Thought for Food

Last night was for Ramos Gin Fizzes* with best friends, Andrea’s delicious (and light!) kale and squash lasagna,** a fabulous loft party with fabulous new friends, 1 am dance break, and a debonair gay gentleman who told me I’m beautiful (gay compliments are the best compliments, don’t you think?).

In other words: exactly what I needed.

* We didn’t have soda, so we topped it off with the only bubbly on hand … cava! Extra fabulous. And lest you think that’s what my Ramoses look like, that’s actually cava in my Ramos glass.

** Secret’s in the finest fresh pasta and ricotta from Union Market. (I feel like she grew up so fast! :)

And after a twirl in the Central Park rink and a walk down snowy paths, you’re positively obligated to warm up with a gin martini (three olives) under the watchful smirk of Old King Cole.

M.’s traditional homemade macarons: Champagne and Kir Royale, both with rum — in honor of the new bar — and dusted with gold.

He also made a couple rounds of Ramos Gin Fizzes on Christmas morning (twice makes it a tradition!) and this gorgeous crown roast for Christmas dinner.

We have our ups and downs, lord knows, but that gent sure knows the way to my heart. (A new poppy-red bag didn’t hurt, either. :)

Christmas Eve was a Friday so not only did we have our traditional holiday sushi but also our customary 5 o’clock martinis. (My aunt and uncle have neither martini glasses nor toothpicks; we made do and more importantly, no one was impaled.)

PS: In an effort to preserve M.’s good humor, they were made with gin. ;)

We’re not big on traditions. But we’ve got sushi on Christmas Eve and now, Friday evening drinks on the front yard. My parents started doing it a few years ago and it’s stuck. They watch the neighborhood go by — University of Minnesota students and professors, young families with strollers and tiny-bikes-with-training-wheels, teenagers headed in packs to the park — and let the weekend sink in.

This Friday was particularly gorgeous — the trees just past their riotous peak, the air warm and wonderful-smelling. My parents’ usually have Ketel One martinis but when M.’s around they ask for something special (knowing, of course, that the mere thought of a vodka martini irritates his sensitive disposition). This was a cocktail of rum, gin, freshly-squeezed apple juice (from my parents’ tree!), homemade ginger syrup, and lemon. I don’t have to tell you it was heaven.

Tad Friend’s memoir of growing up wasp — “I’m too cheap to spring for a new acronym” — is quite amusing and best enjoyed with gin and tonics and stale Saltines.

Of his mother, he writes:

As a sophomore at Smith, she came in second to Sylvia Plath in a poetry contest judged by W. H. Auden (who, when my mother was introduced to him a year later, delighted her by saying, “I believe I have read your verse”). She longed to best Plath, her nemesis. Later, though, she would toss her head and say, “Just as well I didn’t win. Head in the oven, and so forth.”

Ha.

There’s a lot of cocktail happenins around town this week … not that I’m complaining. On Sunday, 10.10.10, we went to Tanqueray #10’s tenth anniversary party at Vandaag.

At the stroke of 10, we toasted gin and our own mortality (after all, the next time this happens we’ll all be dead). This is a stirred drink, the name of which I remember not, but what’s noteable is Vandaag’s unique and gorgeous and very Danish cocktail glasses. I love.

M.’s cousin Tulsi was visiting from London. The last time she was here M. squired her around to all the Serious Cocktail Bars; this time she came with a list of must-have, totally-craving drinks. At the top was a Ramos Gin Fizz, that legendary ladykiller (hey, it worked on me).

(Can we just take a moment to admire how gorgeous she is? Damn.)

Our friend Jim took on the task with all the dedication a good Ramos requires. He shook it for 4 minutes then passed it to M., who shook it for another 4 and passed it to me. I sorta-shook it for a minute and then passed it to this random girl at the bar who was watching the performance with delighted saucer eyes. She sorta-shook it and passed it back to M. who shook it some more and then passed it back to Jim who shook it shook it shook it and finally — a whopping 4” of sweet, tart foam! Glory be.

Tulsi was happy as a fat kid with an ice cream cone — except way happier ‘cause her ice cream had gin.

The Tastes Like Salad. So named because it … tastes like salad.

2 parts gin

3/4 part basil syrup

3/4 lemon juice

Muddled arugula

Build in a highball (or pint glass) over ice. Note: you can substitute simple syrup & muddle with basil + arugula. Play! :)

When I want to annoy my boyfriend I order a Ketel One martini, extra dirty. (Vodka is sooooo uncouth; a proper martini is made with gin and has a lemon twist; and extra dirty just means “make it so salty I can barely taste the booze.” Not that vodka has much of a taste – the very reason cocktail geeks disdain it. It is, as Mandie reminded me I taught her, just a vehicle for alcohol. (“My dear,” she said, “that is the entire point.” Touché.))

Anyway. On Friday evening at Flatbush Farm, a dirty Ketel One martini was all I wanted. It wasn’t to annoy M.; he wasn’t there (not that I had reason to). Guess I just wanted to get crunkkkkd. (And for the record, it was salty as a salt-lick and positively dripping with uncouth booze and utterly, absolutely glorious.)