appeal remains constant: it is a great spot for you and a few friends to enjoy truly amazing drink concoctions while actually being able to carry on a conversation without having to shout.
If you only go to one New York speakeasy in your whole lifetime, make it this one.
For about ten years, I used to travel to New York regularly for business — as often as once every other month. Work took up most of my time, but I usually had opportunities to take in the local scene, both high-brow (Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall, 92nd Street Y, Broadway, among others) and low-brow (Broadway, Meat Packing district, insert various lounge/club/dive here). Then the economy started to slump, priorities changed at The Day Job, and before I realized it, it had been two years since I had visited Manhattan. Even though I am decidedly NOT a NY apologist, I actually found myself missing my visits there.
My recent and upcoming trips to the city have given me cause to revisit old haunts and find some new ones, especially since some of the folks accompanying me have only done touristy New York. As the work schedule unfortunately conflicts with any hope I may have of seeing a concert, opera, or other such thing, I decided to concentrate my off-duty time (and that of my associates tagging along) on exploring the burgeoning speakeasy scene in Manhattan.
This is not exactly a new trend, and New York certainly does not have a monopoly on the concept. I remember the first visit I took many years ago to an unmarked grey box on Melrose that went by the name Smalls K.O. where you had an equal chance to be drinking next to Pasadena preppies, local bikers, and/or Anthony Kiedis and Flea; Smalls would morph into Kane, and eventually became the legendary Forty Deuce, itself an homage to the raunchier past of 42nd Street in NY. In the 90′s, countless Trents, Mikes, and other hipsters would head to the corner of Vine and Santa Monica and search for the “Bargain Clown Mart” sign, the marker for the nondescript building below it which housed Three of Clubs (or “Three Clubs” as it is now called).
All that said, there are two important differences between such local places and the New York spots that I began to frequent in the new millennium:
The rise of “mixology” and the return to hand-crafted fancy drinks using fresh ingredients, non-generic alchohol, and a little imagination. These were cocktails that a guy could drink without fear of sullying his coolness; there wasn’t a single pink umbrella in sight.
Some of the locations were actually real-life speakeasies back in the days when the 18th Amendment and Volstead Act were the laws of the land. And even if they weren’t, there was some inherent New York grittiness (the dank smell on the sidewalk and piles of trash in front of the unmarked door) that added to the authentic feel.
Of course, being able to walk — er, um, stumble — from place to place, or take a $10 cab ride if needed, makes the idea of going to a strange location to try out multiple stiff drinks a bit more tolerable than, say, having to convince one of your friends to be a designated driver as you jaunt from Downtown to Hollywood to the Westside exploring the L.A. scene.
So that’s what I’ve been doing lately in my spare time away from home. It’s been an interesting exploration so far. Details are forthcoming.
“I love scotch. Scotchy scotch scotch. Here it goes down — down into my belly. Mmmm mmm mmm.” - Ron Burgundy
“Champagne’s funny stuff. I’m used to whiskey. Whiskey is a slap on the back, and champagne’s heavy mist before my eyes.” - Macaulay Connor
Scotch tasting events have been popping up with increasing frequency. One day it’s The Glenlivet, the next day Glenfiddich, then an invitation from Dewars . . . all for free. You’ve gotta love it. I certainly do, considering my scotch collection is second only to my wine collection in volume (admittedly though, a VERY distant second).
A couple of weeks ago I got the opportunity to visit “The House of Walker Experience” at the Cooper Design Space in Downtown Los Angeles put on by Johnnie Walker. JW, along with Chivas, was/is my father’s scotch of choice, and I’ve always had a bit of a nostalgic connection to that label even though I drink more single malt than blended. And I am no single malt snob — as long as it’s good and tasty, I’ll drink blended scotch without any problem.
