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Memo to Kids: Drunk Is Cool!

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  Being drunk is fun. That’s one of the lessons that kids of my generation learned from watching television in the 1960s. My friends and I routinely played at two things: pretended to get shot and die (westerns were big then) and stagger around pretending to be drunk—on TV (and in film, for that matter) being drunk was nearly always played for laughs. To give an example from “Star Trek,” hands down my favorite TV show: In the second season episode “By Any Other Name,” the Enterprise is hijacked by emotionless aliens who neutralize every crewman aboard the ship except Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Scotty. The aliens have had to assume human form in order to control the Enterprise, which of course is designed for humans, and as a result have acquired unaccustomed human emotions--a vulnerability that Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Scotty exploit to retake the ship. Kirk (inevitably) seduces one of the aliens who has assumed female form. Spock manipulates the alien leader to become murderously jealo

Binge-Drinking

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Binge-drinking means willfully getting drunk; that is to say, drinking enough that your blood alcohol concentration (BAC) reaches .08 percent or more. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re an alcoholic. Most binge-drinkers aren’t. It still does a lot of damage over time, however. It may or may not surprise you to know that according to a CDC study done in 2015, one in six American adults binge-drinks about once a week. That’s 37 million adults. A standard drink is one 12-ounce beer, 5 oz. wine, or 1.5 oz. of distilled spirits. At the rate of five standard drinks in a two-hour period—four if you’re a woman—you will have consumed the equivalent of 3 oz. of ethanol. Cumulatively, that adds up to 17 billion standard drinks consumed by adults each year; or to bring it down to a human level, 467 standard drinks per binge drinker. The adults most likely to binge-drink are between 18 and 34. Binge drinking is more common among people with higher education levels and incomes north of $75,000

The Sazerac

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Things that remind you irresistibly of New Orleans: Red Beans and Rice, bare breasts and beads, and memories of running for your life on Canal Street after midnight. Also the Sazerac, the emblematic cocktail of the Big Easy. Here’s the recipe for the authoritative modern Sazerac, as served at the Sazerac Bar in the 5-star Roosevelt Hotel (just off Canal Street and about a block from Bourbon Street). It comes from _The Sazerac_ by Tim McNally (Louisiana State University Press, 2020). 1 cube sugar 1.5 oz. Sazerac Rye Whiskey 0.25 oz. Herbsaint 3 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters Lemon peel The recipe involves two Old-Fashioned glasses (8-11 ounces volume). Chill the first one—that’s the one in which the completed Sazerac is going to end up. Then place the sugar cube and Peychaud’s bitters in the second. Muddle it to crush the sugar. (Personally, I use simple syrup. It’s quicker and does a more thorough job of mixing the sugar and bitters.) Add the Sazerac Rye Whiskey (actually, any g

Blood and Sand and Booze

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This cocktail is called the Blood and Sand, after the 1922 film of that name starring Rudolph Valentino. He portrays an impoverished lad who becomes one of the greatest matadors in Spain. (The ceramic bull and matador in the pic, by the way, were a gift from my paternal grandmother, who made and sold ceramics for a living.) The Blood and Sand is a somewhat bewildering cocktail that involves 3/4 oz. Scotch whisky, 3/4 oz. cherry liqueur (preferably Heering), 3/4 oz. sweet vermouth, and 3/4 oz. orange juice. It’s tasty but has a “just miss” character because three of its four ingredients are sweet. Lemon or lime juice would offset the sweetness but neither really works in the cocktail, so you either have to live with it or—and this is ingenious—add citric acid so that the orange juice retains its flavor but becomes more tart. Yet another example of better living through chemistry. To make a Blood and Sand (sans citric acid), pour the four ingredients into a mixing tin filled with ic

The Vesper

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Among the most famous cocktails in literary history is the Vesper, a Martini variant created on the spot by James Bond at the bar of the Casino Royale (which in the novel is set near Dieppe on the English Channel, not Montenegro as in the excellent 2006 film with Daniel Craig). Bond names it for his ravishingly beautiful partner, Vesper Lynd. It’s a good cocktail—Robert Simonson, for many years the bar and cocktail critic for the New York Times—pronounced it “a damn fine drink.” But as a Martini it’s kind of strange. Bond initially orders a “dry martini. One. In a deep champagne goblet.” “Oui, monsieur,” replies the barman. “Just a moment,” Bond says. “Three measures of Gordon’s [dry gin], one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it is ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?” “Certainly, Monsieur.” Notes the narrator, Ian Fleming: “The barman seemed pleased with the idea.” Personally, I would have thought the barman would be pu

James Bond's First Cocktail: The Americano

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Early in Ian Fleming’s “Casino Royale,” the novel that introduced the world to James Bond, Agent 007, Bond walks into the sumptuous Hermitage Bar near the casino, takes a table by one of its broad windows, and orders a cocktail. It is not, as one might expect, a Martini, but rather an Americano…. As always, his taste was impeccable. It was a warm afternoon, too early for a Martini but precisely the time for something crisp and refreshing, and the Americano was nothing if not crisp and refreshing. An Americano, Bond knew perfectly well, consisted of 1.5 oz. Campari and 1.5 oz. sweet vermouth, poured over ice into a Highball glass and then filled the rest of the way with seltzer water, stirred lightly—if the barman knew his business—just enough to make sure the ingredients were mixed but not enough to affect the carbonation. And garnished with a lemon or orange wheel. Bond did not specify which to the waiter but made a bet with himself that it would be orange, and it was—a good omen

Kir Royale

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Up your game with that midnight New Years toast. Instead of (yawn) champagne, go with Kir Royale. It’s classier and almost as easy to make. Into a champagne flute, pour: 1/2 oz Crème de Cassis Top with champagne (or sparkling wine) Garnish with a lemon twist. (One caveat: Cassis doesn’t have a high enough ABV to be shelf stable, so refrigerate after opening.)