Barstools

This post is going to make me sound like an alcoholic if I'm not careful. But the thing to remember is that this is not a blog about drinking, or indeed about bars. Rather it is a blog about a particular arrangement of people, furniture, and objects.

That said, drinking will figure in to it, but feel free to make that coffee, water, or a smoothie if you prefer. Move it out of a drinking establishment and into a coffee house or

What, in my roundabout way, I am trying to get to is this: I love sitting on a barstool, at a bar, watching the world go by (or participating in it -- barstool does not mandate or even imply passivity). The personal geography of the stool and the bartop are nearly perfect. A great height (if it is not too tall) for working on laptop. A great height for a book or magazine or some old fashioned pen-and-ink notepaper. There is enough space to spread out -- but not so much as to enable uncontrolled sprawling. A plate, a drink, and a book/laptop/magazine fit perfectly. This forces a tidy work habit and the selection of essential resources. The height of the surface also enables a pleasant multitasking -- the sharing of time between food and drink and whatever form of work (or recreation -- for a laptop computer or a book or some notepaper could imply either for me) is at hand.

But almost all of this could happen at a table. The relationship between the tabletop and the body is not too different from that between the bartop and the body. But it is a significant difference. The bartop encourages a leaning, relaxed, elbows-on-the-table mood. The table is a rigorous place, both by arrangement and psychology, where posture must be maintained, children should be seen but not heard, and knife and fork must be used properly.

There is something else about the bar that works well, and that is the back bar and the (almost) inevitable TV playing the news or a sports show. First, the back bar, that glorious collection of multicolored, multistyled bottles against a mirrored backdrop. Cognacs, Scotch whiskies, and super-premium vodkas and bourbons on the top row. Then the blended whiskies, the more commonplace vodkas and bourbons and a necessary range of tequila. Finally, one step above the well, the more ordinary vodkas and rums as well as the additives: the vermouths and the liquors.

I'll admit, right now, that your favorite bar may not exactly mirror that arrangement. This is just (roughly) how I'd do mine.

It is a wonderful visual stimulus -- something to gaze at when you need to look up. Unlike other diners across (or at an adjacent) table, it never looks back (if it ever does, seek help). Unlike an office wall, it is more than eighteen inches away and gives your eyes some sort of a break from the relentlessly myopic staring of the modern knowledge worker.

The TV plays the same role. A quick look away to Larry King or Wolf Blitzer or Keith Olbermann can refresh a stuck thought process or just provide a break from a monotonous task. The intermezzo of a highlight reel can provide a quick break between catching up on work email and diving into the framework of an intricately planned project.

And here, for the first time, we will also encounter the alcohol. From ancient Sumer on, people have found that properly treated fermented grains can produce a relaxed state, inducing of creativity, conversation, risk taking, and even, in the right situations, considerable productivity. In the classic pattern of the "if you mean whisky" fallacy, it can also produce excessively abrupt emails, poor proofreading, a tendency for summary resignations, misuse of Britney Spears crotch shots in PowerPoint presentations, and worst of all corporate Karaoke. But a little self restraint, here, and the benefits out weigh the risk of accidentally showing board members a photograph of Brit's underwear.

Here is a place where you can sit and work and take a moment to rest and someone will bring you (almost) everything you need. What, then, of the noise and the other people there? For starters, I'm the kind of guy who has no problem grabbing a spot at the bar, pulling out his laptop, ordering a beer, and getting to work. If the rest of the patrons are all meeting up and actually watching the game or flirting, so what! If they think I'm an oddball, then that is their problem and not mine -- and if you are uncomfortable with this sort of attitude then you might actually find this whole working-at-a-bar thing isn't for you. But read on, we'll get on to this interpersonal contact stuff soon enough.

