So, Senior Research Assistant, Kerry, and I meet up with long-time regular researcher, Sharon Mc. at The Lobster Shanty to "research" a new drink, (review for that one coming soon.)
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Red Planet Martini
So, Senior Research Assistant, Kerry, and I meet up with long-time regular researcher, Sharon Mc. at The Lobster Shanty to "research" a new drink, (review for that one coming soon.)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Pineapple/Guava Zombie
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Passage White Russian
Joe's Notes: Two "dudes" walked into my bar. No, this is not the start of a joke, I don't tell jokes. Well, that is not entirely true, the truth is I can't tell jokes. Every time I try to tell a joke I forget the punch line or miss out some vital component. After I have told a joke, instead of peels of laughter reverberating through the bar I am left with a stony silence until somebody says "I don't get it." I think it is genetic because my father couldn't tell jokes either, but unlike myself he didn't realize it. He continued to make people squirm well into his old age.
Anyway, back to the two dudes. One dude says, "Do you have a special recipe for a White Russian?"
So, I give them my White Russian. They nod in agreement, and write the recipe down in a little book one of them pulls from his jacket pocket. "Are you bartenders?" I ask.
"No, we're planning a White Russian Party and we are collecting as many different recipes as we can find."
The head dude hands over the little book to me. Intrigued, I flick through the pages. The book not only contained recipes but little side notes. For example:
• Colorado Bulldog White Russian; just add a splash of coke.
• Tastes like chocolate milk.
• Bartender Judy, cute, but looks too much like my sister to date."
• White Russian with Malibu. Hate coconut, but some of the girls might like it. wonder what it would be like with banana?"
• Disgusting! Gross! do not try this at home!
• Blonde Russian, replace cream with Bailey's. Very good, would stay for another but think the bartender (Mike) is hitting on me.
Amused, I hand the book back to the dudes. They go on to tell me that they have collected 23 different recipes so far, and that mine is one of their favorites.
I hope you dudes had a great party. I know that you planned on showing "The Big Lebowski " and would love to know what food you served. I hope it wasn't pizza and hot wings; I can't imagine the clean-up the following morning.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Bramble Ale
Joe's notes: The Bramble Ale is our variation on the classic English cocktail, The Bramble. As creme de mure (blackberry liqueur) is not so readily available on these shores, I have chosen to go with Ribena.
Now I know what you are saying. Ribena is blackcurrant, not blackberry and it also contains no alcohol. But I believe that the addition of cointreau not only makes up for the lack of alcohol in Ribena it also adds a very nice flavor combination.
Those of you that are regular readers of this blog probably realize by now that the H.Q.of TGDitWTW, (The Passage Lounge ) is a hang out for many ex-pats, both British and Irish. We spend many an evening reminiscing of the days when we happily ate fried offal in damp kitchens, or lay awake dying of the heat, sharing the bed with numerous siblings in an un-air conditioned bedroom.
The cure for a sore throat was to have an aspirin, a pair of your fathers (worn) socks wrapped around your neck and a cup of warm Ribena.
A story about Blackcurrants and other things:
When I was a boy, my friend Jeremy and I scrummed the blackcurrant foliage hanging over the wall of the local convent.
Inevitably, a nun was going to appear. She did in the form of sister Bernadette. Mouths and pockets stuffed with blackcurrants we awaited the tirade of anger and accusations. "Boy's," she said, "If you want some blackcurrants why don't you just knock on our garden gate?"
Being boys we said nothing. "Follow me." We followed her through the doors of the convent. Polished wood and stone met our eyes, the smell of boiled cabbage and lilac powder awoke our prepubescent terror. The nuns, silent but surprisingly young, smiled and waved us through. We arrived at a garden with the biggest and most heavily laden blackcurrant bushes I have ever seen to this day." Take what you want, but return tomorrow and help is in the garden".
Jeremy never went back (I think he became a lawyer.)
I went back the following week. I spent a summer drinking tea in fine china cups and eating very small sandwiches with the crusts cut off. They never actualy needed my help with the garden, but rather extended their love to one very small and insignificant boy.
Ribena, nuns in a bottle.