The event itself was more theatrical, fashionable, and self-consciously hip than any other scotch-tasting event that I’d been to previously:
The reception area took up a good portion of the loft-space floor, with club-style music and lighting throbbing at a high but tasteful level
Very attractive hostesses wearing tiny black dresses were around every corner to help you register, serve a canapé, or point you to the bar, all with a casual friendliness that was a touch surprising and seemed genuine
A big screen showing twitter feeds of tweets featuring #Johnnie hashtags dominated a wall on one end of the room, a bar and a photo station with a background featuring faux Andy Warhol-styled JW bottles took up the other end. A smattering of couches were placed in front of a long picture window which offered a view to the East of Downtown LA, with the old Bendix neon sign standing out among the vintage industrial buildings, and in a small case were a few bottles of the really exclusive stuff: George V, Blue Label 200th Anniversary, among others
At some point, the curtains opened to the tasting room, where benches and tasting tables were arranged in rows along three sides of the room, all facing inwards. Pre-positioned on the tables were a three shot glasses (two filled with Johnnie Walker Black and one with Red), a glass of water, a bucket of ice, and carafes filled with water, ginger ale, and Orangina. The room held somewhere around 120-150 people.
A “Master of Whiskey” (whose name unfortunately escapes me) led the festivities, starting with a truly entertaining and informative video featuring Robert Carlyle — as the whiskey master astutely pondered to the crowd, it’s amazing he got through it on one take and without any cussing.
We started with Black neat, then with a little water care of the provided eye-dropper, then Red with our choice of Orangina or Ginger Ale to mix in, then Black again to sample with ice. The ladies in the black dresses then appeared to dramatically present chilled shots of Gold, and later to present snifters of Blue. In between, there were superfluous videos to accompany the announcement of each upcoming whiskey “expression” (as the different labels are called). There was the educational bit given as most of these things do — look, then smell, then taste . . . explanations of ice vs. water . . . Q & A . . . and then that was it.
The crowd probably made the foks at Johnnie Walker and parent company Diageo pretty happy: the room was mostly full, and on a Thursday night in one of the funkier parts of Downtown, that is worth something by itself. More importantly for them, it was mostly the right kind of crowd — 20 & 30 somethings, dressed stylishly, many clearly knowledgeable about the brands. In short, this was no frat party.
If there was any small disappointment, it was that they weren’t offering any Green or Swing to taste. It would have been nice to compare it to the other offerings.
Overall, a very good event and well worth my time. If you are a fan of scotch, try to wrangle an invitation the next time it comes to your town. And if you’re in LA, you still have tonight or tomorrow to try to squeeze your way in. Otherwise, I’ll see you there next year.
"Mal-A-Vitch" by Ed Moses, from the collection of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles (photo by CKDH)
As mentioned in a previous post, I visited Red Square in Mandalay Bay as part of my latest Las Vegas misadventures. For those of you who may not be familiar, Red Square is a bar & restaurant with an ostensibly post-communist Muscovite flavor; a giant, headless, faux-guano adorned statue of Vladimir Lenin stands guard near the main entrance. It is best known for two features: slabs of ice built into the bar, and a two-story high vodka freezer complete with a dining/meeting room and private vodka lockers available for lease. There is a full restaurant menu, and the food turned out to be surprisingly good, though not at all Russian besides the caviar. No matter; food wasn’t the point of our visit.
I am not much of a vodka drinker. My taste in spirits tends towards the bolder: scotch, especially neat or with ice, and bourbon, rum, and even tequila when mixed. There’s nothing wrong with vodka, mind you, but it’s not typically something I’m ever going to seek out; however, since I was with a group of vodka drinkers, including Mrs. CKDH and Mr. J, in an establishment known for its extensive vodka selection, vodka would be the drink of the night.
Red Square offers an assortment of four-shot vodka flights — all Russian, all New World, all Really Freakin’ Expensive (my description, not theirs), among others. After some discussion, Mr. J and I decided to split the following flights:
Both of the flights were delivered in frozen red blocks with indents for the individual shot glasses (as CKDH, Jr., pointed out: ”Hey, it looks like a ‘hard eight’”). The first shots in each flights were indicated by a stirrer placed in the glass, with the rest of the flight progressing clockwise from there.
All were enjoyable. I was surprised at how distinct the potato vodkas were from the others. My favorites happened to be the three Polish vodkas: all were balanced and went down very easily. The Russian vodkas — especially the Youri Dolgoruki and Zyr –all had a much more noticeable punch up front, but still finished smooth.
For someone without anything but a casual knowledge of vodka, it was a good education. I’ll be back for more lessons as soon as possible.
Hard Eight: two sets of Red Square vodka tasting flights
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Happy Friday. More importantly, Happy National Scotch Day.
This is not exactly a new trend, and New York certainly does not have a monopoly on the concept. I remember the first visit I took many years ago to an unmarked grey box on Melrose that went by the name 
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