March 2013

  Another morning drive up the coast, on the road just after six. I'm meeting Carlos in San Francisco to unwind and help him celebrate his birthday and the completion of a retreat, The Hoffman Process. I swear that after this weekend it will be the end of my month of living decadently. It started off in Vegas with good whiskey and lavish dinners accompanied by Napa's finest wines. Back in SB we had a week of guests and parties and lunches that kept the momentum elevated. Then Saint Patrick's Day weekend and a few sips of Middleton and one night with a bottle of 03 Latour shared with a perfect and most delightful friend.  

 And now this. The Saint Francis at Union Square is my stop for tonight and at this point early in the drive I have no real clue where the day will take me. The possibilities are wide and many. I love a broad margin to my life. However there is a price to be paid for hedonism and I know I should strive to be more Epicurean in my goals.

 I pull into the city around noon and feel an odd, yet welcoming sensation. I was kind of dreading being in the crowded and cramped downtown but it's been a long time and knowing it's only for twenty-four hours I shiver with excitement and anticipation. It's a beautiful day and there's the Bridge and the unmistakable skyline. Alcatraz beckons like a jewel in the clean blue water. 

 I park (signing the $51 valet fee to Carlos' room, seeing he's not drinking I feel he should pick up the tab for something!) and check in and admire the city views from the twenty-fourth floor. Carlos shows up and we hit he streets. He's lots to tell about his week in Napa and we wander around for a while. We walk through Chinatown and find our selves at City Lights where we browse the books for a while, Carlos buys Mortality by Hitchens, until it's time for me to have a beer. Murphy's Pub is our first stop. A cold glass of Anchor Steam in the heart of San Francisco is pleasure almost beyond description, especially after a five hour drive and an hour of walking. 

 We continue to stroll the City, inspecting a few interesting bars and taverns that we randomly encounter, as we keep alive our conversation about our futures and what's the next best step forward for us. We've many unexplored options and it's time to embrace some change. We ramble away the afternoon. 

 We find our way back to the hotel and get serious about our commitment to keeping our never ending search for "The Good Life" going strong.

 We make ourselves at home at the bar of Bourbon Steak, the elegant restaurant just off the lobby, and I sample a whiskey or two and we snack on lobster corn dogs, tuna tare tare and Kumamoto oysters. Just enough to hold us until dinner. A bottle of The Midleton glowing seductively under the soft lights high on the top shelf is too much for me to leave untasted. We are, after all, celebrating. The evening roars into high gear.  

 We maintain our steady level of discourse through a fine Italian dinner at Scala's Bistro where we randomly meet a friend of Endo's. That guy knows everyone. 

 Barely room for a nightcap, but I force one at the Clock Bar before calling it a day. It is just midnight, not even close to a personal best for us, but I am exhausted. And back in the room I am asleep in minutes.   

  Up and refreshed and it's down to the Oak Room for a relaxed breakfast of dungeness crab omelets (Again with the decadence.) and we recap the events and conversations of yesterday. So much we want to do; more travel, more study and reading, more Nature, more solitude, more healthy choices about living right. Our minds are expanded this morning and the future seems laid out in front of us like a golden road. 

 Carlos heads back to Santa Barbara and I turn east to Sacramento for a visit with the Wus, long, long overdue. As I pass downtown and head toward Antelope I can see the snow-capped Sierras and I ache to get up there in the cold mountain wind. I haven't been up to ride the slopes of Tahoe's North Shore in three years, much to long indeed.  

 The Wus are waiting eagerly for me and seem almost as excited as I am for this time together. The girls, Ellie & Juilette, are as smart and beautiful as any children I've ever met. Their humor and energy is infectious and we spend a few hours out in the yard laughing and telling stories. Pak & Joanna look great and I envy their lives. They have found a beautiful balance and parenthood suits them both so very well. Pak has to go in to work and leaves Joanna, the girls and I, reluctantly. I know he would have called in sick if he could. I promise to wait up for him, until 1:30. 

