But Mama Always Put Vodka in Her Sangria!: Adventures in Eating, Drinking, and Making Merry

by Julia Reed

  Now a convert, I realize that bourbon, with or without the fig, is a wholly American and appropriate indulgence. Dr. Tom More, the Percy character who took refuge with Early Times, was doing so because in the “dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A.,” pure “wickedness” abounded in “high places” and all hell had broken loose; he was anticipating nothing less than the end of the world. If that scenario sounds scarily familiar, take heart. At the novel’s end, not only is the world still intact, More has married the best of the three women and is outside on his patio, merrily barbecuing a turkey on Christmas Eve. His accompaniments are the songs of Sinatra and several restorative shots of bourbon. There are worse remedies, as I’m sure the esteemed Judge Martin would agree, though it is unclear from his opinion whether he drinks the stuff. I looked him up and he was born in Boston, but he went to Davidson College and the University of Virginia law school and he’s lived in Louisville for all his adult life, so I suspect so. He’s also taken courageous stances against the death penalty in a pro-penalty state, so I also suspect he could use a shot or two at the end of the day. Next time I pour my own, I intend to raise a glass to him.

  THE COMMANDER’S PALACE WHISKEY SMASH

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  3 lemon wedges

  4 fresh spearmint leaves

  1 ounce orange curaçao

  2 ounces bourbon

  1 sprig fresh spearmint, for garnish

  Muddle the lemon wedges, spearmint leaves, and curaçao in a bar glass or shaker. Add the bourbon and ice and shake well. Strain the drink into a rocks glass filled with ice and garnish with the mint sprig.

  WHISKEY SMASH 2

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  2 orange wheels

  3 or 4 fresh mint leaves

  ½ ounce mint simple syrup

  2 to 3 ounces of the best bourbon you can find

  1 sprig mint, for garnish

  Fill a rocks glass with shaved or crushed ice and tuck orange slices inside so that they cover the sides of the glass. In the bottom of a shaker, stir mint leaves with mint syrup, tapping on the leaves to release their essence. Add bourbon and ice cubes and shake vigorously. Pour into the prepared glass and garnish with mint sprig.

  NOTE: This cocktail is a wonderful and slightly more complex alternative to a mint julep. To make the mint syrup, simply boil 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water for a few minutes until sugar has dissolved. Remove from heat and throw in 1 bunch of mint. Let steep for about 30 minutes, strain through a fine mesh sieve, and refrigerate.

  MY OLD FASHIONED

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  1 large Meyer lemon or orange peel, scraped to remove as much pith as possible

  1 sugar cube (preferably La Perruche brand)

  3 to 4 dashes Fee Brothers Orange Bitters

  3 to 4 dashes Fee Brothers Old Fashioned Bitters

  3 ounces Scotch

  1 orange slice, for garnish

  In a rocks glass, muddle peel, sugar cube with the bitters, and about 2 teaspoons of cold water. Swirl to make sure liquid coats glass. Add ice and whiskey, stir well, and garnish with orange slice.

  THE HOT AND HOT FISH CLUB’S FIG-INFUSED SMALL BATCH BOURBON

  ( Yield: 1 750ml bottle )

  1 pound fresh ripe figs, such as brown turkey, mission, or celeste

  1 (750ml) bottle good quality small batch bourbon, such as Basil Hayden

  Wash the figs well under warm running water and pat dry. Remove the stems and cut into quarters. Place the quartered figs into a 3-quart sterilized jar. Add the bourbon to the jar, reserving the original bourbon bottle, and secure the top of the jar. Allow the bourbon to sit in a cool, dry place for at least 2 weeks or until the bourbon has a distinct fig aroma and flavor.

  Strain the infusion through a fine-meshed sieve into a clean container. Place the bourbon-soaked figs into an airtight container in the refrigerator and reserve for the Fig-Infused Bourbon “Toddy.” Pour the infused bourbon back into the reserved bourbon bottle. The bourbon is ready to use and will keep, at room temperature, for up to 1 year.

  FIG-INFUSED BOURBON “TODDY”

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  1½ ounces fig-infused bourbon

  ½ bourbon-soaked fig, cut into quarters

  1 cup ice

  1 preserved fig or maraschino cherry, for garnish

  Combine the bourbon, bourbon-soaked fig, and the ice in a martini shaker and muddle until the fig is well mashed and the ice is somewhat crushed. Pour the mixture into a rocks glass and garnish with the preserved fig or cherry.

