A Toast to the Fine Art of Bartending

I loved the recent New York Times article about “The Bartender of Your Dreams.”  Writer Frank Bruni roped me in with his first sentence:

“My mother had eyes in the back of her head; Doug Quinn must have them in the palms of his hands. How else to explain the way he muddled mint for a mojito — and went on to make the rest of the cocktail — while glancing alternately at the door to see if anyone new was coming in, at the far end of the bar to see if anyone was telegraphing thirst, and at the guy in front of him, who was babbling anew about something or other? Not once did Mr. Quinn look down at the drink. It was like bartending in Braille.”

Bruni goes on to paint a picture of the venerable P. J. Clarke’s on New York’s East Side and to praise Quinn’s (pictured here in a NYT photo) considerable talents, quoting kudos from other esteemed New York City bartenders. Dale De Groff, who last year won the prestigious James Beard “Outstanding Wine and Spirit Award,” says he drops in on Quinn often, usually in the wee small hours, which is when many other bartenders from around town congregate at Clarke’s after their own shifts.  “You’re not going to get a yuzu gimlet from the guy,” Mr. DeGroff said. “Ain’t going to happen. But you’re going to get a damned good martini.”

At a time when everyone with a shaker and a bottle of Schweppes calls himself (or herself) a mixologist,  it’s impressive to read about the real deal,  a guy with “speed, stamina, dexterity, personality and an awe-inspiring memory.”

Quinn holds court at the original P. J. Clarke’s on the East Side, where seasoned bartenders have been asking “What’ll ya have?” for 126 years. (There are now sibling saloons downtown and on the Upper West Side.) My husband and I were among the fans soaking up the classic ambiance, along with not a few Bloody Marys, in the early ‘70s.

After reading Bruni’s article, I'm excited to re-visit what some call “the Vatican of saloons." I plan to put  a Doug Quinn performance at the top of my agenda the next time I’m in New York. In the meantime, I’m sloshing together a Tanqueray & Tonic on this sunny Memorial Day and giving thanks for the fabulous bartenders and bar scenes I’ve gotten to know over the years.

These are some of my favorites. I’d love to hear about yours.

 I was first introduced to David Nelson (left) over a captivating concoction called a  Kentucky Tuxedo, a heavenly marriage of Bulleit Bourbon, Sherry, homemade lavender syrup and homemade orange bitters. But the engaging bartender/mixologist of Spur Gastropub and Tavern Law in Seattle has charmed me in many other way since that first sip.

At Spur, David’s creative, but never contrived, cocktails share the stage with the fabulous food of chefs Brian McCracken and Dana Tough. But at Tavern Law, it's all David, all the time. Even though McCracken and Tough offer a tantalizing menu, the focus at Tavern Law is on Nelson’s unique,  delicious drinks. It’s a treat to soak up the warmth and quiet energy of the room and to watch Nelson deftly whip up both classics and original potions. He loves to share his knowledge and passion with customers. Pull up a bar stool and you, too, will find out that Becherovka is not a Slavic dance.

 

Matt Murphy’s Pub in Brookline, Mass. may not be quite as raucous as the pubs I found in Galway and Dublin, but it does have flashes of that joy and spirit along with equal reverence for perfectly poured Guinness and Stout. Oh, yeah. And the food is light years better than most fare on the Emerald Isle. Owner Siobhan Carew and the rest of her team behind the bar are consummate pros, both at serving drinks and draughts, and charming guests. The fish and chips, served on wads of newspaper atop the battered old wooden tables, are outtasite.  In a lifetime of Happy St. Patrick’s Days (we with the surname Clancy take the day very seriously), I experienced my happiest at Matt Murphy’s. (Close runners-up: Little Annie’s Eating House in Aspen, and The Tombs in Washington, D.C.)

If Butch Cassidy had galloped into Telluride, Colorado just two years later, he might have ended up drinking up a storm at the hospitable New Sheridan Bar instead of robbing the San Miguel Valley Bank and getting himself thrown in jail. Built during the San Juan Mountains Gold Rush in 1891 (Cassidy and his crew did the dirty deed in 1889), the New Sheridan Hotel retains the look and feel of the period, even though the habitués today are more likely to be mogul skiers than metal miners. In keeping with the town’s persona, the bartenders are a casual, laid back bunch; efficient, outgoing, and seemingly very happy to be part of the Telluride mystique.

I don’t know how versatile the bartenders at Butch McGuire's are. The only drink I ever order    at this beloved Chicago Bar is a Bloody Mary because it is so damn awesome. But I do know that the gents have tons of personality, a great sense of humor, and get the drinks out with lightning speed. This 50-some-year-old institution, renowned for its Sunday Brunch eggs benedict special (the plate has FOUR eggs awash in terrific Hollandaise),  is also cherished for such traditions as the vintage model railroad that chugs through the saloon at Christmas time.