The crowd, though, becomes another optional distraction, something to take your interest away when you need (or choose) to let it do so. The rest of the time, it is white noise. Stare at an overly complex scene -- say one of those ultra-hard German crossword puzzles based around an oil painting of a cluttered used bookstore or else a day care center. Then let your eyes loose focus for a moment and suddenly the visual stimulus retreats to manageability. Crowd noise does the same thing. It helps focus by forcing you into yourself. And when you want to, look at the bored girl and the desperate guy hitting on her, or the bachelor party group, or the silent couple, or the would-be executives or... And if you catch enough of one of the conversations, and it should be sufficiently close by, say hi, drop in, offer some advice, tell them the easiest way to the freeway or what you thought of Mama Mia. It is (to gracefully paraphrase Fight Club) a single serving friendship. If you laugh and they laugh, great, everyone wins. If you laugh and they laugh -- at you -- then at least you brought a little joy to the world and you will never meet these people again.

But we do not always come to bars solitary, with laptop. Sometimes we come with another person or even a people. And then the whole barstool thing takes on a new role. It is splendidly isolating -- the crowd noise again. You can say anything, things you wouldn't say at a quiet restaurant, things about each other and what you'd like to do later, things about your friends, things about your co-workers, the economy, or the Large Hadron Collider. Which, by the way, will completely fail to destroy the Earth or even the universe when it switches on. The Large Hadron Collider, that is. But when the things to say run out or need refreshing, there is the full spectrum of human drama there, from the TV screens to the other patrons (tastefully watched in the back bar mirror if there is one). Take a break, look around.

The posture -- remember the posture? Perch in couples holding hands, turn your wonderfully swivelable barstools towards each other for intimacy, turn back to the bartop for food or to read the menu or new magazines or to stare at the liquor bottles. If you are there in a group, lean in, lean out, arrange yourself as needed to talk to the person next to you, or n+1 spaces away. Raise your voice if necessary, scrum together as four for a laughing and shouting shared comment. Its all good, it all goes.

When you're on a barstool.

Getting up to watch the rocket

So Erica and I had C & J over for dinner tonight. The time was wonderful, we really haven't had the chance to just hang out with them without a care or a deadline (and with everyone relatively well rested and healthy) in a very, very long time.

Tonight was also the night of Elon Munsk's third attempt to get one of his potentially revolutionary Falcon 1 rockets into space. Unfortunately, it did not go as planned. But this is not (yet) to be a speculation into the causes for the failure of the Falcon launch (though, and this won't surprise you, I've got theories). It is about hanging out with people that let you feel totally comfortable just being yourself.

Within fifteen minutes of arriving, with two bottles of liquor, a dozen lemons and limes, and a few crucial culinary ingredients with them, they knew that for at least the first part of the party I was going to Be Distracted. Which is code for pinging my various space chat pages and probably watching the SpaceX webcast when things actually looked ready to go.

And, right as you'd expect, just as dinner was served, they hit the classic T-minus-ten point over in Kwajelan. So I wandered outside with the MacBook and reported on the update -- that the thing had shut itself down on the pad. C & J were happy to let me fill them in on they brief history of SpaceX and why this was sort of a big deal -- why I felt that if any of the alt.space crew was going to do it, it was Elon. A little blend of damn-the-torpedos, a little bit of willingness to take it on the chin and admit the hubris of their first vision.

By the time we were done eating and clearing the dishes in from outside (a nice day -- we thought we'd capitalize on it and dine al-fresco) they were ready to go again. We all gathered and watched the liftoff on my laptop. Things looked good. We remarked on the view. I remarked on the little bump in the steering as they passed through Mach 1. J. asked what that meant, I explained briefly. Someone commented on the now-much-discussed-roll oscillations. I said that it was moving about a bit, not like an Atlas or Delta that is as stable as a brick. But it seemed constant.

Then when the feed went dead and the very startled commentators came back to announce the dreaded words of "an anomaly" and the credits rolled. We all figured out what must have happened. Erica very graciously agreed to put Bella to bed and we finished clearing the dishes, I made another round of (very strong and very good) Margaritas.

