Category Archives: Cocktails

“First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

The bottle of crystal clear Ketel One sits chilled in the freezer, along with a single martini glass. At last I am alone, arriving before my friends return, ending where it began – in solitude. That’s the thing about drinking: it begins and ends alone, and the whole point of it – to get closer, to connect, to feel at ease among others – is ultimately rendered fruitless and barren.

I am visiting Missy and Joe, who will be back in a few hours. The house is quiet. After writing a few letters, I amble up to the kitchen and pour the vodka into its glass. No vermouth today. No olives. Only clear, transparent alcohol – in appearance like water, even as it goes down like fire. It’s a delicately wicked sting, taking me away from my tears, my failings, and my friends. 

The next morning, in the bleak early light of day, I awake alone. A glass of water rests on the table before me and I hurriedly gulp it down in the hopes of easing the hangover and reviving my worn organs. In the kitchen, two unopened cartons of Chinese food sit on an empty plate. Had I been awake it would have been what I shared with my friends. Instead, I remember nothing, and repeat most of the exact conversation that we had during my black-out.

Repeating myself, repeating myself – losing brain molecules one by one, and these seem to be the ones that matter, the ones that once set me apart from everyone else, and in some insane effort to fit in I may have finally succeeded.

The same stories, the same lines, and I remember none of it. In the shameful silence of the morning-after ~ for what is there to say? ~ and the scary thought that no one knows what this is like – this secret, clandestine love affair with liquor ~ my own private addiction, at last admitted to myself – and what do you do with that acknowledgment? I don’t want to stop – I want to be able to do it forever – for the rest of my life. 

For now, though, the thought of vodka – of any liquor – sickens me like it always does after an evening of excess. But I will return to it, faithfully and true, over and over again, because it has proven faithful and true to me. It has been the only one.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

Scene 6: Times Square, New York

Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, Maine

Scene 8: Hollywood Brown Derby, Albany, NY

Scene 9: Holiday Cocktail Hour, Albany, NY

and Scene 10: My brother’s first house, Amsterdam, NY.]

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A traditional, comfort drink – the Highball. Whiskey and ginger ale. It’s a lovely shade of amber, filled with fizz and clinking ice cubes, as it rests on the windowsill in the filtered winter sun. On this Christmas afternoon, I sit in my brother and sister-in-law’s home, where we’ll be having the holiday dinner in a few hours. Until then, there’s the highball. Family continues to arrive, the kids and dogs roam the floor, and a fire crackles in the fireplace, spewing wood smoke back into the room. A cozy scene with a cozy drink – all warmth and bonhomie and holiday spirit and in the midst of it all my senseless brain indicating loneliness and melancholy and a disconnect from everything that’s going on around me.

Surrounded by the people who love me the most, the people who love me unconditionally because we are family, I still feel like my one true companion is nestled in my hand, giving strength when called upon, and numbness when necessary. Soon, the golden liquid courses through my veins, traveling along the bloodstream, and warming me from the inside out. Cocooned and bound within myself by ropes of liquid fire.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

Scene 6: Times Square, New York

Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, Maine

Scene 8: Hollywood Brown Derby, Albany, NY

and Scene 9: Holiday Cocktail Hour, Albany, NY.]

“What stops you killing yourself when you’re intoxicated out of your mind is the thought that once you’re dead you won’t be able to drink any more.” – Marguerite Duras

The Vodka Gimlet is a pretty, light green thing for the holiday season. Alone again at one of my favorite haunts. Christmas music plays – the songs always so sad for some reason. Contemplative and filled with longing – for what? For faith, for Christ, for human failings. A lost childhood, a lost lover, a lost way. 

The bartender sets up, rubbing a lime around the rim of a chilled martini glass. He shakes the drink in the silver mixer – fresh lime juice and Ketel One – chilling it into its own winter wonderland – mottled citrus green perfection, dappled with slivers of ice. It is a glorious entity, the cocktail – and to the regal horn revelry of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ I raise my glass, saluting the season and the reason. The heart  – warm and incomprehendingly satiated at last – sends up a murmur of thanks and joy as the trumpets peel. Let us adore him indeed.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

Scene 6: Times Square, New York

Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, Maine

and Scene 8: Hollywood Brown Derby, Albany, NY.]

“How does a writer who drinks become a drunk who writes? In what way does an artist go so wildly off track yet continue to create?” – Kelly Boler

Silhouettes of faux banana trees line the walls, and shadows of banana leaves are painted near the ceiling. Outside, the winter winds rush wildly down Clinton Street, but here, in the Goddamn shade of a fucking fake banana tree, all is golden, warm, and glowing. A black and white movie plays on a flat-screen television behind me, something with Anthony Perkins in a bathrobe – but decidedly not ‘Psycho’. 