  20

  The Morning After

  There comes a time in every drinker’s life when he or she is in need of a reviver, a pick-me-up, something to restore interest in living to see another day, maybe even eating a little something. Fortunately, much research has been devoted to the subject. In Charles H. Baker, Jr.’s Exotic Drink Book (volume two of The Gentleman’s Companion), he offers up no less than “twenty and seven picker uppers,” a “hand-culled little list of variegated hairs of the dog” ranging from a Swiss Yodeler (a jigger of absinthe shaken with an egg white and a teaspoon of anisette) to a Peking Tiger’s Milk No. 1 (essentially a milk punch made with the best cognac you can afford).

  Baker, whose volume is subtitled Around the World with Jigger, Beaker and Flask, writes that his carefully chosen picker-uppers “not only enable us to greet the new day undismayed but may—on occasion—save a life.” The same miracle-working qualities are ascribed to the “patent morning revivers” created by Jeeves, the ever-resourceful “gentleman’s personal gentleman,” employed by London’s bumbling man-about-town Bertie Wooster. In Jeeves Takes Charge, one of P. G. Wodehouse’s earliest stories featuring the two characters, Bertie is afflicted with an especially painful “morning head” and hires Jeeves after he’s been cured by the valet’s “tissue-restorer,” an extra fiery version of a prairie oyster. Its immediate effects are a tad rough: “For a moment, I felt as if somebody had touched off a bomb inside the old bean and was strolling down my throat with a lighted torch.” In subsequent rematches, Bertie’s skull flies toward the ceiling and his eyes “rebound from the opposite wall like racquet balls,” but the onslaught is invariably pronounced worth it. “The sun shone in through the window; birds twittered in the treetops; and, generally speaking, hope dawned once more.”

  Still, getting there remains a touchy business. W. C. Fields once refused a proffered Bromo Seltzer by explaining that he couldn’t stand the noise. When Kingsley Amis decided to treat a “kingly hangover” with bicarbonate of soda and a vodka chaser, his companion put the same combo in a glass as a demonstration of what was likely going on in Amis’s stomach: “The mixture turned black and gave off smoke.” Better, then, to ease into things without wreaking quite so much violence.

  Having learned his lesson, Amis suggests sex, water, a series of hot baths and showers, followed by a “tuft” of the dog that bit you. Among Baker’s favored “tufts” is “the refreshing chill tartness” of a very large, very cold champagne cocktail (preferably the Imperial Cossack Crusta), an admitted expense justified by the alternative: “a ‘turn’ from the sight of a raw egg or the taste of sweet ingredients.” Evelyn Waugh discovered his own champagne remedy, “an almost unendurably desirable drink,” after a late night in Athens with some “charming Norwegians.” A large sugar cube is soaked in Angostura bitters, rolled in cayenne pepper, and placed in a roomy glass, which is then filled with champagne. “Each bubble as it rises to the surface carries with it a red grain of pepper,” Waugh wrote, “so that as one drinks, one’s appetite is at once stimulated and gratified, heat and cold, fire and liquid, contending on one’s palate and alternating in the mastery of one’s sensations.”

  I am all for similar stimulation and gratification, but I needn’t be inspired to the same level of poetic rapture of the gentlemen above. What I’m looking for is a drink that not only tames the ills of the previous evening but induces a certain amount of stamina, along with equal measur
es of charm and affability—the kind needed to get through such alcohol-laden occasions as Mardi Gras, festive house parties or road trips, and long wedding weekends. To this end I frequently employ the comparatively prosaic Bloody Mary, but only if it’s the one made from fresh-squeezed tomato juice at Sylvain in New Orleans’s French Quarter or the recipe perfected by my mother, who uses almost as much lime as tomato juice. A rocky morning is no time for a concoction as thick and over-seasoned as a bottle of Ragú, nor does one need a salad—lemon wedge, olive, bean, pickled pepper, whatever—all but blocking the intake of the Bloody. A lovely pale yellow stalk of celery from the tender heart of the bunch is an appropriate garnish, as is a single spear of pickled okra. Otherwise let it go.

