Liquid lunch! That's what we used to call the Bloody Marys at certain favorite hangouts, places that served their tall, spicy-red drinks bristling with an RDA's-worth of tasty edibles, from green olives and celery sticks to shrimp on a stick. But nothing's better in a Bloody Mary than garlicky, dill-y pickled green beans.
The Cafe overlooking Castro and Market used to load up their Sunday morning rations with handfuls of dilly beans; so did Prune in Manhattan and Frankie's 457 Spuntino in Brooklyn, to name just a few.
(Among Lower East Side brunchers, Prune was notorious for chef Gabrielle Hamilton's willingness to stick just about anything grabable--pickled eggs, white anchovies, beef jerky--into her Bloody Marys. But my favorite was always the salad-esque Chicago Matchbox, garnished with caperberries, pickled Brussels sprouts, baby turnips, radishes, and yes, green beans. The house-infused lemon vodka may have helped, too.)
At a recent all-day outdoor barbecue, a jar of these beans disappeared even faster than the Stoli did. I like to use a combination of yellow wax bean and green beans, purely for stripey effect in the jar. Purple beans might seem even cooler, but alas! The color disappears when the beans are heated. Garlic, dill seeds, and a hot pepper or two is the standard combination, but you can go as crazy as you want with additional aromatic flavorings. Coriander, fennel, and celery seed all work well, either by themselves or in combination.
If you'd like to can these for later use, you'll have an easier time getting the beans in (and out) if you use wide-mouth pint or quart jars. Most hardware stores carry a good range of canning jars, but if you're really stocking up, I've found that Smart & Final often has the best prices on cases. You can also train your friends and neighbors to return their empty jars to you once they've finished the delicious jam & pickles that you've gifted to them. Remember, you can wash and reuse jars and rings, but you'll need to buy a new package of flat lids for each canning go-round.
Now, if you're going to go to the (small) trouble of making these excellent beans, why waste them on some nasty corn-syrupy cocktail mix? As I headed to the supermarket to provision the barbecue mentioned above, one of my guests emphatically recommended a popular brand of Bloody Mary mix. Too much hassle to provision all the separate ingredients, she opined, and this stuff was good.
But you know what two of the four main ingredients were? Water and high-fructose corn syrup, neither of which is high on my list of Things to Pay For at Safeway. Instead, I bought a jug of tomato juice, raided the condiments stashed inside the door of the fridge and doctored up the red stuff with the classics: horseradish, Tabasco, lemon juice, and a few jiggers of Worcestershire sauce, no HFCS needed. Or, if you've got too many tomatoes in the garden, or a squishy bag of oozing, end-of-the-day lovelies from the farmers' market, you can whip up a pitcherful from scratch, using the Bloody Mary recipe of hotshot British food star Tamasin Day-Lewis, sister of Daniel.
So, bottoms up, darlings, and here's to starting Sunday right.
Bloody Mary Beans
Depending on the size of your beans, and how firmly you stuff them in, you might fill five jars, or you might fill four. But I'd have five jars on hand anyway, just in case.
Makes 5 jars
Ingredients
2 lbs green beans, trimmed to fit jars
10 garlic cloves, peeled and split
10 small hot pepper pods, optional
1 cup dill fronds, loosely packed, or 2 tbsp dried dill weed
2 tbsp dill seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp celery seeds, optional
2 tbsp black peppercorns
4 cups white vinegar
2 cups water
2 tbsp sugar, optional
2 tbsp kosher or sea salt (iodized salt can make the pickles cloudy)
Preparation
1. Place 5 wide-mouth pint jars in a large, deep pot. Fill pot with water to cover jars by at least 2 inches. Bring to a boil, and let jars simmer for 10 minutes. Remove jars and place on a clean towel until cool enough to handle.
2. Divide garlic cloves, hot pepper pods, dill weed, seeds, and peppercorns between jars. Divide beans between jars, packing them in tightly.
3. Bring vinegar, water, sugar, and salt to a boil, stirring until salt and sugar are dissolved. Pour boiling brine into the jars, dividing it to submerge the beans completely.