  Pak Wu, my most gentle and soulful of friends. The times spent with him over the years are among the highlights of my life. We have certainly had more than our share of fun and adventure. I cherish the few years or so where we had nothing but time and no real restraints. Pak was in-between jobs and I was working the least that I possibly could, we had no serious girlfriends. Life was flowing in our direction with a powerful grace. We spent a winter meeting in Yosemite every other weekend renting a small cabin and snowboarding Badger Pass or x-country skiing up the Glacier Point road. Pak cooked up a storm and I poured the wine and sometimes whiskey. We made it to Donner & Sugar Bowl & Homewood, Heavenly and Sierra Summit, wherever the snow was best. Spring found us camping in Tuolumne Meadows where we laid back on a rock one night and watched meteors. A few weeks later at Saddlebag Lake we kayaked and rambled the alpine trails. That weekend we both slept in the back of our trucks.

  We climbed Mount Hoffman, Sentinel Dome, North Dome and Cloud's Rest. We hiked out to Taft Point and scrambled up to Chilnualna Falls. We camped in the Valley on a cold winter weekend and a few months later relaxed at Bridalveil campgrounds as the spring flowers lit up the alpine meadows. 

  For Abalone season we were in Sea Ranch devouring the riches of the ocean and washing our great meals down with the prizes of our wine cellars.

  And that is the short list. Over the twenty-five years we've known each other we have shared many fires and dinners and concerts and long walks through the woods. Because we live so far apart, when we do get together we live as clean and pure as we can. 

 Joanna, the girls and I sit in the yard for a while being silly and enjoying Ellie & Juliette's antics and their excitement at having me around, we laugh and giggle until my sides hurt. Ellie brings out all her creations from her recent interest in sewing. Artistic little character pillows with oddly appropriate names. She gives me an owl named Hoots. The afternoon floats along and Joanna decides it's time for sushi.  They have a new favorite place called Akebono where they are already regulars and the chefs and waitress are on a first name friendship with the girls. The food is way above par and it is among the best sushi I've ever had. We have a relaxing dinner at the bar that includes Monk fish liver, tofu nuggets, (true!) salmon jaw, (I forget what it's called.) oysters, bluefin toro sashimi, assorted sushi, sea trout and then uni  for dessert. All accompanied by glasses of Sapporo on tap! I continue my sensation of feeling decadent. We are sated and happy on the drive home. 

 Soon we are again in the backyard and Joanna gets a fire going. We sit sipping The Midleton (quite decadent!) they bought for my visit while talking and listening to the girls tell stories, Juliette has one she wrote. She has a page of pictures she drew and tells a tale that she made up that goes with the pictures. It's delightfully cute and clever and we make her tell it twice. 

 Joanna lets the girls stay up later than usual because we are just having too much fun and they are excited and are on spring break. Joanna reads us a bed time story and the girls start to nod and finally agree to go up to bed. 

 Joanna, how many fires have we sat in front of over the years sipping whiskey? I lost count a very long time ago. I remember as if it were last week the day she walked into my office looking for work. She was just seventeen and still dressed in her catholic school uniform. I hired her to work the breakfast shifts at the New Hope Holiday Inn never suspecting she would change my life forever. That was twenty-two years ago and great and wonderful adventures were the result of our chance meeting. We certainly stomped the terra over the years. From that odd little town in Pennsylvania to our long sabbatical in California we have met up for our escapades far and wide. From strolls on Mount Greylock in Massachusetts to the the top of Half Dome and walks along the trails above Santa Barbara, to sipping wine in Napa. Somewhere along the way we started and continued our investigations in to life, happiness and the healing power of nature.  Subjects that still fascinate us both. We kept those conversations going from Big Sur to Tahoe, Sea Ranch to Arizona, and dusty Yosemite trails, to sliding down the slopes of many hills on our snowboards. It has been a long and elegant dialogue. 

 I'm trying to think of all the places we saw The Dead (and various spinoffs) together; Phoenix, Vegas,(6 times) San Diego, Giant Stadium, Ventura, Marysville, Oakland.   Of course I'm forgetting some I'm sure, but every concert deserves a story of it's own. 

