The fruit that made Oregon famous¹

By the early 1900s, maraschinos were all the rage in the United States, largely bobbing around in cocktails like the Manhattan. A New York Times story from Jan. 2, 1910, captured the nation’s maraschino-cherry mania: “A young woman engaged a room at a fashionable hotel and, after ordering a Manhattan cocktail, immediately sent for another. Soon she was ordering them by the dozen. The management interfered and someone was sent to expostulate with her; also to find out how she had been able to consume so many cocktails. She was found surrounded by the full glasses with the cherry gone.”

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Professor Ernest H. Wiegand

Remember that name for he is partly responsible for the up-fucking of mixed drinks. By developing the method for brining cherries to replicate the firmness of the Italian varieties, the Oregon State University professor effectively killed the fancy cherry import industry. Over the years, food manufactures have followed that original process and applied enough Red #40 to trigger behavior problems in kids.²

Stop buying those so called maraschino cherries for your cocktails. The candy-colored cherry zombies were fine when you were a kid but you’re an adult. Hell, I bet you dress like, eat like and make dick jokes like an adult. Unless you’re this guy, why not garnish like you’re all growed up?

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Posted at 3:26pm and tagged with: Albert,.

“On the Galatoire Goute, what do the two prices mean,” I ask.

“The Goute Petit is $18 and the Grande is $32,” Steve answers.

JT wisely points out that we’ll be ordering an entré. “Which do you recommend?”

Steve looks first at JT, sizing him up, then at me.

“The Petit.” he nods.

Galatoire’s is a restaurant on Bourbon street, just three doors down from Larry Flint’s Hustler Club. Their website subtly, yet proudly drops that it’s been family owned for four generations. The confident lack of showmanship and professional service runs contrary to just about everything else on Bourbon Street. Celebrities, politicians and a century of good people have all waited in line to dine at the restaurant mentioned in A Streetcar Named Desire. But on Wednesday night, JT in his sports coat and me in my new seersucker jacket, walked right in.

The maitre ‘d asked if we have a preferred waiter. We didn’t and that’s how we met Steve, a quiet, square headed man with a linebacker’s shoulders and a barely expressed smile. Quiet but impossible to ignore. “Good evening, I’m Steve.” Not “Steve, your waiter for the evening.” Not “Steve, your menu concierge” or some shit. Just “Steve.” A busser places water in front of us and both leave us to our man-date. We joke that Steve’s probably some kind of Jerry Lewis klutz or rookie. “Next time,” we declare, “we’ll ask for Armand or Tony. There’s gotta be an Armand here.” Steve returns with bread and simply and quickly tells us the specials of the day, the catches of the day and takes our drink orders. He never hovers, wants to share a little joke or gives us a line that’s meant to be charming. He’s omniscient in his timing, hitting us at lulls in conversation, asking how things are when our mouths are empty and clears empty dishes with certainty.

JT looks over and says, “I like that guy. That fugging guy.” I totally agree.

He brings us a desert menu and I hem and haw, pointing at my belly. He’s seen this charade before (“two forks!”) and opens it up between us. JT asks about the bread pudding. Steve locks eyes and with a professionalism that I completely lack, gives a nod that says “you know that ass is good.”

It was.

As we settle up, I ask Steve how long he’s been working here.

“20 years.”

But here’s the thing: The high bar of seasoned service isn’t unique to Steve at Galatoire’s. On Bourbon Street, yes. This city, no. Whether it’s po’ boys at Johnny’s or Mother’s, cajun food at Coop’s Place or even a blueberry blast of something at Smoothie King, this city treats you with respect. They’re aces. There’s no shame in working in the food industry here. This isn’t something you do summers out of school. It’s a living, in Steve’s case, a career and for others, a family tradition.

Outside this city, excluding the fanciest restaurants, the server wants to be pals or something. Out West, that’s just good customer service and what I’ve become used to. The easiest hustle for tips is flattery and a smile. In New Orleans you are a welcome client. You are the center of your night out— Not the star chef or the hotshot bartender identified by his arm garter. We pay through the nose for that level of service out here. It’s special.

In this city, you’re special.

This is the third in a five-part story about my first trip to New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail 2011. Part 1, Part 2

Posted at 3:53pm and tagged with: Albert,.

I’ve never been so I had to go. Cruise around a few cocktail blogs and within half a dozen clicks or so, you’re going to see Tales of the Cocktail referenced if not revered. Tales is a cocktail conference where the last elusive thing is uncovered, the next exclusive thing is revealed, and, unfortunately, some lousy thing will spooge into the world’s eye— straw hats may be that thing. I don’t know. Bartenders, brand reps and hangers-on with blogs from every corner with a watering-hole decided that New Orleans in the middle of the summer is the best possible place to spend four days/five nights in congress. It’s not. In fact, New Orleans may be the worst place to conduct a conference with so many high-quality sessions on everything from influential women in booze history to molecular breakdowns of how flavor works and generous servings of excellent liquors both old and new. Even with all of that, the pull of the city is powerful and not to be underestimated.

Take drinking tallboys wrapped in brown paper bags on the street, for instance.

[JT and his Bud]

Bagged Tall Boy

1 16-32oz Can of beer
1 brown paper bag

Place can in bag, step out onto the sidewalk, open and drink.

It’s New Orlean’s version of the first drink at a party of strangers: A name tag of sorts that says “Hello, I’m “All Right”.” All that subconscious wide-eyed, uncomfortable posturing slouches away as you drink NASCAR-swill among visiting sales reps that built in a 20-hour layover, frat boys excited to see titties in varying degrees of exposure and hard luck locals like Lucien.

Lucien

“How you doin’ today, huh? Where you from?”

It’s that obvious. I’m a mark standing alone outside the Holiday Inn on Royal, iPhone in one hand, bagged lager in the other. I tell Lucien I’m from Tacoma. He pulls his head back, looks me in the eye and says, “I never heard of Tacoma. They got brothers up there?”

“Me!” We laugh.

“All right, all right. Say…” and on that we step into Lucien’s private office constructed on eye contact and a hushed voice, “… you got 75 cent?”

I don’t. I don’t because one or two trips to San Francisco taught me that I’m a terrible liar in the face of aggressive panhandling. So I don’t keep change when I travel. Sad on some level, self-centered on others.

Lucien’s been homeless since Katrina. He doesn’t look a day over 45 but the last 10 of his 62 years have been rough: Divorce, unemployment, loss. The last two days he was in the hospital, admitted by a doctor after learning Lucien’s swollen legs were exacerbated by sleeping on “them hard benches.”

“That’s all right, man. I’m just glad to meet someone from another place. Where you say? Tatonka, Tonka-tonka? Tacoma! Haha!”

He raises his bagged tallboy. “Welcome to my city!”

We toast, he pauses again, “Hey! It’s your city too. It’s everyone’s city. Welcome, man. Have a good time! I be here all the time. Next time you see me say “hey Lucien!” and I’ll say “hey Albert!,” I’m good with names. I got dat and I ain’t hurt or on them drugs. Got dat.”

This is the first in a five-part story about my first trip to New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail 2011.

Posted at 2:48pm and tagged with: Albert,.