Tasty Smacks

"Champagne's funny stuff. I'm used to whiskey. Whiskey's a slap on the back, and champagne's heavy mist before my eyes..."  - James Stewart, The Philadelphia Story

I’m more a whiskey girl myself – whiskey straight from Bourbon County, Kentucky. I think it’s in the blood…My great-grandfather was the owner of a chain of saloons in Chattanooga, TN, where my grandfather was born. Of course, Tennessee went dry in 1917, which is when, and why, the family moved West. I like to think that there is still a bit of a Southern Belle in both me and my sister; in my sister it was a penchant for Gone with the Wind, in me, it’s my love of the vanilla tones in Maker’s Mark. Knobb Creek is a bit too spicy, and Blanton’s just seems so fancy, so Kentucky Derby-pour-me-a-julep-for-my-big-hat, so pretentious (at least until I can actually afford it.) Hmmm.

The other thing about drinking Bourbon: boys don’t know what to do. Girls drink Chardonnay, or Champagne, or Cosmopolitans, they’re still in the Cs of the cocktail library…not anything remotely brown in color. I’ve had men stare at me with blank, wide eyes when I order a Maker’s Mark neat. It’s a nice moment. Grab it, hold it, repeat.

Not that I don’t reach for something clear now and again, but usually with minimal fuss and no colorful additives. I know how it is: between the boss, the Blackberry, the cell phone, the Shuffle, the Fast Pass, and the guy with the garlic breath next to you on the bus, you can hardly believe you made it out of the office and clear home without having a good primal scream-fest. You scramble the key into the lock, push through the door, and immediately stagger to the freezer wherein you claw through a blockade of Lean Cuisine entrees to the frosty bottle of Grey Goose lying prone at the back. With glee, you spear three olives, swish your one fancy cocktail glass (no chips in the rim) with a *whisper* of vermouth, pour the thick vodka into a shaker, add some olive juice so it’s good n’dirty, and shake shake shake… Pour into waiting olives, and take one good, salty sip. Aaaaahhhhhhh.

There really is nothing like a fabulously crisp martini at the end of such a day. No darling, it doesn’t mean you’re an alcoholic. It just means that it’s been one of those days, you don’t have any other vices (other than that Neiman’s bill,) and you deserve yourself a solid kick-start of a cocktail, dammit. Who’s to judge? I’ll bet if you went into all of those other people’s freezers you’d find a bit of the same, so pour and enjoy. Who knows, they may bring back prohibition tomorrow…