  I'm amazed and slightly baffled how you can meet someone and continue to keep in touch and maintain deep and lasting friendships across many miles and many years. Something worthwhile and necessary is at stake and it is too precious to lose. So against strange odds we have kept our bond strong, long after so many others have passed through our lives and faded away like late summer flowers.  Part of it is is that we still continue to learn from each other. And I feel I get more than I give from these two most tolerant and generous friends. I cherish their commitment to our long and winding relationship. 

  With the kids asleep and the fire dying down our conversation turned more serious.  We talk about health and the future. We tell some old stories and bring each other up to date on our families and mutual friends. She listens patiently as I ponder some deep sadnesses, and try to explain bits of how I choose to live. We slowly and savoringly sip The Midleton and remember a night in Petaluma at an Irish bar where we found it ridiculously underpriced, and took full advantage. Many years later I was in Midleton at the distillery and raised my glass to my sweet friend.

  Soon it's after one and we figure we better stop all the backyard noise and let the neighbors get some rest. We move into the house and Joanna is getting tired, I can tell, but she's determined to wait up for Pak who should be home any minute.  Joanna has never been one to quit early and was famous, rightfully so, for being the last one standing. 

 Pak gets home and pours himself one and and tops me off as well. He notices my travel bag and with his wonderful sense of humor and timing notes that I now have a bag with rollers instead of a backpack slung over my shoulder, his insinuation is that I'm getting old. We both laugh at the truth of it. 

  Joanna can hardly keep her eyes open and goes off to bed. What a trooper! She is nonstop all day and managed to keep the pace with me until after two am. An amazing kid.

 Pak and I sit up until three-thirty and the level in the bottle becomes dangerously low. Our talk is reflective and un-rushed. Two old friends not ready to go to bed because we both know nights like this are fewer and fewer. Although we vow to get together more often and not to let as long of an interval go by without a trip planned as we just did. Summer is coming and we throw a few ideas at each other until we both reluctantly figure it's time to finally get some sleep.

 It's an amazing thing to be with friends that know you so well that you can tell them anything. It further enables me to know myself slightly better. Another rarity that I relish. 

 I get up to my room and notice for the second time today when I look at their book shelves how many books we own in common. Kindred spirits. I'm too tired to read and my mind wanders for a bit. I fall asleep thinking about a Yosemite trip, a guy's trip this time and Pak gets there on the second day. There's ten or twelve of us and we have piles of good food and cases of splendid wine. We've rented a big house and it's comfortable and relaxed. Pak has a magnificent glow about him, his recent clean bill of health and new baby Ellie have given him a sense of joy that is infectious. He is a lucky and happy man and he knows it. 

  It's a busy hectic day and Pak and I don't get a chance to really talk and later that evening he suggests that we sleep outside on the large deck. In those days we always had our sleeping bags and pads, just in case. Because you never know. The night wound down and Pak and I made our beds under the late summer stars and listened to the alpine breeze in the treetops. We talked for a while and soon Pak was snoring. I stayed awake a little longer and pondered that there was a time when we thought that we may never get to do this again. It was a scary and heart wrenching time, but here we were and we were grateful for our unbelievable luck. It's a fine line in life and we both could appreciate the fact that things can go the other way in the twinkling of an eye. I fell asleep with my heart full to overflowing… And sitting here right now I can't find the right words to express what went through my mind that night even after years of thinking about. One day I'll get it right. 

 Up pretty early considering. The girls are excited and we decide on a dim sum breakfast. It's been a while since I've sat at the big round table while a flurry of waitstaff drop off little steamers of all sorts of treats. It's hard not to over indulge and we all overdo it, but only slightly. I figure it will be my only meal of the day and I'm not looking forward to my long and boring drive down the 5. 

  Back at the house we have a melancholy goodbye and the girls truly seem sad that I'm leaving. Unconditional love is a powerful thing when aimed directly at you and I try not to get emotional. They stand in the driveway waving until I turn the corner and am out of sight, there is a tear in my eye.  

 Soon I'm speeding south on route 5, possibly the dreariest and dullest stretch of highway in California. I put the iPod on shuffle and crank it up. Six hours pass like a glacier. It's that whole Einstein time theory, startling by it's incomprehensibility. By the time I get to Santa Barbara it feels like I've been in the jeep for a week. Good to be home but a bit thirsty and I meet Johnny and bring him the loving messages from the Wus as I knock back the dust from the mind numbing drive with an ice cold Sierra. It all hits me and I get home and sit for a bit thinking about all the ideas and plans that are about to be put into action. The ocean lulls me to sleep. 