4. Seal jars. Return them to water bath and bring to boil. Once water is boiling, let simmer for 10 minutes.
5. Remove jars to a rack or clean towel and let cool undisturbed for several hours. Check seals, then store in a cool, dry place for several days before opening. The longer they sit, the sharper and more "pickly" they will be.
Blogs, Tweets, Yelp write-ups, email newsletters, check-ins on Foursquare-- the new social-media options may be the shiniest, coolest toys on the block right now, as evidenced by the full house attending The Future of Food Media, one of several industry seminars presented as part of SF Chefs 2010.
But after a 90 minute discussion between Oracle corporate chef Robbie Lewis, Yelp executive Ruggy Joesten, Marlowe owner Anna Weinberg, PR specialist Andrew Freeman, and moderator Paolo Lucchesi of San Francisco Chronicle's Inside Scoop SF, it came down to this: A great review from Michael Bauer, the Chronicle's longtime head restaurant critic, is still the golden ticket that every restaurant dreams of, the one sure-fire way to guarantee a full house for months to come.
For the longtime print writers, editors, and public-relations folks in the audience (as well as, presumably, Bauer himself, who was seated unobtrusively near the back of the room), it was satisfying to hear Anna Weinberg, owner of Marlowe, insist that Bauer's dubbing their lamb-laced bacon cheeseburger the best in the city had an instant, and huge, impact on her business.
(And that burger was no accident; Weinberg and her chef Jennifer Puccio did loads of food trend research before opening, looking for what local diners really get passionate about. Which turned out to be, unsurprisingly, pizza and burgers.)
For all that Yelp's Joesten had to say about his company's proprietary, scam-searching algorithm for rating and ranking user reviews, a smart professional critic whose palate and judgment you trust is still a more reliable guide than a blogger hoping for perks and freebies, or an anonymous poster with any number of axes to grind.
And there's the other bonus: good writing! Among all the long-winded digressions about data mining and statistical analytics (which got many of the industry types and interested foodies fidgeting in their seats and yes, probably checking their tweets), no one mentioned the enjoyment value of professional criticism until the closing minutes, when audience member Jan Newberry, food editor of San Francisco magazine, noted that no one goes to Yelp for the prose, whereas good criticism is also good writing--entertaining, informative, able to put a restaurant, its chef, and its scene into a social, gastronomic, and cultural context.
(As a former restaurant critic for both the Bay Guardian and San Francisco magazine, I was often asked how I "got paid to eat." My response? I didn't get paid to eat, I got paid to write. Eating was just what I happened to write about.)
Still, there was lots to say about how a restaurant, or a chef, can build a community and a brand through judicious use of Twitter, blogs, Yelp, and more.
As Weinberg noted, "It's a free 24 hour a day focus group. Looking on places like Yelp, you can start to see trends. If 10 posts in a week tell you the soup isn't so great or the bartender was rude, you know that maybe it's time to get a better soup, or a better bartender."
Said Lewis, "You can use to engage your customers, start a direct dialogue with guests, ask for feedback rather than it getting blasted all over the internet. It can be great for customer touch-back, especially when they've given you positive comments. Thanking someone for a positive post builds loyalty instantly."
According to Lewis, customers love to get a glimpse "behind the velvet rope," and hearing that the sommelier is really jazzed about a new Cab or that the pastry chef is doing something fantastic with the season's first pluots can galvanize these would-be insiders into showing up that very night.
But how much transparency is too much?
Said Lucchesi, to much laughter from the audience, "You know, Eric Ripert of Le Bernardin in NYC just started tweeting. Now, he's James Bond suave, with an olive-oil French accent, probably one of the world's most respected chefs. But his tweets read like a 12-year-old girl is writing them!"
