Wrong Pitti - Right Sbagliato

The Tweets & Instagrams coming in from Pitti this year are like a 155 artillery barrage. And while this year's street fashion is consistent with years past, I'm seeing a lot more images of folks eating and drinking. Which is what I'd be doing 24/7 at Pitti.

For those of us stuck in this 'Witches Tit in a Brass Bra'  deep freeze, click on the You Tube video below and watch the charming and erudite, Maurizio Stocchetto from the Bar Basso in Milan show you how to make a perfect but wrong, Negroni Sbagliato   That is, a Negroni but with Prosecco instead of gin -- The smart cocktail for anyone sitting at a bar 24/7.

A Stirring Story

Crate&Barrel Martini Pitcher

My mother hired me to tend bar for a party in her home the Summer between my leaving the Army and starting college.  It was mostly opening beer bottles, pouring white wine and sloshing together the occasional G&T or V&T.

A neighbor, who had flown B-17s in WWII, dated Suzanne Pleshette and wrote for Esquire in the late '50s, approached my bar in the kitchen, flashed his brilliant smile and asked for a gin martini. For years, I had made martinis for the Old Man. That  consisted of taking a bottle of Beefeater and a martini glass out of the freezer, filling the glass with syrupy chilled gin and adding a couple olives. It was how the old man liked it -- It was how I liked it.

I explain to Bernie there's no gin in the freezer and he scoffs, "You don't make martinis with frozen gin." I'm guessing Bernie was in his early sixties then. "Got a pitcher?" We find the appropriate mid 20th century Danish glass vessel and set to work. Bernie pours eight ounces of gin, adds a teaspoon of dry Vermouth and throws in a couple handfuls of ice.

Etsy Italian Martini Pitcher

I volunteer my unsolicited wisdom of 22 years, "Stirred, not shaken? I never understood that. Doesn't get cold enough. I'd rather just have it out of the freezer." Bernie stir's the pitcher with a glass rod, "The gin needs the dilution from the ice," Bernie says while the ice sounds like the high keys of a piano. I shake my head, "Bernie, this could take years." Bernie looks surprised, "You have someplace to go?" "No," I admit, "Not at ten bucks an hour." Bernie asks if I've decided my major. "English," I say proudly.

The glass rod continues counter clockwise. Bernie stares into the pitcher, smiles and looks up at me, "I was an English major." Bernie pauses and stirs...I'll tell you a story every English major should know. Sadly, most don't. Lost to time, I guess." "Sure," I say and wonder if this is when Bernie'll tell me how he planked Suzanne Pleshette.

"So," Bernie stirs, "Oscar Wilde was released from a prison in Reading after serving a couple years for sodomy. Everyone knew it was with Alfred Douglas, the son of the Marquess of Queensberry." "The boxing Queensberry?" I ask. Bernie stirs and nods, "Mmmm, Alfred was known among his friends as Bosie. His father, the Marquess, had it in for Wilde. Set Wilde up - although in the trial it was Wilde who put himself in jail." "Really?" I say, lost in the pentameter of the glass rod.

Slope Martini Pitcher

"It's true," Bernie says. "Wilde's released in the late afternoon and since London's almost a day away by coach, he looked for a hotel room in town.  Everywhere he went, once he signed the register, he was told to leave. He drags himself into a tiny inn and explains to the innkeeper, "Look, I'm Oscar Wilde. I have served two years hard labor for my crime, I've learned my lesson and have turned over a new leaf. I've been turned away from every inn and am desperate for a room. Would you help me, sir?" The pitcher frosts with the chill of ice as Bernie maintains his stirring cadence."

"So what did the innkeeper do?" I ask. Bernie smiles, "What could he do? He rings for a page and instructs the young man to carry Wilde's bags to his room. Wilde thanks the innkeeper and follows the young man up the stairs. Five minutes go by and no page.  Then 10, 15. Finally, a half hour later the page still hasn't returned. The innkeeper trudges up the stairs and knocks on Wilde's door. No answer." Juniper wafts around our heads and it whets my appetite like garlic hitting hot olive oil.

Orrefors Martini Pitcher

"You do have olives?" Bernie asks. "Sure," I grab a Manzanilla bottle from the fridge. Bernie hums to himself while I open the olive jar and ask, "So, no answer at the door?" I bring Bernie back from some place far away. I'm guessing he's with Suzanne Pleshette. I know I'd be. "No answer at the door. So the innkeeper pulls out a key, opens the door and there's Wilde, stark naked in bed with the page, also naked. The innkeeper, shocked, says, 'Mr Wilde! You assured me you had turned over a new leaf!' Wilde looks up at the innkeeper and says, 'And I promise I will, sir - - Just as soon as I get to the bottom of this page.'"