Juice from one freshly squeezed lime
1 ounce orange liquor
2 ounces good tequila

Place in a glass with ice and stir. Salt rim (or sugar rim) is optional.

We settled in to play the very fun German style game "Settlers of Catan" that we had recently purchased. Erica went on to win both rounds -- though Colin gave her a good run for her money on the first one and I did a passable job of chasing on the second and might have come closer if Colin hadn't made a trade with Erica that basically gave her the game. But it was 1:20 and we were all tired. What was great was hanging out until that late with my favorite people playing a great game and having a lot of really good laughs.

But what this post really is about is about choosing the people that you tend to spend these times with. I don't have a lot of friends. Despite my gregarious teacher personality I keep a small circle of people around that I actually enjoy spending my precious off time with. And last night I realized a characteristic of these people that, when I am around them, I feel completely comfortable just being myself. Which often means being eccentric and obsessed with slightly odd things. They even join you, sometimes, and share in the emotion of events outside their personal scopes of interest. They listen and they understand.

Years ago we were out for a walk around Edmonds with these same friends. We'd stopped for coffee (and snacks) at a little independent coffee house not too far from the train tracks. We heard the whistle of an approaching train and I said, sort of without thinking about it "the train!"

J. looked at me and said, very seriously, "Nick, would you like to go outside and watch the train?"

That was a defining moment in our friendship. It was OK for me to enjoy watching trains go by. It was OK for me to care about things that might seem slightly odd.

I don't have a lot of friends that I put in this category -- but then again I don't have a lot of friends. And it isn't like I suddenly meet someone new and suddenly am pulling out my laptop at inappropriate times to surf the web. There is a boundary between politeness and geekiness, after all. But once I get to know someone, comfort being myself is what I look for -- and that's what I'm glad I've found!

Two reviews for the price of one...

Hold on, its going to be a surprise tonight. I know that I usually wax rhapsodic about airplanes or elegant cipher systems, but not this time. Tonight I am going to talk about music -- and about a mostly excellent concert that my family and I took in last night. Also about the venue, the absolutely excellent Triple Door down in Seattle.


Rather randomly for a Monday night, we met up with some friends and went to see our friend Kristen Ward play. The music in due time -- first the Triple Door. Apparently it was once and old burlesque theater -- and if this origin is true, then the burlesque theaters of old were a far classier kind of place than when I was in college. Obviously a contemporary remodel had completely remade the pace into tiered seating with sumptuous leather booths, smaller tables on the sides, and snippets of bar. All faced the stage and managed a feeling of intimacy despite seating 270.

The service was fantastic and the food was every bit what we expect from The Wild Ginger. Which is to say fantastic. Though let me tell you there's a lot of salt in their stuff -- this morning I'm puffed up like a balloon enough that I was tempted to blog about Zeppelins rather than music as I'd planned... The only culinary failing was that Erica ordered a vodka gimlet rickey. "Rickey" is barspeak for taking any true cocktail and serving it in a tall glass, over ice, with club soda. The server was baffled by this but put the drink order in ("Vodka Gimlet Rickey") just fine. What arrived was a regular vodka gimlet served in a cocktail glass. They were happy to take it back and pour us one correct -- which was very good in the end -- but it was a little sad to see the bartending team either mix by routine or else just have no clue what we were talking about. At least they made the thing with fresh lime, and not that true form of evil, Rose's Lime Juice.

If any of you behind the bar at the Wild Ginger are reading this, make note of that one...

Now on to Kristen's music. She was asked to play an "mellow" set, which was fine and worked pretty good for the first half of her show. In fact, having gotten used to Kristen in front of a full band, it was fun to see how her sound and performance has gotten much more solid even when just in front of her guitarist and pedal steel player. "Good Time Man" was rather magical as the venue lit up a "starry night" backdrop that could have been cheesy but instead worked really nicely.