The Mayor was a no-show to the Grand Tent's grand ribbon-cutting shortly after the panel concluded, but that didn't stop the crowd from oohing over the dramatic sabering of a magnum of Domaine Chandon, or the star-studded posse of chefs and restauranteurs clustered around the thick orange ribbon. And with a scissor and a snip, the crowd surged forward to check out Friday's main event, "Hog in the Fog," a food-and-cocktail walk-around under a big white tent in Union Square.
It helped to like pork in all its myriad forms, since besides the figs, grapes, and Cowgirl Creamery cheeses offered at the CUESA table, there was almost nothing for vegetarians, save a lot of tasty cocktails. Table after table offered pork cured, pork braised, pork shredded, or pork confit'd.
No pork crudo was in evidence, but there were plenty of jiggly slices of "head and hoof" terrine topped with pickled mustard seeds. (Made by Chris Cosentino of Incanto, as if you had to ask).
Poggio's Peter McNee laid out a lavish spread of salume, all made from a single pig, including sliced "pigstrami," mortadella, chocolate-brown "bloodella," and more, plus poached cotechino sausage over lentils (a classic Bolognese pairing) and fermented summer sausage on sauerkraut.
Homer Simpson would have been in heaven ("Porkchops and bacon, my two favorite animals!") but after the sixth or seventh porky bite, the octopus tentacles made by A16's Liza Shaw starting looking mighty good.
Nicolette Manescalchi, Liza Shaw and Ross Wunderlich
Why octopus? "Well, I love squid, octopus, all that stuff." said Shaw. Sometimes you have to choose between cooking for the people or cooking for chefs. Today, I decided to cook for the chefs. The people will follow!"
And her octopus tentacles on a stick, with slippery onion and a vivid, herby green-tomato salsa verde, were double-plus good.
You could wash down all that pork with many different cocktails, as long as your taste ran to tart, dry, and spicy. San Francisco bartenders continue to love their bitters, from the aromatic bitters (made from cinnamon, allspice, cardamom, and cassia) in the Rye Buck (Wild Turkey, house-made ginger syrup, lime) from Rye to the orange bitters in the cayenne sugar-rimmed Smoking Gun (Combier orange liqueur, Hennessey Black cognac, smoked peach puree) from Otis.
Everything seemed to have lemon or lime, ginger or cinnamon, plus a dash of herbal/anise flavor, in the form of Chartreuse, Herbsaint, or absinthe. Acknowledging that bartenders have their groupies and their name-brand just like chefs, each bar table had a board announcing the bartender's name and his (yes, they were all male) liquor of choice above the table.
The next morning, it was time for the Anolon Chef Challenge: Restaurant Family Feud (Delfina vs. Spruce), hosted by the Food Network's Aida Mollenkamp and judged by Jan Newberry, Steffan Terje (Perbacco, Barbacco) and Chronicle editor Miriam Morgan. The same conference room was now a Top Chef-style kitchen, with portable cooktop (but no running water), myriad bottles of wine and olive oil, and both a secret ingredient and a mystery basket of seasonal produce, courtesy of CUESA.
The secret ingredient? Local sustainable seafood, including Monterey Bay squid, sardines, and sole. The produce basket had just about everything you could find at Ferry Plaza: tomatoes of all sizes and colors, new potatoes, corn, herbs, figs, nectarines, melons, plums, onions, leeks, and more. The challenge? Three courses, one hour, two chefs on each team.
Mark Sullivan from Spruce
As you might imagine, chefs know how to focus, and halfway through their allotted time, you could hone a Wusthof knife off the single-minded attention beaming down from Delfina's Craig Stoll and Anthony Strong and Spruce's Mark Sullivan and Ben Cohn.
Craig Stoll from Delfina
They had little time or energy for chit-chat, which left Mollenkamp to carry the show, without TV's benefit of tomato-chopping close-ups or suspense-building commercial breaks. But the judges did chime in here and there, as when Mollenkamp asked Terje about his favorite summer produce.
"Summer is hard for me," Terje admitted. "It's like culinary ADD. Winter is more forgiving. Now, when something hits the market, you have to be ready for it right away."