Faint echoes of old Hollywood – divine decadence and delicious depravity – of glamour gone ridiculously wrong and twice-removed in this snowy upstate New York winter locale – and through it all the cockles of my heart remain warmed by the drink in my hand. 

Older men greet each other with hearty handshakes and garrulous guffaws. This is how men of a certain age operate, and it’s charming to witness even as it’s going out of fashion. The days of the liquid lunch deal and, perhaps, of honor and a binding handshake, are quickly dissipating. I mourn that loss, as much as I mourn their inflexibility and their fading power.

The holidays are coming, and with them the requisite batch of parties and social events. It is enough to make me order another, and so I fortify myself against the onslaught. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

Scene 6: Times Square, New York

and Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, Maine.]

“But I knew it. And I remembered the fleeting bitterness that was mine as I realized that I was in a struggle with death and that these others did not know.” – Jack London

A fall surprise. In Ogunquit, Maine, at the new Tapas & Tinis, I sidle up to the bar, alone in the small room, and after a brief wait I am presented with a long list of faux-tinis. Summer has already passed, but the sun is shining and the air is warm – the idea of a cucumber martini, as suggested by the bartender, seems refreshing and perfect for a crisp fall day. 

Everyone who’s anyone knows that a traditional martini is made with gin, so a “Gintini” already has a strike of redundancy against it. Wretched mangling of the moniker aside, the Hendrick’s Cucumber Gintini is an unexpectedly superb treat. Floating cucumber slices add to its fresh appeal, their large blank eyes staring up at the drinker, open-wide and beckoning with their innocent scent. They leave a lingering fragrance, notes dancing across the surface, an effect that intensifies as the drink wears on – a pleasant sensation really, and an elegant way to ease into the gin. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

and Scene 6: Times Square, New York.]

“I have never been able to demonstrate love except when I have been drunk, and the love I have shown then has been trumped up out of the bottle.” ~ Jean Stafford

Ensconced twenty floors above 42nd Street, with the sun bouncing off the buildings on a late afternoon in fall, I am waiting for Suzie to arrive. At the hotel bar – is there anything grander than a hotel bar? – a tourist with an Irish accent orders a vodka with a Guiness chaser. I think of how easy it is to talk to strangers when you’ve had a drink. It’s the universal ice-breaker. The gentleman slides into a chair in the lounge and begins his descent. He thumbs through his American money before downing the vodka. I ponder the drink menu. 

An article in the ‘New York Times’ recently heralded the Negroni as a quintessential Fall drink. It’s on the menu, so I order one now. Rich with the redness of Campari and jazzed up with an orange peel, it goes down quickly – the rush of fall gliding along my throat like so many autumnal-hued leaves in scarlet, persimmon, and amber. 

One of the best things about having a drink while waiting for friends is that I don’t care whether or not they’re late. This bodes well for all involved parties. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown

and Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA.]

 “A poor companion without a cocktail, I became a very good companion with one.” – Jack London

Fall 1997 ~ Alone in Boston, I am feeling a sense of peace and solitary contentment, even as I want someone with whom to share the euphoria. Still, I’ve never minded drinking alone. Fall has unleashed its cool nights on the city – a welcome, refreshing jolt after sludging through a thick, humid, sticky summer, and the schizophrenic push and pull of October. By November the chill has stuck – even the subway has cooled off. The leaves no longer soft or fiery of color, they are brown and brittle and dry, crunching and crackling beneath the feet. The life of summer has been extinguished for another season, and I turn inside to gather myself for the coming winter. 

The walls of the living room are deep red, mottled by my own hands and aided by my Uncle – the hardwood floors are a light golden amber – it’s an Inferno of a room, as is my very first martini. I find a recipe for the classic drink in Mr. Boston’s bartending guide. For that first one, I pour in the gin and just the smallest dribble of dry vermouth – foregoing the olives completely – initiation by fire. Even chilled, it burns the tongue and throat, but by the last sip it’s going down smoothly. The bite is gone, and I’m deliriously up in flames. 

I will come to adore that burn – the first flush of the cheeks – the sting – the way the heat begins in the stomach, and how I can actually feel it moving outwards, emanating from within and bringing me to flushed relief – thousands of tiny tongues of flame, lapping away at my bloodstream and dotting it with sweet, hot forgetfulness.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

and Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown.]

“I would like to sit down with 1/2 dozen chosen companions & drink myself to death but I am sick alike of life, liquor and literature.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Boston ~ It’s a summer morning in Boston and the delicious bite of a Bloody Mary is sinking its horseradish-spiked teeth into my stomach. A stalk of celery rises out of the highball glass, its color and fragrance the embodiment of summer. Laughing and talking with my friends, I think how I’d like it to be this way always, and I have one of those moments where the world is in tune and I’m right in tune with the world, the kind you usually only notice long after the fact. Our breakfast arrives and I acquiesce to another Bloody. The world is brighter at the beginning of a buzz. We talk about the trivial things that occupy most people before marriage and kids and mortgages and homes. Even our worries seem carefree, and on mornings like this I think we sense that. 