You probably had to have been an English major to appreciate this -- but every man should have his own martini pitcher and stirring story. 

My Fantasy Tavern

Not necessarily famous or a tavern

Less than an hour from Famous Jim's...

In the town of Coatesville,

With a interesting parking lot

and plenty of views...

Is The Whip Tavern

Not so big

But snug...

and warm.

Like the best taverns are.

 Tucked in.

A real tavern is hard to find.  Make no mistake about it. In a world of hyped up ersatz with insipid beer and food owned by mysterious LLCs, it only seems right to celebrate finding something real. I stumbled on The Whip in Coatesville, PA and remember it being praised by Andy of The Main Line Sportsman.   Sitting in a corner by a fire I wondered what it is about a good tavern that sets it apart from a bar.

A roaring fire helps but there's more.  There's serenity in the horsey art. Familiarity in simple wooden stools. Softness in the light -- I almost feel like I'm being tucked in.  I can sit here and look off into space forever sipping a pint rather than guzzling.  Not that I like drinkinig alone but friends in a good tavern are a distraction.  I might miss some navel gazing insight of self awareness as I relax with myself.

A tavern has a lot in common with an English pub. It's really not the place for martinis or cosmopolitans or the attitude those cocktails come with.  Whenever I'm in a good country tavern...I like to think of myself as a farmer. Not a big farm.  Something small and about a mile away.  I have two pints and walk home... careful to  keep a distance from passing carriages.  Gravel crunches under my boots as I take out a pocket watch and figure the walk'll take a half hour or so. I put the watch back in my overalls, shove my hands in pockets and breathe in the honeysuckle of Chester County.

Mr Hoy's Strainer

(above photo by Tina Fineberg, Associated Press)

Mr Hoy made my first NYC martini (Beefeater up with olives-very dry) in 1984 after my first job interview (20th Century Fox). We told each other lies about our years in the Army. Me leaning towards him on my bar stool lighting another Marlboro. Mr Hoy leaning into his corner where the bar turned. I didn't get the job and didn't see Mr Hoy again for years.

In 1990, my job was to entertain - mostly Brits - mostly in Chicago - sometimes in NYC- always with O.P.M. (Other People's Money). I returned to the Blue Bar and Mr Hoy. I told Hoy, "You made my first martini in NY and we told each other lies about the army." "Yes, I think I remember you." I said, "You're full of shit, Mr Hoy." And he laughed.

I went back to see Mr Hoy with increasing frequency. Late afternoons it was dead and we could talk. Other times, usually late at night, things could get strange. One night a man and his wife asked me to join them in their room. Another night I realized I was buying drinks for a hooker.

Mr Hoy was celebrated in 2006 as the oldest working bartender in NYC. He was 90. He claimed to still remember me whenever I stopped in. Now I was a New Yorker. And if I was ever a pain in Mr Hoy's fourth point of contact - and I'm sure I was - he never showed it. I took my seat at the bar, saw his smile and felt a warmth overcome me before the first sip of gin.

I stopped by recently. The lobby was packed but the bar empty. I sat on a stool, ordered a Beefeater martini and watched the Yankees with the bartenders. I asked a bartender how Mr Hoy was doing in his recent retirement. "Oh, Mr Hoy passed away a couple of months ago." "Shit." I said. "Yeah." he said. I stared at my martini. Lost in the memories of my ass on this very bar stool with Mr Hoy across from me.

I saw the familiar julep strainer on the bar in front of me and while the bartenders watched the game, I reached over, picked the strainer up, put it in my pocket and placed a twenty dollar bill where it had been. I asked for my bill, charged it (I wanted a record ) and put a tip on it as well. "Thanks." I said and climbed off the stool.

The bartender looked at the twenty on the bar, picked up the check folder and gave it a glance and looked at me surprised. "Thanks." he said. "No. Thank you." I said and left. I don't know how old my strainer is. I don't know how many martinis were made with it. I don't know a lot of things about it. I only know where it came from and what it did.

I took a walk and knew in my liver Mr Hoy was with me. Strolling Time's Square, an area I usually detest.

But something was different that night.

