Cocktails

Our Santa Pants cocktail is one of our go-to holiday pours when hosting at this time of year. Made with our organic tequila and ginger beer, cranberry juice and fresh lime, it brings all the sparkle and cheer of the season. It is like Christmas in a glass. And while the world doesn’t need another celebrity tequila, it could use a shot of fun. So this Christmas, enjoy yourself and keep the holiday spirit flowing. Here’s how to make it. Ingredients – 60ml Pantalones Organic Tequila – 60ml cranberry juice – 15ml lime juice – Top with ginger beer – Garnish: sugar rim, cranberries, rosemary Rim the edge of a rocks glass with a lime wedge, dip the rim in sugar to coat and set aside.

The Pisco Sour is poured by Maria, my business partner’s wife and the quiet boss of a small empire of bars and restaurants. It is served in the living room, the windows cracked open, friends drifting in and out, the kids out of school. It has rained and something in the air has lifted. Then comes the coupe glass: perfectly chilled, capped in silken foam, dots of bitters shaped like a closing parenthesis. I’ve had Pisco Sours before. But this one makes sense. In Peru, the drink is practically sacred, served at protests and presidential inaugurations alike The ingredients shouldn’t work – harsh grape brandy, raw citrus, egg – but in the glass, they harmonize. Chocolate at the edge, grape in the middle, something like spring itself underneath.

In my early twenties, nothing felt more sophisticated than drinking a French 75 at the bar. No matter that it went down like a piece of sour candy: ordering it made me feel like a real lady, a grown-up woman who knew what life was about. It was a cocktail with history, two kinds of alcohol and – most importantly – I felt it imbued me with the aura of a dame in a film noir. It was fun but classic; stylish without being too obviously trendy. Not try-hard like Carrie Bradshaw’s worldly Cosmopolitan. Certainly not like ordering a Martini. Even I knew that ordering a Martini at age 21 would have been an affectation. No, a French 75 was the perfect cocktail for me. I knew my place. Not much has changed since then.

As the Super Bowl rolled into New Orleans, with Kendrick Lamar and his flared jeans in tow, I was thinking about the many contributions that this small Louisiana city has brought to the cocktail bar. There’s the creamy green Grasshopper, the French Quarter’s whiskey-based Vieux Carré, the tropical rum punch Hurricane and, of course, the comically difficult Ramos Gin Fizz – which blooms up in a tower of egg-white froth. But perhaps the oldest, most widespread and most conventional is the Sazerac: it is considered one of America’s oldest cocktails, having been served in New Orleans from the late 19th century.

Regular readers of my cocktail column probably get the formula by now: I give a short history of the drink in question, probably with an anecdote about my time in bartending, then provide a classic recipe, following by various flavor and format variations. But the Bloody Mary doesn’t fit neatly into that structure. For one thing, the drink’s origin has never been firmly established — given that it started as a spiked tomato juice, how could there be? Do we really care who invented the vodka-cranberry? The Bloody Mary is the same way. It probably came around during the 1920s, gaining popularity in the 1930s. By 1939, you see the first real mentions of it in print.

Not to live up to Irish stereotypes, but for me, Christmas wouldn’t be complete without booze; and so, for this seasonal column, it’s only fitting that I recommend some perfect yuletide drinks to get you slammed under the Christmas tree. There are two broad bases you can work with for Christmas drinks — creamy ones and those with seasonal spices. You can do both, but these are the two broad playing fields, and just because you don’t like one kind doesn’t mean you won’t like the other. There aren’t a lot of cocktails using cream (the classic or the alcoholic Irish one); the trick is to use a good Irish cream and add it to existing non-alcoholic drinks. Want a nice boozy milkshake? Want a hot chocolate that gets you blitzed? A creamier espresso martini?

It’s 1951 and the Hotel Monteleone burns bright, a gilded island of light and liquor adrift in the New Orleans dark. Inside, the air is thick with the sweet tang of cigar smoke and the murmurs of polished conversation. Over in the Swan Room, the trumpets blare, their brassy notes cutting through the gentle chatter, their absence filled with the lively, gravelly voice of Louis Prima. The crowd sways in rhythm, caught between the pulse of jazz and the flicker of chandelier light. Outside, the French Quarter is still alive.

Barmen despise making mojitos. The descendant of various Caribbean rum-based cocktails, they only became truly popular in the early 2000s. It’s not that they’re that difficult or require too many ingredients — and they’re nothing compared to hellish drinks like the Ramos gin fizz — but the mojito has several qualities that, combined, make it intensely frustrating. Namely, the mojito is very refreshing, can be drunk quickly and looks pretty, and therefore one order will spark a rush of others.

Despite being one of the most popular cocktails in the world, most margaritas are made poorly — intentionally. Nobody buys a margarita in a plastic cup for its complex flavor and balanced profile. They’re for long days out on the beach, to cool you down and kick things up — and they’re mostly made quickly and sweetly, like slushies with crushed ice. Frozen margaritas are the invention of Dallas restaurateur Mariano Martinez, who started serving them in 1971 from a converted soft-serve ice-cream machine, but the exact origin of the classic margarita was at some unknown far earlier date. Margaritas were introduced to Americans in the 1950s, with the arrival of Sauza and Cuervo tequilas, and by the 1960s, had secured their place as one of the nation’s most popular cocktails.

Some undetermined time in the long past, possibly in 1890s Montana, a miner had finished a long and tiring day and needed a refreshing beer. But after aparticularly taxing shift, a beer wasn’t going to cut it alone. He asked the barman for a shot of whisky as well — and washed it down with his pint. It’s hard to call the boilermaker a cocktail, and inventing one certainly wasn’t on the mind of our tired protagonist. To this day, mixing beer and spirits is not generally the province of mixologists; it’s a combination more often favored by partygoers looking to get slammed as entertainingly and quickly as possible.

There are few greater joys in life than to wander the streets of Charleston in the evening, the light and shadow of the holy city and the sea salt in the air guiding you near the haunted past, toward cobblestones and the maze of the French Quarter. The quiet of the port pierced by the occasional gull and the stopped-up cannons at every turn bring you back to the age of Henry Timrod, when ships brought the Carolinas “Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts.” As a believer that liquor has seasons, in the summer I shift to good gin, and for the most inventive cocktails on the East Coast there is no comparison to Gin Joint.

In the old days (2019), mimosas and Bloody Marys were really the only the socially acceptable forms of alcohol that could cross your lips before 12 p.m. To drink earlier would be a worrying indicator that you’re an alcoholic, or worse, a professional writer.  That benighted era is safely in our rearview.  Of all of the widespread cultural habits that have emerged post-Covid — obsessive hand-washing, a prickling fear of close-talkers, a desire to squeeze every morsel of conviviality possible out of even the dullest social exchanges — by far the best is the wholesale rejection of A.M.-drinks policing. And the biggest winner is the breakfast wine.

Everyone talks about how your twenties are a period of change physically, emotionally and financially; of self-discovery and exploration and excitement. But no one talks about the hangover. Not the metaphorical kind; the head pounding, nauseating kind that greets you in your late twenties. I long for the days when I was twenty-one, when I could easily make fresh bread, go on a hike and write a book the day after clubbing two nights in a row. OK, maybe I didn’t do those things, but I very well could have. Waking up fresh-faced (ish — my skincare regime was non-existent back then) and refreshed after a shower and a coffee, the idea of a hangover was an urban myth and something I’d blissfully had no experience of.