Delfina dishes
The final menus? For Delfina, handmade tonarelli pasta with sardines, fennel, grapes, capers, and toasted breadcrumbs, followed by an impromptu toss of charred peppers, anchovies, and poached squid with pureed and diced tomatoes, lemon, capers and olives, and finally rolled sole poached with fish fumet, white wine, and herbs over tomatoes stewed in tomato juice and camomile tea.
Spruce dishes
For Spruce, the meal began with a clear tomato-water gazpacho with diced tomatoes and mint, followed by seared sardine over a pork-and-tomato broth with peppers and smoked paprika, then poached sole and squid with leeks, potatoes, and a basil pistou.
The winner? By just the smallest of margins, Delfina. The audience cheered, the chefs toasted each other with well-deserved beers, and the audience, tantalized by unbearably delicious aromas (but no tastes) during the past two hours, headed to the Grand Tent for another chef-and-cocktail go-round.
I recently met up with my friend Fatemeh for brunch.
I had every intention of it being a long, lingering meal-- the type one anticipates when one is finally presented with a rare open day and the opportunity to spent a good chunk of it with someone one has known on the edges of his social circle, but has high hopes of getting to know better.
We ordered our food and a round of bacon-studded bloody marys, talking about mutual friends and sharing stories as we tried to figure out the best way to extract the fatty bits of pig from our drinks. The food was middling, but the conversation was excellent.
After we'd filled ourselves and I had given up fishing for identifiable pieces of food that had given up on life and drowned in my bowlful of gravy, we decided to order a second round of cocktails. Fatemeh considered her options and settled on a Ramos Fizz. I asked for a Death in The Afternoon.
The choice was simple, if indeed there was any choice involved at all. I was spending a Saturday afternoon with an interesting, beautiful woman. I was drinking cocktails. I wanted to appear louche, dissipated. Though I have never in my life felt especially Ernest Hemingway-ish, I felt that no other drink would do.
Given the name of the beverage I was consuming, it isn't surprising that our conversation turn to the subject of death and grieving.
As we shared about our families and our personal losses, I began to talk about my brother in a way that I had not allowed myself to do in a very long time: the illness, the denial of illness, the slow and painful wasting of his body in the last year and a half of his short life.
I'd fought against thinking of him in that way for years. I had always thought it would serve him better if I could remember him as the handsome, shy, quirky young man I'd worshipped as a boy-- the Douglas who shared his fetish for over-the-top, Technicolor MGM musicals with me, not the Douglas who sat in his darkened room alone, listening to tape recordings of the same films, avoiding the light that seemed to hurt his eyes.
But there, the middle of the afternoon, I was discussing the horrifying final act of his life. I wondered if our conversation could possibly take on a more upbeat tone after a talk of such loss- of fathers and brothers, of how different people approach coming to terms with that loss-- but it did. Fatemeh, it seems, is not only a serious and thoughtful woman, but possesses the wonderful gift of buoyancy that both I and my meal were currently lacking. She went down into the depths of my pain and somehow lifted me up out of it again.
As I walked home from our encounter, I thought about my brother and realized that it would have been his 49th birthday this weekend. I remembered all of those birthdays we'd shared and the sometimes frustrating sameness of them: the fudge-marbled birthday cake, my mother's Beef Stroganoff, his unwillingness to tear wrapping paper because it was so nice that he might want to use it himself.
And then I thought about my cocktail and how it lead me to my current state of mind. A Death in the Afternoon is made of champagne--the drink most closely associated with celebration, and absinthe-- the drink of forgetfulness. I thought it an odd combination; a conflict of emotions in a glass. And that damned drink had the opposite effect on me-- it lead to the dredging up of painful memories that I certainly didn't feel like celebrating. It is a drink that caused me to become acutely aware of what was absent from my life.
I made that connection when I came home and looked at the bottle of absinthe a friend of mine bought me for my own birthday last year. In large letters, there it was, just staring right at me:
I put the bottle down and noticed the nearby model of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Doug had once given me. I then went into the bathroom and stared at his India ink drawing of a plus-sized woman sitting on the beach, reading a book called Les Femmes de Picasso, with a lobster approaching her with no small amount of menace and her feet buried neatly in the sand. He could never manage to draw feet.
