The Carousel Lounge’s Vieux Carre
A couple who are friends of mine are going to New Orleans for the Memorial Day Weekend.
“Be sure to find Marvin Allen at the Monteleone Carousel Lounge and order a Vieux Carre,” I told Barbara. Somehow, just because I visit there every other month or so, I’m supposed to be an expert on everything New Orleans.
“What’s a Vieux Carre and how do you spell it?” Barbara asked as George furiously wrote down my suggestion on a cocktail napkin.
“Not sure how to spell it, exactly. It’s French. Who can spell in French?” I replied. “You don’t have to spell it right or pronounce it right, Marvin will know what you want.”
Vieux Carre Cocktail
1/2 ounce rye whiskey
1/2 ounce cognac
1/2 ounce dry vermouth
1/2 teaspoon Benedictine
dash Peychaud’s bitters
dash Angostura bittersShake, serve on the rocks with a twist of lemon
Vieux Carre is the traditional French name for the French Quarter and this classic drink is hard to find elsewhere.
Using your saber to drink Champagne
You own a saber, don’t you?
It’s Monday night, so this must be the University of Houston and my weekly International Sommelier Guild class on wine appreciation. Twenty-two wine geeks and one geeky instructor, all talking and drinking wine for five to seven hours on a Monday night.
Those of you who really, really want to know more about wine should consider signing up. There are classes throughout the US and Canada (and much of the world).
But just so you don’t think this is all study and no play, here’s a quick video of Darryl Beeson (the instructor) and several of the class participants learning the art of sabering a bottle of Champagne.
The best sazerac in New Orleans
It was still early on a Friday night. I had just lost all the money I was willing to part with at the tables of Harrah’s Casino in New Orleans. I had played “Let It Ride” for more than five hours, holding my own most of the time. I had hoped for a big pay-off eventually, but my $300 ran out first.
I started walking out of the casino, towards the Poydras street exit right where John Besh’s steak house is. There I saw a little bar with plenty of traffic. Upscale compared to most casino bars, this one actually charged for drinks.
I sat in one of the lonely bar stools. I had an hour or so to kill before my wife ran through the rest of her cash at the nickle slots.
“If I asked you to make me a Sazerac, would you know how?” I asked the barman.
Foolish me.
Behind the bar was Mark Quigley. I came to find out that he’s been behind some bar somewhere in New Orleans for more than thirty years.
“Oh, yeah,” Mr. Quigley replied. “I know how.” (I use the term “Mr. Quigley” to express my utmost respect.)
Now a Sazerac isn’t a complicated drink, at least not in the number of ingredients required to get it into a glass. In a Sazerac, the complications come from the exact measurement of the ingredients and precise application of the techniques used to prepare it.
“OK, make me a Sazerac,” I said in cautious anticipation.
Now I’m no Sazerac virgin.
I’ve had Sazeracs made by the best: Marvin Allen at the Hotel Monteleone’s Carousel bar, Chris Hannah at Arnaud’s French 75 and Chris McMillian at the Ritz’s Library Bar (back before its recent disappointing transformation into a place to be avoided at all costs).
Mr. Quigley set a short rocks glass on the bar and filled it with ice. In a second glass, he muddled a sugar cube with a dash of Peychaud’s bitters and then added a three-ounce pour of baby Sazerac rye whiskey, topping the entire mixture with perfectly clear ice cubes. With his bar spoon, Mr. Quigley expertly stirred the precious drink to its ideal temperature and dilution.
As that second glass sat on the bar, Mr. Quigley emptied the ice from the first glass. In true New Orleans fashion, he then poured a small amount of Herbsaint into the chilled glass and tossed the glass into the air, spinning it quite naturally to distribute a fine sheen of flavor around the inside of the glass. A few quick shakes removed the last drops of liquid left in the bottom. Into this glass, he strained the contents of the other glass.
As a finale to the ritual, right in front of me he twists a lemon peel over the drink, and then slides the perfect Sazerac towards me, the glass sitting perfectly centered on a Harrah’s cocktail napkin.
No doubt at all: Mark Quigley makes the best Sazerac in New Orleans.
Sazerac
The classic New Orleans cocktail3 ounces rye whiskey (Sazerac is best)
1/2 simple syrup (or to taste)
dash Peychaud’s bitters (accept no substitute)stir with ice, pour into a glass rinsed with Herbsaint liqueur (absinthe works great, too). Garnish with a lemon twist.
It takes seven times before you’ll like Campari
It was about six or seven years ago. I was enamoured with the marketing campaign for an exotic Italian liqueur. The ads all showed smart, sophisticated Europeans sipping a wondrously red drink from elegant, crystal glasses. The people in the ads were attractive, sexy and just flat gorgeous. I wanted to be like them.
I bought my first bottle of Campari and took it home.
On the bottle there was a bottle tag with two recipes: Campari and soda and something called a “Negroni.” With great expectation I mixed the simple highball: two parts club soda, one part Campari, served in a tall glass with lots of ice. I used my best crystal so I would experience the drink just like those people in the ads.
“Blah!” I yelled out loud. My wife looked at me strangely. (OK, that’s not so unusual.)
I didn’t like it.
I drank the whole drink and then mixed myself another, this time four parts soda, one part Campari.
I didn’t like that drink any better.
I would try Campari again and again over the next several weeks. But it didn’t matter how I mixed it: on the rocks, in a Negroni, as a shot. No matter what, I always had the same reaction: “Blah!”
Eventually, I shoved the bottle behind the thirty or so other bottles in the cabinet under my wet bar. I soon forgot I had it.
A few years later, I pulled the two-thirds full bottle out from its hiding place and remembered, bitterly, my previous experiences.
“Good riddance!” I said as I threw the bottle out.
Flash forward several years to late 2006.
I’m walking around my local Spec’s looking for something new to try and there’s that exotic red liqueur staring me in the face.
“Try me again,” I hear the bottle say. “The Italians have been drinking me for 146 years. I must be good for something.”
“Liar!” I scream. The store clerk asks me to keep the noise down.
But something inside me tells me that what the bottle said must be right. So, hesitantly, I put a bottle into my shopping cart and roll the cart to the checkout register.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at home looking at a tall, elegant crystal glass with two parts club soda, one part Campari and lots of ice.
I take a reluctant sip.
“Hmm,” I say. “Needs a little gin and a touch of sweet vermouth.”
Negroni
1 ounce gin (I like Boodles for everyday)
1 ounce sweet vermouth
1 ounce Camparishake, serve up with an orange slice
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