The drawback to the mellow set was that it prevented her show from having the zip that her 2nd album has, that little bit of extra pizzas and energy that comes from percussion and the rest of the rhythm section driving the music along. It was fun, though, to hear a few songs that I'm used to hearing with the full band stripped down to their core. Listening to guitarist Gary Westlake (resplendent in an outfit which I can best describe as "satanic Colonel Sanders") play his solos over this relatively naked format was great, and really showcased his work.

From our seats, I had an unusual opportunity to watch Kevin Suggs, Kristen's pedal steel player. I don't mean to sound weird, but I kept staring at his legs. And all I could think of was flying helicopters (you knew aviation would end up here, didn't you?). Between what I counted as ten pedals and some odd knee levers, he was always in subtle motion, that kind of amazing "my hands are doing things entirely unrelated to what my feet are doing" skill that I always associated with, well, helicopter pilots and really good drummers. Now add steel players -- and they have extra things to do with their knees! Add that to the "things that Nick must understand before he dies" list...

I Wanna' Go Home, a song that I keep thinking has the potential to become sort of classic icon of our times (Obama campaign, are you listening? Kristen would probably license the song to you if you ask, and it would give my friend some great exposure!), was missing from the set, which left me a little disappointed as well. It kept the show down to the core of Kristen's music, though, stories of love gone a-little-bit-right, not-so-right, and not-right-at-all.

Her voice was in good form and the mini-band sounded great. Gary was energetic as always and Kevin was able to put out a wall of sound that managed to fill up the space even with just three instruments playing. But more than anything I enjoyed the chance to have a Friday-on-Monday. Some cocktails, a nice dinner, and time with our friends.

The performance wrapped up all too soon -- I'm not used to the brevity of these opening act gigs! I was enjoying the show and while it was nice to have a break and a chance to chat, the next act would make wish Kristen's set had continued all the stronger!

Fences took the stage and we left soon thereafter. I have never seen a performance as presumably deliberate in their mockery of the audience's position as this interesting duo of drum and guitar/vocal. The singer, looking rather like he wandered in off the street in cutoff shorts with a set of keys dangling from a belt loop via carabiner, faced away from the audience the entire time. The music could have been interesting -- if only I'd felt at all welcome in my intrusion on their time. I'm sure it was a deliberate act -- a statement about insisting on being taken seriously solely for one's music or such. But in either case it rubbed the wrong way and, with a sleepy kid in a noisy room, we knew it was out time to go.

It was a good time -- and I'll be back to the Triple Door for sure on a night when we know all the music will be as good as Kristen's and we've got a sitter. I'll certainly be back out to see the next of Kristen's shows as well.

A mellow high

This blog entry is not about smoking pot. I've never smoked pot. Well, actually I did once, but it was by accident. Its a good story, involving a lot of alcohol, some moderately grizzled WWII commandos, and some folks from Amsterdam (which might help clarify the story).

This is about coffee vs. soda.

Pop, Coke (Even when used in that oddly generic sense where you can say "what kind of Coke would you like?" and hear the answer "a rootbeer." Whatever.), soda, whatever you call it.
I'm not sure if this is true for anyone but me, but I somehow feel that coffee, brewed well and with care, gives a much better feeling than soda, ounce for ounce.

Now it might be a quantity thing. The legend, back in college, was that soda had more caffeine, ounce per ounce, than coffee. Add in the fact that a typical cup of coffee is 8 oz and a soda 50% more and you can easily take in a lot more of that wonderful (but disturbing) stimulant upon which I so deeply depend.

I drink too much soda and I get jittery, irritable, and plagued by a certain tight behind the eyeballs feeling. Things go out of focus, I find it ever harder to concentrate.

Don't get me wrong -- coffee in excess can get me just as bad. But it takes more. And I drink it more slowly -- I take time to go back and clean my press and load some grounds and let it sit and pour it out and let it cool and then enjoy the results.

That's one reason I like winter. When its 55 degrees out, I can enjoy standing at a window and looking out at the rain and drinking my 4th coffee of the day. Can I do that when it 85 degrees and, even inside the air-conditioned bubble of my Bellevue office tower, I can feel the sun hitting me and popping bubbles of sweat out of my pores?

