I was in Scottsdale, Arizona and, to put it mildly, a little squiffy. Most folk go there to play golf (yawn) but I’d gone there to drink and, after a lengthy tequila masterclass in La Hacienda and several cocktails at Platform 18 (‘best US cocktail bar’ in the 2023 Spirited Awards, incidentally) in nearby Phoenix, I was also more than a little disorientated.
No, don’t laugh. Firstly, La Hacienda – a fancy bar in the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess resort – has more than 240 different tequilas and mezcals on its list and, thanks to the resort’s resident Tequila Goddess (its term, not mine), they just kept on coming. And secondly, Platform 18, a Prohibition-era, presidential Pullman-inspired train-carriage-cum-bar on the ground floor of Century Grand which goes absolutely nowhere but which, owing to clever choreography and video trickery, appears to rattle through the North American countryside, is so ridiculously convincing that a lady at the neighbouring table had to draw the curtains because she felt travel-sick.
On some barfly’s advice, I’d downloaded a taxi app to ensure I got home safely. I thought it was for Uber or Lyft, but it turned out to be for Waymo, the driverless car company, which is being trialled in Scottsdale as well as in Atlanta, Denver, LA, Miami and now London (albeit with human ‘safety drivers’ behind the wheel here).
In Scottsdale, they’re entirely driverless and, having thought I’d just caught a train to Grand Central Station, NYC, only to find myself back where I started, it took me a while to work out that I was now in a car heading back to my billet at Hotel Valley Ho (a glorious 1950s throwback where Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack partied and where Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood got married) with nobody driving. The air-con was just right and ditto the cool jazz and it was extremely clean and comfortable. It was also deeply unnerving.
The car purred along and was courteous in traffic but not above nipping into a gap at the lights before the car behind us could. At first, I clung tightly to the armrests as it picked up speed and was baffled to see the steering wheel spin left and right with nobody there to spin it. After a while, though, I relaxed and stretched out along the back seat, delighting in the fact that there was no gobby driver yacking on about the fact he wasn’t really an Uber driver but actually an actor/doctor/novelist and that he’d had that Matt Damon in the back of the cab once.
I worried that Waymo didn’t know where I wanted to go and that I might have typed in the destination incorrectly but I soon found myself gliding to a stop at my hotel. A voice thanked me for my custom, told me not to forget my keys, phone or wallet, bade me goodnight and crept silently off. By now even more disorientated, I made straight for Hotel Valley Ho’s excellent bar to get even more squiffy. It had been a strange night.
There are countless bars, seemingly more tequila than in Mexico and some eye-openingly appetising local Arizonan wines
Scottsdale is the perfect place in which to drink. There are countless bars, seemingly more tequila than in Mexico and some eye-openingly appetising local Arizonan wines, and the following couple of days passed in a pleasant alcoholic blur.
I drank beer like a cowboy in nearby Cave Creek, downing glass after glass in the Buffalo Chip Saloon, Horny Toad, Harold’s Corral (live bluegrass music), the Roadhouse (live heavy metal) and Hideaway (live, even heavier metal), before having one for the road at the Rusty Spur Saloon in downtown Scottsdale.
I attempted the Scottsdale Wine Trail, a self-guided walking tour in town that showcases seven (I managed just two) out of almost 150 Arizonan wineries, the highlights for me being a beguiling 2022 Carlson Creek Chardonnay and a spicy, chocolatey 2017 LDV Winery Petite Sirah.
As for cocktails, well, I slightly overcooked it, starting with several over brunch at the Hermosa Inn – the former home of 1930s cowboy artist Lon Megargee – where favourites included the Last Drop (High West double rye whiskey, Luxardo apricot, sweet vermouth and blood orange) and Garden Toast, made from basil and tomato-infused gin.
I continued in FnB, Belmont Kitchen & Cocktails and at Americano, below which a deliciously decadent speakeasy – Tell Your Friends – serves up some absolute belters, the Crimson Crush (Four Roses Yellow Label bourbon, amaro, lemon and black cherry) just edged it over Katie’s Manhattan (Bacardi Añejo Cuatro rum, cherry liqueur, sweet vermouth and orange bitters).
The prize for most bizarre cocktail, though, went to Liquor Pig and their Spam Folder made from Sagamore small batch rye whiskey, blanco tequila, honey, sage, pimento and gochujang-flavoured spam. I know, I know, it sounds ghastly and, served from an old spam tin with a slice of fried spam as garnish, it had no business being as tasty as it was.
I had two just to be sure. And then a frozen margarita to take the taste away.
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