I was comforted by the thought that, though he might no longer be physically present, he continued to exist in the details of both my apartment and my life. I decided that alone was worth celebrating. I took the bottle of good champagne I keep for emergencies out of my refrigerator, poured myself a glass, and bypassed the absinthe altogether. I sifted through my dvd collection and opted to watch, for the 147th time, Singin' in the Rain-- a film he (and countless film critics) deemed "possibly the greatest musical ever made."
I crawled into bed with my glass of champagne, got lost in two hours of Arthur Freed music, and quietly celebrated a person who I have deemed "possibly the greatest brother ever made."
He would have approved.
Death in the Afternoon
The name for this drink is derived from the title of the same name by Ernest Hemingway. It is he who, coincidentally, is credited with the creation of this cocktail for a book of drinks created by writers for the 1935 book So Red the Nose, or, Breath in the Afternoon. The recipe and instructions are Hemingway's own.
Makes one cocktail. However, I would advise you to make two of them at a time: one for you, one for a friend because one should not drink-- nor experience death-- alone.
Ingredients:
1 ½ ounces absinthe
4 ounces Brut champagne
Preparation:
Pour 1 jigger of absinthe into a champagne glass. Add iced champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly."
I romanticize the South. I know I do it and I also know many others fall prey to thoughts of afternoon mint juleps, big willowy trees, and visions of a slower pace of life. Recently during one of my Craigslist property searches/obsessions, I ran across a little Craftsman house in Durham, North Carolina and fell in love. I called the realtor. I’ve never been to Durham and actually, I've never really been to the South (I hear Austin, TX doesn’t count). The house had sold. My coworkers rejoiced; they'd no longer have to listen to my sudden, out-of-left-field obsession with a town I'd never been to and a house I couldn't really afford. So here we are. Back to reality—and a great book by James Beard Cookbook of the Year winner, Joseph Dabney. The publisher contacted me to see if I'd be interested in checking it out, knowing that I have a fondness for Southern food and food history. After reading a brief description, I was sold. In The Food, Folklore and Art of Lowcountry Cooking, Dabney takes readers on a tour of the various regions of the Southern Lowcountry including Charleston, Beaufort, and Savannah. In this tour, he offers traditional recipes, first-hand history and lore, and stories from long-time residents and high-end chefs alike. This is, I'm guessing, a truly representative swath of a part of the country I can't wait to visit.
The book is organized into thematic chapters detailing the history of various cities and moving on to focus more specifically on infamous foods from the region like Hoppin' John, Goobers and Grits. The first chapter lays out the "big picture" and the mystique of the Lowcountry nicely. Dabney calls it "a different world," and describes coming to Charleston for the first time in the 1950's and experiencing culture shock. Many of the homes were elegant, the gardens lush, and the locals spoke in a much different-sounding dialect than the oft-recognized "twang" up North. Dabney proceeds to discuss the history of the dialect, explores the role of the rice plantations, and sheds light on the West Africa connection.
The inside pages of The Food, Folklore, and Art of Lowcountry Cooking
What I love about the book are the little interviews and profiles of real people discussing their towns, family histories, and connection to the Lowcountry. There is a true sense of pride and a love for place that is becoming rarer and rarer these days--something I certainly envy as a consistently transient, mostly urban dwelling gal with little lasting history in any one place. Much more narrative than traditional cookbook, this is a great read for folks who are interested in Southern culture, history, and language and how all three affect the foodways and traditions of the South. To be honest, I don't know that this is a book I would sit down and read cover to cover, but it is a nice one to pick up every so often and explore bit by bit.