   

Bourbon

   Spring may be the time of year when a young man's thoughts turn to love, but an older and more mature and slightly wiser man's thoughts turn to bourbon. The days get warmer and the taste for the smoke and peat of single malt scotches starts to wan. The desire for the more subtle nuances of the delicious amber liquids from Kentucky seems somehow more refreshing and as I look forward to summer the first sip of a fine old bourbon brings back memories of hot and balmy nights full of adventure and, well, maybe even an older man's thoughts do hit on love every now and then. I guess it would be foolish if they didn't. 

  There will always be year round scotch drinkers, my sweet Aunt Dorothy and my Grandmother O'Hearn jump instantly to mind, and when the occasion arises I would not refuse a rare single malt at any time of year, but warmer weather has always meant American whiskey to me and to the guys at the bar. They are lighter and more refreshing and are enhanced by a splash of branch water, and when sipped slowly are thirst-quenching in a most unique way. Not thirst-quenching like a cold beer, but something more satisfying. 

  Our Bourbon collection now numbers over twenty-five bottles and Todd and I are happy to pour and ramble on about the differences between them to anyone who cares to listen, usually in the hour or so before closing. We are a moody duo and certain occasions call for certain whiskeys. Surprisingly, we always seem to have an excuse to celebrate at the end of our shift with glass of the brown stuff. We usually reward ourselves with just a touch before we lock up for the night either to toast a successful evening or to wish for better luck tomorrow. 

  I recommend, as an antidote to the ever growing list of what are now called "martinis", a Manhattan before dinner. This is a true drink that sets the tone for the evening if you're not going to have a gin martini straight up, cold and dry. Any type of vodka based fruit drink just because it is served in a martini glass is not a martini. There is a time and place for these types of cocktails but to start off a festive night of fine food and drink isn't really one of them. Call me "Old Fashion". (Which I will get to in good time.)

 The proper combination of an imported vermouth and a top-shelf American whiskey lingers on the taste buds like, well.. like an elixir meant to sooth the soul after whatever trials and distractions the day has thrown your way. The vermouth should always be kept refrigerated because it will oxidize after a few days at room temperature. This is a mistake made by almost every bar I visit and it sometimes seems to be part of my calling to educate bartenders on this simple little known fact. The maraschino cherry is key to the success of the well crafted Manhattan and I should say it's worth the effort to track down a jar from the Diana Fruit Company, they are of the highest quality and why ever skimp on even the tiniest detail of what should alway be a treat to the senses and the heart. The properly mixed Manhattan can be a restorative to one's balance and courage. 

  The Perfect Manhattan, using both types of vermouth and a lemon twist, I rarely order out because the same mistake is usually made of not keeping the Dry Vermouth chilled and because it is a rarely used bottle the flavor becomes compromised quite quickly. This is the same reason martinis these days are "mixed" with no vermouth. Palates are becoming more educated, although the whole "Dirty Martini" phase is quite beyond me. There is more than enough juice on the surface of two olives to add just the correct hint of flavor to cold gin and I feel any additional juice from the bottle damages the delicate balance of the drink.  But that's just me. I'm in the minority as of late.

 The Old Fashion as well as the lesser known Sazerac are also connected to Spring due to their popularity as a Mardi Gras staple. A final potent slug before the austerity of Lent. I gave up candy as a kid but never acquired the dirty habit of giving up bourbon, an act that goes against my my better senses that exclaim life is indeed short and there will be plenty of time when the pleasures of whiskey will be denied me. So for now I put no restrictions on my simple and well deserved delights.

