“An efficient bartender’s first aim should be to please his customers, paying particular attention to meet the individual wishes of those whose tastes and desires he has already watched and ascertained; and, with those whose peculiarities he has had no opportunity of learning, he should politely inquire how they wish their beverages served, and use his best judgment in endeavoring to fulfill their desires to their entire satisfaction.”
–Jerry Thomas, Father of American Mixology
Translation: “Ever been to a bar? Congrats. You’re a drink expert.”
From the first line of his Bar-Tender’s Guide—the undisputed Bible of American cocktails—Jerry Thomas gives us full chain-yanking privileges. Sure, he’s the guy with a few decades behind the bar and an encyclopedic knowledge of every tincture, herb and extract in that fancy highball you just ordered. But there’s one thing you’ve got on him: You’re the one drinking it.
No, this doesn’t mean you get to wear the whiskey-scented wizard hat. But it does mean you get final say in what ends up in your glass. After all, this ain’t cooking. It’s drinking. There are no rules.
Dash of Rose’s in your Sazerac?
You got it, lady.
Couple of ice cubes for that French 75?
Coming up, pal.
Splash a little sour mix in your margarita?
SCREW YOU FRATBOY GET OUT.
I said there were no rules. I didn’t say there were no standards.
There Are (Mostly) No Rules In Drinking
Not everyone agrees with my No Rules Rule. Siiiiiiigh. Naturally. After all, this is America, where the only art more popular than the art itself is the art of being a dick about the art. Same as baseball, jazz, porn, and every other invented-for-fun pastime, drinking is rife with fundamentalist nutjobs (see “purists”) who have one way of doing things⎯by the book. And not that book either. This book, with the leather binding and 6pt Century Gothic. The old one.
To hell with those people.
Jerry Thomas is often called the Father of American Mixology, but I like to think of him as the Jesus of American Mixology, in that every pearl the guy laid before us has since been twisted into some textbook regulation.
Whatever, Jerry Falwell. I won’t speak for The Great Be-Sandled One, but I’m pretty sure Thomas⎯the man who gave us the Blue Blazer and the Philadelphia Fish House Punch⎯wasn’t out to write a Rulebook, especially for a bunch of pinkie-twirling teasippers who tip like it’s 1862. No. My Jesus was out to write a book about booze. Sweet, glorious booze, and all the heavenly stuff you can do with it.
So order your drink the way you want. And if some whippersnappin’ barkeep starts huffing about authenticity and tradition, direct him to the very book he thinks he’s quoting, and ask him if he’s familiar with Rule Fucking One.
Then tell him you’ll take your whiskey sour minus the egg white and the Bible-thumping, thanks.
Sidenote: There are many ways to enjoy your drink, but there is one big No-No when ordering it. Put simply, DO feel entitled to tell a bartender how you’d like your Sidecar. DON’T feel entitled to tell a bartender how to make a Sidecar. The distinction might be subtle, but later, when you’re wondering why your Manhattan tastes like somebody rubbed a dog penis on it, it’ll hit you that it wasn’t so subtle to the person who does this for a living. A good bartender should bend over backward to make you happy. But there are very few for whom “bending over backward” means “letting you question my basic job skills.”
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