  Another of my favorite restoratives is the Bullshot, a perfect combination of beef bouillon and vodka created at Bangkok’s Rama Hotel and introduced to me by the late gardener/socialite C. Z. Guest, who added a genius stroke in the form of freshly grated horseradish. The horseradish provides a less abusive bite than the concoctions of Jeeves and Amis, and the beef stock provides a nourishing dose of protein that is also kind to the tummy. The key is stock that is very rich but very clear, and Polish or Russian vodka that is very good and very cold.

  A healthy amount of chilled vodka also is important to the latest—and possibly the greatest—reviver that I’ve found. Called a St. Cloud, it was discovered in the lovely Boston bistro Aquitaine by my friends Carl and Amanda Cottingham, with whom I grew up in Mississippi. Carl and Amanda were smart enough to line up dozens of Pimm’s Cups on silver trays as readily accessible revivers during a brunch they threw during my own very long wedding weekend. I trust them on all matters of food and drink, so that when Carl told me what was in the St. Cloud—vodka, fresh grapefruit juice, and rosemary simple syrup—I mixed one up at once. The cocktail has since saved my own life and those of countless others and is now the house (morning) drink. Such are its powers that I went to Boston (ostensibly on other business) to taste it, a mission that turned me on to the origin of the name (the restaurant was originally called the St. Cloud) as well as a fourth ingredient (lime zest grated over the top).

  Since rosemary is said to quicken the metabolism, strengthen the stomach, and act as a decongestant, the St. Cloud has clear medicinal qualities. There’s also all that vitamin C in the grapefruit juice. Beyond that, it is utterly delicious and, imbibed judiciously, definitely increases the charm factor.

  ST. CLOUD

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  2 cups water

  2 cups sugar

  A handful of rosemary branches

  5 or 6 ounces freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, strained and chilled

  2 ounces vodka, well chilled

  Freshly grated lime zest

  Make a simple syrup by boiling 2 cups sugar and 2 cups water for a few minutes until the sugar is completely dissolved. Take the pot off the heat and steep a healthy handful of rosemary branches in the syrup. Leave it on the counter to cool with the herbs for 30 minutes to an hour. Remove branches and strain syrup. This will keep refrigerated in a jar for at least a month, which is why I always make at least 2 cups of the stuff.

  While the syrup is cooling, squeeze fresh grapefruits (the Ruby Red variety is sweetest and prettiest) to make as much juice as you need. Strain through a wire mesh strainer, and chill.

  For one drink, put 2 ounces of vodka in a highball glass and top with grapefruit juice. Stir in a couple of tablespoons of the rosemary syrup and taste (depending on the sweetness of the juice, you may need more). Grate lime zest over the top and garnish with a rosemary sprig.

  NOTE: If you want to get fancy, shake the 2 ounces of vodka with 5 ounces of grapefruit juice and 2 tablespoons of simple syrup in a shaker filled with ice. Strain into a chilled stemmed glass and taste to see if it needs more syrup before grating the lime zest over the top. I also do the math and make these in quantities large enough for pitchers to serve at brunches and other gatherings.

  IMPERIAL COSSACK CRUSTA

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  1 lime

  Powdered sugar

  2 dashes orange bitters (preferably Fee Brothers)

  2 ounces cognac

  1 ounce kummel, chilled

  Champagne, chilled

  Cut the lime in half lengthwise and rub both sides of each half (to release both the oils and the juices) on the entire inside of a large stemmed cocktail or wineglass, as well as around the rim and about a half-inch down below the rim on the outside. Dip the lip in powdered sugar, then fill the whole glass with sugar. Empty out the sugar and allow what sticks to remain.

  To a bar glass with three ice cubes, add the bitters, cognac, and kummel, and stir. Pour the mixture into the prepared glass and top with chilled champagne.

  NOTE: Kummel is a delicious clear liqueur flavored with caraway seed, fennel, and cumin.

  BULLSHOT

  ( Yield: 1 drink )

  4 ounces beef bouillon

  1 teaspoon lemon juice

  1 or 2 dashes Worcestershire sauce

  1 to 2 dashes Tabasco sauce

  2 ounces vodka

  Freshly grated horseradish

  Pour the bouillon, lemon juice, Worcestershire, and Tabasco into a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Add vodka and shake. Strain into a highball glass and grate horseradish over the top. Stir gently and serve.