Everything was bright for my token. For some strange reason I felt I had to photograph it. Unless I lost it or a bartender chased me down and demanded it back.

A small wake in the city for a man I barely knew but whom I always felt connected to.

I think of all the connections Mr Hoy made with a spoon full of holes. "Yes, I'll always remember you."

Not Just Any Train Station Bar...

Not far from here...

on a cool October night

at the 15 Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of Grand Central

is an elevator for the Campbell Apartment - Most folks just walk on by.

But you shouldn't - The tartan is a sign

that there's something good inside

Crowded on weekdays but less so on weekends

This was John W. Campbell's office from 1923 until his death in 1957 when it became a signalman's office

Restored in 1999, it's hidden in Grand Central Station

It even has a balcony

There's a lot to see

and do.

Get your money's worth and try something that's not easy to make at home.

Like a Pisco Sour.

Here's the number if you get lost- 212 953 0409. Oh and that's a closet. I thought it was the entrance to another bar.

Friday Belts - Cheap Buckles & Beer

The Growler and the Belt

The back of the buckle

There are times when being cheap really pays off. Sterling buckles and cask beer are just two examples. Dinner at a Ft Bragg NCO club and living in a National Park are a couple of others but lets focus on beer and buckles today.

First, the beer. I had heard about Growlers years ago. Didn't pay much attention. Shame on me. I was the "buy a case" kind'a guy. Couple of weeks ago I pulled up a stool at The Pony Bar on 10th Avenue at 45th St. In the sticks but well worth the walk. They had cask beer made by the Chelsea Brewery called, Angel IPA. Not a draft but pulled up from the cask just like a London pub. The beer was not cold and far from warm. Not fizzy but certainly not flat.

It was a Bitter in the truest sense of a Bitter drawn up in Lamb's Tavern in Leadenhall Market next to Lloyd's of London. One of my favorite drinking places in the world. From the first sip I flashed back to the Lamb on a late Friday afternoon where Lloyd's brokers spilled out of the pub and onto the street holding pint glasses and Silk Cut cigarettes while this broker tried to convince an underwriter to insure a vacant factory in Cleveland. Those were the days. And then I looked up and saw the sign for Growlers.

A Growler is a take away bottle of 64 ounces or four pints. As I sip this amazing beer and figure I may stay here all night...the Growler begins to make sense. For a lousy $19.00 -- I can take four pints, me and a brown jug home. Makes sense. Give the Pony a try when next in NYC. The folks there are doing some amazing things with beer and ale and their passion can be your affordable joy.

I'm doing some amazing things with buckles. That's a sterling buckle with the initials, JDJ, in a beautiful diamond monogram. I found it in a consignment shop far from Manhattan. I paid $5.00 for it. Probably what it's worth but I like it. I already have two of my own but it's a kick in the butt to find something with so much soul for so little money. The back of the buckle reads, "Sterling Pat March 30, 1915" and there's the number '8' or is it '9'? Who knows. Who cares...as I pour another pint from the Growler and wonder who in the hell Sterling Pat was.

Another Trad Magazine...

This magazine

came in this envelope

and later this letter came. I have no idea what it says...

But I did understand this article....I was alerted for Zaire when I was in the Army. These guys went instead of us. Good on them.

The Kepi Blanc in formation. I did consider a "contract" with the French Foreign Legion but the five year minimum enlistment turned me off. Still, a great place to learn French.

You can show off this watch at a bar...impress the girls...

Years ago I wound up having a conversation with an older veteran at the bar in Fraunces Tavern. He guessed I served based on my hair cut, watch and posture. I guessed he served based on his crew cut. He said he had been a Marine. But that wasn't quite true. I knew enough about the Marines to know he had never been one two drinks into our conversation. He knew he had been found out.

He was embarrassed and I can only think that was why he opened up four drinks into the conversation. He knew his stuff but he didn't know the US Armed Forces. I guessed he had been a mercenary and moved the conversation in that direction. No, he wasn't a mercenary. With great reluctance he admitted, six drinks into the conversation, that he had been in the French Foreign Legion. Blew. Me. Away.

The discussion level lowered while he expressed concern about losing his citizenship if the State Department ever found out and I wound up with an address for the magazine published by the Legion, "Kepi Blanc." It was a major pain getting the subscription but the first issue finally came. Leaving Kepi Blanc on the coffee table when company comes over is a helluva lot of fun. Adding that you just get the subscription, don't know who sends it and mumble something about the State Department is priceless. Ah, oui?