If you want any girly mixers, bring them yourself!

Alright, folks, let me put it to you plain.

If you want your cocktails in the classic style, you've come to the right place. Boston shaker, strainer, bar measure. Two parts base, one part sweet, one part sour. Ice. Gin, vodka, Bourbon, Cognac, tequila, rum, Scotch, and a couple of blended whiskies from here and there. I get really skittish around infused vodkas, but I've got citrus in my collection and might add some of the stuff that Hanger One is putting out -- particularly the Kaffir Lime. I'd like to try that with a lemongrass infusion or a lemongrass syrup. One of the few fancy and modern cocktails I've had lately was a surprisingly well balanced lemongrass martini.

So I'm not trying to say that any cocktail invented since the 2nd World War is a bad idea. Despite the fact that most of my standards predate the 1st World War, I am open to change.

But I will tell you right now that nothing kills a good drink like an excess of sugar. Sure, sweet means easy drinking. And easy drinking means a lot of drinks sold to inexperienced drinkers used to soda pop and liquid desserts from Starbucks. But sweet also means a hard crash and a worse hangover when your body is dealing not just with the nasty metabolic byproducts of the booze but the glycemic slash-and-burn and dehydration brought about by all that sugar.

There's also a glorious branding force at work -- liquor is hip and fashionable and making a signature drink with a signature base is all the rage -- regardless if the flavor profiles fit or not.

So KISS rules again -- keep it simple and use good ingredients. Splash in some fun stuff for color or throw on a sugar rim or a quick squeeze of simple syrup.

But good distillates -- and not fruit drinks -- are the heart of a good drinking cocktails.

There are plenty of place still mixing a good drink. Ask them what goes into their gimlet. If it involves Rose's Lime Juice, stay away. Ask them what goes in their Sidecar. If it involves sours mix, stay away. Order a Manhattan, one of my great evaluative drinks. If it tastes of vermouth more than whisky, ask them to use less vermouth.

A footnote on Manhattans: I make mine with Bourbon instead of rye, which adds a little more distinctive and smoky taste. That's not traditional, but has increasingly become the custom, one change I support (see, I'm not a complete curmudgeon!). But the vermouth:whisky ration is optimum (to me) somewhere around 1:4. I also occasionally make mine with 1/2 sweet vermouth and 1/2 dry vermouth, though getting those quantities right is tricky so I usually am lazy and just use sweet.

If you're in Edmonds, the best drinks come at the new-managemented Shell Creek. Down in Seattle, the best mixed cocktails I've had recently are at The Oceanaire and (perhaps surprisingly) Palomino. I've never visited the bar at Sea Star in Bellevue, but I know a couple of folks who work there and can guarantee that the drinks will be top notch.

But what matters above all is that the guys or gals behind the bar care -- that they understand how bartending was once a career, a noble profession with immense traditions and oral histories and skills beyond knowing how to flip a shaker like in that irritating Tom Cruise movie, and not just a way to pay the bills through college. If they understand this and believe that it can be so again, stay for a drink.

Or, if you're having a hard time finding a barstool that fits, stop on by, I've always put some ice in the shaker for a guest.

The Gimlet

No better starting place.

Best suited to dark days with long nights. October, November, on through to March or even April.

Don't make it with Rose's Lime Juice like most of the books tell you to. That's fine if you want a drink that tastes like flat, boozy Sprite. But here's a better option: fresh squeezed lime juice (about half a lime, if you've got a nice juicy one), a squirt of simple syrup, and then enough gin or vodka to round out the drink. Shake, strain, and serve up with a lime wheel.

Citric and biting, with no real sweetness. The simple syrup is just there to add a little balance and stop the thing from turning into some sort of pucker-factor contest. It should be a drink that cuts through the winter muddle, after all.

Cheers,

Nick