Provincetown: It’s a summer morning in Provincetown and the disgusting bite of a Bloody Mary is sinking its horseradish-spiked teeth into my stomach. A wilted stalk of celery weeps from the edge of the highball glass, its bruised leaves tinged with brown decay – another victim of the heat of summer. Along the sidewalk the brunch-goers meander by, laughing and talking, as I sit there sneering at such Sunday morning silliness, all the while wanting to be part of it, wanting to not be so hung-over, wanting to take more interest in the conversation that goes on around me. My friends do not see my wandering eyes through my sunglasses, do not sense my shame and fear at what I have done. I sip at the hair of the dog, hoping for a bit of that feeling of flying, hoping it settles or at least quiets my raging stomach, hoping for forgetfulness of everything that came before. It does not come, either in sips or gulps, and by the end of the second one I realize it’s a waste. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

and Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco.]

“The buying of drinks for other men, and the accepting of drinks from other men devolved upon me as a social duty and a manhood rite.” – Jack London

Summer 1997 ~ Sitting in the grand wood-paneled drawing room of the Westin in Union Square, my friend Chris and I survey the scene. High ceilings soar into the sky, and a menu filled with specialty martinis is presented to us by an attentive but not overbearing server. In downtown San Francisco, we are two young men starting the weekend, and our lives, like so many do. The excitement of a new city, the thrill of a vacation, and the company of a good friend swirl together and I drink it all in.

Chris orders a margarita, silly salty rim and all. I decide on a melon martini. The drinks arrive. Mine is bright green – it glows like absinthe. It goes down much easier than that wormwood bitterness though – a sweet, pucker-inducing potion with a bit of lime to balance the Midori. 

After the second one, and before anything solid, I’m flying. Through Union Square we walk, and suddenly the crowds no longer matter, my non-existent love-life doesn’t matter, even the nagging urges to walk, issued by Chris of all people, don’t matter now. Just out of college, we have begun our adult lives. Like all other times when the bottle has been unleashed, I am more excited than scared, and the courage I find under the influence of liquor will become my trusted armor.

A decade later Chris and I will revisit the scene – the high wooden paneling will have been replaced by modern minimalism, and the ensuing years will have tread fine lines on our faces. But there is consolation in the company of a friend – and a martini. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

and Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY.]

 “The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. The lover craves any possible relation with the lover, even if this experience can cause him only pain.” – Carson McCullers

Spring 1997 ~ Tequila. Cheap. Dirt cheap. I don’t yet know that quality does matter, and good liquor makes a great deal of difference – in taste, in effect, and above all in hangovers. I down about half the bottle with some orange juice, and walk out onto the front porch where some college friends of Suzie have gathered, joining them on a ratty old couch. It is the most fun fifteen minutes of my life – talking and laughing and entering those heady first moments of oblivion when everything is right with the world, people are good, and no one is out to get you. It is my first tequila experience, and it hits hard, and swiftly. 

Stumbling upstairs, I make it into the bedroom or the bathroom – I can’t remember. All I know is that a few hours later I am still heaving up what little remains in my stomach into a plastic-lined garbage bucket that Suzie has set up beside me. The next morning she is, rightfully, a bit pissed off. My first bout with shame, captured in sheepy smiles on film, and a hasty retreat to my hometown. Before departing, I draw a rough rendering of a skull and bones on the half-empty tequila bottle. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1.]

 “I loathe alcohol. It is my enemy. And my seducer.” – Jean Stafford

Spring 1997 ~ I am weaving through the French Quarter, all bountiful decadence and beautiful desolation. This is my kind of town. Still new to drinking, I haven’t quite weaned off the sweet and fruity, beginning with a couple of amaretto sours and a white Russian, before stumbling into Oz and making my way up to the wrought iron balcony. In the cramped restroom, a couple tugs frantically at each other, hurriedly shutting the door in my face as I interrupt their kiss. It’s still early, and only one or two guys are dancing on the floor. A muscled man in tight trunks gyrates atop the bar, right above my head. I sip my drink and he leans down and tells me he likes my shirt. Thanking him, I slink back outside. My money will be poured down my throat before making it into his underwear.

On the street, a stand offering three-dollar Hurricanes has appeared in circus-like glory. A giggling couple orders one – an enormous amount of rum and frozen fruit juice in an obnoxiously ridiculous plastic cup. I can only finish about a quarter of mine, as I’m already swimming in drunken abandon. It’s sickly sweet stuff, and an instant headache comes on. Around the corner, I meet a Greek sailor on leave. We find an abandoned warehouse on the river, but I am already floating.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}