Buckle up! | The Spectator

Alpha seltzer: why do Trump bros love White Claw?

Enrique Tarrio, chairman of the Proud Boys, stood for a photo at a recent political rally in Portland, Oregon, arms outstretched in a V, flashing the ‘OK’ sign with both hands, peacocking in a manner reminiscent of Richard Nixon’s victory pose. With a depleted cigarette dangling from his lips, Tarrio wore the fraternity’s black-and-gold Fred Perry polo shirt, a baseball cap reading ‘The War Boys’ and dark sunglasses — part Gen. McArthur, part steampunk hipster. The most curious part of Tarrio’s togs was stuffed in the front pocket of his tactical vest, where the grenade should be: a can of the light, refreshing, low-calorie beverage White Claw.

Jane Stannus

Hors sense

It’s hard to keep up with the French. First they invent a perfectly good culinary term, hors d’oeuvre, which as everyone knows refers to the bite-sized appetizers served at cocktail hour. We Anglos, in keeping with our ancestral custom, duly pirate the word and put it to work in kitchens on three continents. But barely have we wrestled the silent h into submission and gotten the vowels in oeuvre sorted out (is that ue or eu?), when the French — who had permitted their attention to wander for a brief space — deign to take note of our efforts, lifting a single languid eyebrow: ‘What? Hors d’oeuvres? Oh, you mean amuse-bouches?’ Stop the presses, everyone; cancel the cookbooks; send the menus back to the printshop. It’s an amuse bouche now...

Mary Kate Skehan

Dutch treat

Moving back from New York City to Central Pennsylvania has been like the Five Stages of Grief, if only the last stage were eating hot soup with a hard-boiled egg in it on a 90 ̊F day in August, which is what I’ve been doing. In other words, I’m becoming a native again. Moving back to a place as particular as my hometown of York, Pennsylvania appealed after rootless years in a coastal city. From our rich colonial history to our high concentration of snack manufacturers and the pack of wild turkeys that patrols the bike path along the old railroad, York may not be an elite metropolis, but it’s no anonymous suburban wasteland, either. We owe some of that specificity to the Pennsylvania Dutch.

Food & Drink