The recipes, while quite varied, are split into logical categories such as Soups, Stews and Gumbos; The Glories of Chicken; and Wild Game in the Lowcountry. There are little tales to accompany each one, so you actually feel as though your great aunt is passing down an old church recipe or you're stumbling across your grandmother's accompanying notes. These traditional recipes have been served at church functions and picnics, and have graced many a casual wedding table. Each inclusion is almost more of a modern-day jewel or legend rather than your average run of the mill recipe. I'm so looking forward to trying the benne seed (sesame seed) biscuits, the different varieties of spoonbread, and their version of Southern banana pudding. But for now, for today, I need a drink.
Gathering my ingredients
There are many great cocktail recipes in Dabney's book but most of them appear to be pretty darn sweet to me. With rather large quantities of grenadine, sugar, and peach brandy I can feel a hangover coming on already. But at the same time, there's something extremely likeable about old Southern drinks. You can almost see yourself sitting on a wide open front porch in the afternoon without a care in the world. So after reading through the history and stories behind each of the Southern cocktails in the book, I created my own version of a Southern Rum Punch with just a little less sugar, some bubbly water for a summery kick, and a few sliced limes. Enjoy.
Two glasses of Sort-of Plantation Punch on a Friday afternoon
Sort-of Southern Punch Inspired by: The Food, Folklore, and Art of Lowcountry Cooking
Makes: 4 cocktails
Ingredients
1 cup mango or pineapple juice, chilled
1 cup orange juice
1 1/2 cup dark rum
Juice from 2 limes (almost 1/4 cup)
1/2 cup sparkling water or club soda
1/2 cup brewed black tea
Method:
Mix all ingredients together in a pitcher. Stir vigorously a few times to combine the juices, teas and rum. Fill 4 glasses with ice and pour punch to the brim. Serve with lemon or lime wedges as garnish. Preferably on a patio.
I know this is going to sound crazy, but I love ice cream. I also happen to have an deep affection for Manhattan cocktails. So one evening after a rather unpleasant night at work, I came home, plopped myself in a comfy chair, and thought to myself:
"What'll it be, Michael? Ice cream or alcohol?"
And then, feeling that I needed a double dose comfort after dealing with puffed up politicos and sleazy guests who ask me to feel up parts of their bodies in front of their co-diners, I thought again:
"Why not have both?" To borrow a phrase: Why can't I have my drink and eat it, too?
And so the idea was born.
My original idea was to make a sort of milkshake: ice cream, bourbon, a little milk, and then whirr in the blender. Though delicious-sounding, it felt like a rather desperate concoction-- something made by an alcoholic who had lost his teeth from neglect and a diet consisting solely of rot gut. Besides, it doesn't exactly scream Manhattan, but I'll be damned if I'm going to add sweet vermouth to a milkshake for any reason. And there is no way on God's green earth that I would ever subject good and drunken Morello cherries to the blender's chopping blades.
No thank you.
Tired and stymied, I drank a large glass of water, crawled into bed, and filed the idea away in my now-hydrated brain.
It was a few days later at work that the solution presented itself in the form of a hot fudge sundae I was delivering to a table populated by a name-dropping, bring-your-own-wine family of four.
"What if I made a sweet vermouth caramel sauce?" I asked myself as I pretended to find the father's joke about the hugeness of their dessert both amusing and original. "Would it be disgusting?" There was only one way to find out.
Back at home the next morning, I made three batches of Cinzano caramel sauce: one that burned when answering the phone, another that was entirely too boozy, and a third that both looked and smelled right. I stuck my (clean) finger in.
It was, mercifully, just right: Excellent color, not boozy at all, but with enough of a little something-something that one who was not clued in might ask, "What is that flavor? I can't quite make it out." I was so proud of myself for achieving a rare (for me) state of subtlety, that I gave myself a little pat on the back.
And then I had to go change my shirt because I'd forgotten that my fingers were sticky with said subtlety.
Making the ice cream base was a breeze. I knocked it out on Tuesday morning and placed it in my refrigerator to chill overnight. Everything was clean and ready for the big chill the next morning.
Everything, that is, except my ice cream maker.