  NOTE: No one wants a Bullshot with even a trace of fat in the bouillon—chilled fat is a most unpleasant sensation. The trick is to make a good homemade stock (flavored with onion, celery, and parsley—no carrots) and degrease it thoroughly. (Chill, remove the layer of hard fat on the surface, and strain twice through 3 layers of cheesecloth.)

  JUDY’S BLOODY MARY MIX

  ( Yield: Enough for about 8 cocktails )

  One 46-ounce can tomato juice

  1¼ cups freshly squeezed lime juice

  ½ cup Worcestershire sauce

  4 healthy dashes Tabasco

  1 tablespoon salt

  Freshly ground black pepper

  1 tablespoon prepared horseradish

  Put first five ingredients in a pitcher and stir well. Add pepper to taste and stir in horseradish.

  CORPSE REVIVER NO. 2

  ( Yield: 1 cocktail )

  1 ounce gin

  1 ounce Cointreau

  1 ounce Lillet blanc

  1 ounce lemon juice

  1⁄8 teaspoon Pernod or absinthe

  1 maraschino cherry, stem removed, for garnish

  Fill a stemmed glass with ice to chill. In a cocktail shaker, combine the first five ingredients and shake vigorously. Empty ice from the martini glass and pour in strained mixture from shaker. Garnish with cherry.

  NOTE: There are many versions of the Corpse Reviver No. 2, but this one from The Savoy Cocktail Book of 1930 by Harry Craddock is a classic. Don’t forget to heed Craddock’s warning: “Four of these taken in swift succession will unrevive the corpse again.”

  … AND MAKING MERRY

  21

  A Happy Enchilada

  Last night, thunderstorms, high winds, and hail ravaged areas in and around New Orleans. This morning, my windows are wide open and I’m looking out at one of the most beautiful days I’ve ever seen. It’s the kind of day that allows people to forget the impending hurricane season and summer’s steamy slog. There’s absolutely no humidity and the sky is a cloudless deep blue. The sweet olives have just popped and the scent is everywhere; the dog is in his usual spot on the second-floor balcony. I’ve already—almost—forgotten the fact that the latest guaranteed repair on my permanently leaking sunroom flat roof typically did not hold, or that last week after a similar storm, St. Charles Avenue was briefly a river. I once wrote that living in New Orleans was like living in the Old Testament, but right this minute I’m not thinking about the pestilence and plagues and manmade mayhem that are sure to be around the corner.

  Such are the vicissitudes of life down here—and pretty much everywhere else. It’s like the lyrics of
the John Prine song: “You’re up one day, the next you’re down; It’s a half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown; That’s the way that the world goes round.” There are a lot of things I love about that song, not least of which is a story Prine tells about a woman who once requested it at a concert. She’d misheard the words “half an inch of water” and asked him to play “that happy enchilada song.” How great a metaphor is that? Who in the world wouldn’t want a happy enchilada, bursting with all kinds of good stuff?

  Today, then, is a happy enchilada day. We are not, for a change, drowning, but waving. That last line, of course, is a play on the Stevie Smith poem Not Waving but Drowning, and it is not, I admit, original. When my friend, the writer and editor Henry Allen, gave me a volume of Smith’s poems several years ago, he inscribed it, “To Julia, Who is not drowning, but waving.” It was among the best compliments I’ve ever received and by far the best book inscription. It’s also a good philosophy to cling to on most days no matter where you live, but especially here, where a half an inch of water would be the good news.

  The first time I heard John Prine live was at the Greenville (Mississippi) High School auditorium when I was thirteen and he was barely famous. Kenneth Haxton, the director of our local symphony who delighted in stirring up trouble, slipped him into the fall lineup between an opera singer and a piano soloist. The unsuspecting season ticket holders, including a lot of old ladies in chiffon and mink, valiantly stuck it out. The few Baptists in attendance exited en masse when Prine got to the line in “Sam Stone” about Jesus Christ dying “for nothing, I suppose,” but then irony and context have never been their strong suits. The rest of us could not believe our luck.