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In this feature we hand the reins over to you. If you'd like us to consider running an article of yours, please write to gazregan@gmail.com.
The Most Interesting Man in the World
by Philip Greene
You know those Dos Equis beer ads, with the swashbuckling "Most Interesting Man in the World" telling us to "Stay thirsty, my friend."? Of course, he's just a Madison Avenue creation. But for most of his life, Ernest Hemingway was that guy. He sure as hell stayed thirsty, for life, travel, big game hunting and fishing, running with the bulls, not to mention the odd war or two. And he stayed thirsty in a quite literal sense; in both his life and in his prose, he and his characters were not shy about bending the ol' elbow.
Writers are often drinkers, but perhaps more than any other, he often had his characters eating and drinking-be it at a café or bar, or while camping, fishing, wherever-and he described it in such rich detail, allowing the reader to almost smell and taste the scene. In a 1925 letter to his father, he wrote, "You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across - not to just depict life - or criticize it - but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing." That includes food and drink.
Hemingway's formal education ended with high school; he'd often say he attended the university of the world. Throughout all his travels, Hemingway sought to learn from the locals, to get the flavor of the place. He once said, "Don't bother with churches, government buildings or city squares, if you want to know about a culture, spend a night in its bars." A wine enthusiast calls it terroir, the flavor of the region. Hemingway's descriptions and depictions gave you that additional sense, that perspective, and allowed the reader another way to become immersed in the scene.
While reading Hemingway, as a foodie and history buff, I wanted to know more about the geographical, cultural and historical context, and especially about what the characters were eating and drinking. In The Sun Also Rises, Jake Barnes "went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman
." In A Farewell to Arms, Frederic Henry had a couple of Martinis, noting that he "had never tasted anything so cool and clean. They made me feel civilized." The Martini had a similar effect on the characters in Across the River and Into the Trees, in which "they felt them glow happily all through their upper bodies." In "The Strange Country," "Roger lay back and listened to the noises that came up from the street below and read the papers and drank his drink. This was almost the best hour of the day. It was the hour he had always gone to the café alone when he had lived in Paris, to read the evening papers and have his aperitif." In The Garden of Eden, David and Catherine "were hungry for lunch and the bottle of white wine was cold and they drank it and ate the celery remoulade and the small radishes and the home pickled mushrooms from the big glass jar. The bass was grilled and the grill marks showed on the silver skin and the butter melted on the hot plate. There was sliced lemon to press on the bass and fresh bread from the bakery and the wine cooled their tongues of the heat of the fried potatoes. It was good light, dry, cheerful unknown white wine and the restaurant was proud of it."
And in For Whom the Bell Tolls, it is the ritual of dripped absinthe that gives Robert Jordan temporary solace from the rigors of war:
One cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafes, of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of kiosks, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Company and the Ille de la Cite, of Foyot's old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea changing liquid alchemy.
I wanted to know more about that Jack Rose, to drink a Martini and feel those same feelings, to read the evening papers with my aperitif, experience the ritual of absinthe, or taste that "cheerful unknown white wine" with a grilled sea bass, close my eyes and put myself in that scene, if only for a moment. So, I began researching and collecting the drinks he mentioned in his prose, his letters, and those found elsewhere in his life.
I somewhat soberly note that Hemingway drank too much. His was a life full of pain, both emotional and physical, and alcohol was often his painkiller. He described Gordon's Gin as "one of the sovere
ign antiseptics of our time," which "can be counted on to fortify, mollify and cauterize practically all internal or external injuries." Further, "he explained the nights of drinking as a necessary counterforce to the daily bouts of writing which left him as whipped, wrung out, and empty as a used dishrag." It was a "release," "the irresponsibility that comes after the terrible responsibility of writing." Many great artists have flaws, and their muses often hasten their destruction. As the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, "My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends It gives a lovely light!"
So, I don't wish to celebrate Hemingway's excesses, or act as an apologist for his flaws. Rather, not wanting to throw the baby out with the branch water, so to speak, my book is meant as a celebration of his life and his writing, and the sensory aspect of his writing. And, more importantly, it will offer excerpts from Hemingway's works that will allow you to embrace the terroir, and taste the scene.
Here's Hemingway's uber-dry recipe, which in Across the River and Into the Trees he dubbed the "Montgomery." It's from a 1947 letter to Charles Scribner, written from his home in Cuba:
"We have real Gordon's Gin at 50 bucks a case and real Noilly Prat and have found a way of making ice in the deep-freeze in tennis ball tubes that comes out 15 degrees below zero and with the glasses frozen too makes the coldest martini in the world. Just enough vermouth to cover the bottom of the glass, ounce 3/4 of gin, and the Spanish cocktail onions very crisp and also 15 degrees below zero when they go in the glass. This has been rugged as I said but there are better ways of sweating it out than putting your head on the wailing wall."
In a letter to his ex-wife Pauline that same year, he noted that his method "gives a pillar of ice 15 degrees below zero F. and now have glasses frozen and Spanish cocktail onions frozen. Whole drink comes out so cold you can't hold it in your hand. It sticks to the fingers." Now that sounds like a cold Martini. Cheers!
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Cocktails in the Country 2019
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MEETS
That's right, in 2019 we're opening up Cocktails in the Country to every bartender in America when we unleash our CitC/101BNC Initiative
Wanna Join in the Fun?
We'll post more details here as soon as we've made them up . . .
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Between Today and Yesterday
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If you've been too busy infusing mezcal with sheep's tongue and orris root to pay attention to the on-line bar world over the past week, here's where you can catch up on what's been going down recently. Just click on whatever tickles your fancy.
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