I didn't see it coming. I got out my trusted little Krups machine, set it on the counter and... nothing happened. This, I thought, was a device made by the same company that powered the Imperial German Army's war machine. This simple piece of equipment, I believed, was created by the very same organization that came up with the Big Bertha (in honor of the Krupp munitions heiress)-- the largest siege gun known to man (circa 1914). I'd even named my ice cream machine "Little Bertha" in its honor, because it had knocked out so many batches of frozen cholesterol bombs in my previous life as a dessert maker.
Where did I go wrong? I wondered if perhaps it wasn't a matter of machinery at all but, rather, generalship. I had in common with the Germans an over-confidence in superior equipment, but whereas the Imperial command overtaxed and exhausted its army, mine merely suffered from neglect. It had been nearly six years since I'd bothered to turn the damned machine on.
How could a company that helped pummel the Belgians and lay waste to northeastern France let me down with a simple machine that had only one switch? I was mortified.
And then I realized something.
There's only one "p" in the brand name of my ice cream maker. I went online to double check for misspelling. The Krupp family, it turns out, had absolutely nothing to do with the making of Krups kitchen appliances. My little machine was in no way connected to the outfitters of death and destruction.
I returned to the machine and stared at it. I really didn't have the money to purchase a new one and told it as much (yes, I do sometimes speak to inanimate objects). Whether it was my pathetic plea of poverty or its sudden realization that it had been cleared of any and all war crimes against the Low Countries, the machine came to life.
It was a bloody miracle. Since there is no official patron saint of ice cream, I have decided to place my offering of thanks at the altar of St. Honoré of Amiens who, though his home town was in the path of Big Bertha, now felt free to bless Little Bertha, since it was discovered that they were in no way related.
Little Bertha still makes a lovely batch of ice cream. I placed the freshly-churned batch of bourbon-vanilla in the freezer to firm up, assembled all the components of the sundae, photographed it, and set about writing up this piece for you today.
And then, as I was saving this charming, completed bit of food blogging confection at 3:55 pm, WordPress decided to log me out of my account resulting in the loss of almost the entire post. So here I am, finally home from an unpleasant night at work, re-writing the whole thing. It is now 2:03 am.
It has been a Manhattan Sundae melodrama indeed.
Thank God it's delicious.
And so, my friends, I'm going to leave you with a clip from the film Manhattan Melodrama*. As far as I can tell, no sundaes were consumed in the making of this 1934 gem, but two of its stars-- Myrna Loy and William Powell-- went on to make a series of delightful Thin Man films in which they solve crimes and drink a hell of a lot of cocktails-- Manhattans included.
Manhattan Sundae
Like all sundaes, this is a dessert of components. Both the ice cream and caramel sauce can be made well in advance of company, which gives you plenty of time to drink a real Manhattan or two (sans ice cream) either with your guests or before they arrive, depending upon the sort of company you keep.
1/4 cup sweet vermouth (Cinzano or your preferred brand, if you even have one)
For the Whipped Cream:
1 1/2 cup heavy cream, chilled
3 tablespoons sugar
For Garnish:
Brandied Cherries (I used Morello. You can certainly make your own, if you like. If you are the type of person who actually likes maraschino cherries, I would keep that to yourself, if I were you).
Preparation:
To make the ice cream:
1. Combine cream and milk in a medium-sized saucepan. Slice vanilla bean in two lengthwise, scrap as many seeds as you can from the pod, and add both the seeds and the pod to the mixture.
2. Bring mixture to just below boiling point, then remove from the heat, and cover. Let steep for about 20 minutes.
3. Whisk the egg yolks together with the sugar and salt until it becomes roughly the color of this skirt. Slowly whisk about 1/2 cup of the hot cream into the egg mixture to temper, then add egg mixture to the saucepan with the rest of the cream. Cook over medium heat until it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon without running all over the place.
4. Strain mixture through a fine-meshed sieve, which can be rather a pain but, texture-wise, is well worth the effort. Add bourbon and vanilla.