  The Old Fashion is another drink that, to excuse the obvious metaphor, has become watered down. The original recipe calls for only a splash of water or, and I forgive those who prefer it, a splash of club soda. Ginger ale or 7-Up should never be used. And a splash means once the glass is seven-eighths full of liquor just enough water is added but not enough to bring the contents to the brim. Too many bartenders make these drinks as if they were a whiskey and water with the emphasis on the water. This is a drink that is meant to be powerful and substantial. It is a dark and mysterious mixture that demands precision and no tampering with the ingredients. I'm always disgusted when I see one made that is so clear that you could read the New York Times through the glass. Again I'm usually inclined to intervene and offer my often unasked for advice on the proper method of preparation. (Although once in Carmel a delightful bartender was intrigued by my expertise and a rather interesting and prolonged lesson in mixology resulted in a fun night and several ridiculous bar tabs around town. But that's another story.)  

 The Sazerac is even more inclined to result in an altered state of perception that may make you wonder just what you were slipped. And indeed you were slipped absinthe. That remarkable aperitif that is partially responsible for the great impressionist paintings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec, among others.  Not to mention contributing to Van Gogh cutting off his ear and mailing it to a prostitute. Although to be fair he may have also been eating his lead based paints.  Regardless, absinthe is, when done properly, an artisan craft beverage best sipped slowly and preferably with the sun setting over a large body of sparkling water in the company of an intellectual equal. High stakes I know, but ever so worth it.  

  There is a certain shifting of light that happens part way through a second small glass of absinthe where the colors of flowers and water and sky start to shimmer and on more than one occasion I've felt as if I'm walking through a painting by Claude Monet. This is a finely balanced high that is difficult to maintain and only achieved with the best quality absinthe made from recipes that are over a hundred years old. A dear friend brings me some from Paris for special celebrations. 

  But I'm supposed to be writing about bourbon, and Spring time.  The Jacaranda in the yard are starting to bloom, their light purple flowers brightening up the neighborhood and the rose bushes are exploding. The poppies seemed to appear out of nowhere one morning a day or so ago. The tiny buds on the guava hedge are attracting bees and small grey birds. The mint plants in the garden are growing and providing a pleasant aroma that drifts in my bedroom window.  Misty wisps of fog roll in off the Pacific just after dark and and in the morning burn away as the sun rises and the warm winds blow down from the hills. 

  Derby Day is almost here and it's time to pull out the silver mugs and to get ready to prepare a batch of Mint Juleps. How many cases of bourbon are opened and how many tons of mint leaves are muddled at Churchill Downs on race day I wouldn't dare estimate.  But once a year our usual group gets together to gamble with abandon as we drink what would otherwise be an odd combination of mint, sugar and Early Times. But tradition is, after all, tradition. I can usually handle one before switching to a simpler and more masculine straight whiskey with maybe a cube or two of ice. I save my enjoyment of mint for the mornings such as this when I sit in my garden scribbling these notes. 

 My love of bourbon started early, while in college, after my friend Ted recommended reading Hunter S. Thompson, particularly The Great Shark Hunt. Wild Turkey 101 was a much mentioned accompaniment to the good Doctor's high octane lifestyle and fuel for his late night writing marathons. So 101 became my go to beverage for a long time. Doctor Thompson influenced me towards other questionable habits but it was the Wild Bird that stayed constant for many years. It had it all; fine flavor, a hard unmistakable kick and the price was right. I have other favorites these days but when HST pulled the trigger and called it a game I sat that night in the bar with the door locked and the lights dim and made a hefty dent in our dusty bottle of 101. It was, as the Doctor himself might have said, the right thing to do.  

 A whiskey sour is a refreshing afternoon drink when the days are hot and dry. My old recipe is a bit more complicated than most and I stay away from any type of concentrated sour mix, which is no substitute for fresh squeezed lemon and lime juices and the white from a single egg. A double slice of orange is an enhancement that brings the mix to a level of refinement rarely encountered in even the swankiest establishments. Sly's in Carpenteria is a pleasurable exception. And the whiskey sour absolutely must be well shaken, no matter if it's served up or on the rocks.    

 A variation of the sour that originated in my home Commonwealth of Massachusetts is called the Ward Eight. It's a similar recipe but a hint of cherry juice is added and the garnish is a cherry. Back in the day the swizzle stick proudly waved the Massachusetts state flag.  

 Enough for now about bourbon except to say a friend of mine is about to release a batch aged locally and anticipation runs high.  Be assured I'll follow up after conducting the proper amount of research.

 Recipes for the drinks mentioned above are available upon request.