5. Deposit ice cream base (covered) in a refrigerator for at least 4 hours or over night, then freeze in your (hopefully) operational ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions. You do still have the instruction manual, don't you? It's more than likely in your junk drawer underneath those half-used packs of birthday candles and Chinese take away menus. I'm happy to wait while you look.
For the Caramel:
1. In a medium saucepan (if you are using the same sauce pan you used for the ice cream base, please have the good sense to wash and dry it first), add sugar, salt, corn syrup, and water. I prefer to let these ingredients sit together for a minute or two to let the water disperse itself evenly. Bring to a boil over high heat, brushing the sides of the pan with a clean wet brush to wash down any stray bits of sugar as often as needed. Continue to cook, without stirring, until the color of the sugar begins to turn a charming amber color. Remove from heat immediately.
2. Carefully stir in the cream. Do not under any circumstances stick your face into the pan to find out if your concoction smells nice and caramel-y, since this will more than likely lead to painful sugar burns and permanent facial scarring. Let cool for about 1 minute, then stir in the vermouth. Bring the caramel to a boil once again, but this time over medium heat. Transfer caramel to a heat-proof bowl and reserve.
For the Whipped Cream:
I feel mildly ridiculous telling you how to whip cream. If you find these instructions necessary, you should really re-assess your fitness to make ice cream. And you really, really aren't ready for caramel-making.
1. Whip chilled cream until it thickens. Add sugar before the cream has achieved soft-peak stage. Continue to whip until cream holds stiff peaks, but not long enough so that it in any way resembles butter. Transfer whipped cream to a pastry bag that has been fitted with a star tip.
To Assemble the Sundae:
These sundaes should be served in martini glasses for one obvious reason. If you do not know the reason, I again urge you not to make this dessert. If you are the type of person who prefers his Manhattans on the rocks, you should also abandon this endeavor.
1. Place martini glasses in the freezer for several minutes to chill.
2. Warm your bowl of caramel sauce in a microwave on low setting (or whatever it's called on your machine) or in a pan of hot (but not boiling) water. Keep warm.
3. Insert 2 medium-sized or 3 small scoops of ice cream into each glass.
4. Spoon two heaping tablespoons of warm caramel sauce over the ice cream, pipe in as much whipped cream as your doctor will allow, drizzle a little more caramel over the top (for color), and garnish with brandied cherries.
5. Serve immediately to your guests. Regale them with stories of everything you went through in order to make this special dessert for them.
6. Pour yourself a shot of bourbon for accompaniment.
7. Pour yourself a second shot. You've earned it.
*If you didn't know this already, Manhattan Melodrama was the film Public Enemy #1 John Dillinger had just emerged from seeing when he was shot to death outside the Biograph Theatre in Chicago, Illinois exactly 76 years about this week. Happy Deathday, John!
Wednesday's Rising Stars Revue proved to be a stellar event with the 14 award-winning chefs selected by culinary magazine StarChefs.com transforming Ghirardelli Square into a midsummer night's feast. The tasting gala and awards ceremony celebrated the Bay Area's brightest culinary talent, and the crowd was more than happy to bask in glow of their signature dishes.
Left: Aziza's Mourad Lahlou (winner of 2010 Rising Stars Mentor Award) and Center: Rising Star chef Louis Maldonado, prepare Marinated Striped Bass, Petrossian Caviar, Green Strawberries, and Brown Rice
The chefs impressed, with a flurry of intricately constructed small plates -- each one lovingly sauced, seasoned, and garnished before disappearing quickly into a throng of eager hands. With each bite, it became clear why these chosen few were crowned rising stars.
Thomas McNaughton's Ravioli Doppio of Pork and Pea, with butter sauce, pork jus, and fresh horseradish
Thomas McNaughton, flour + water (nominated for the James Beard Award for Best New Restaurant this year), served his soul-satisfying Ravioli Doppio of Pork and Pea. Yes, this ravioli had not one, but two fillings, piped in side by side (double the pleasure, double the fun). Bathed in a warm butter sauce and topped with grated Parmigiano and fresh horseradish, this hit the spot as the sun went down and the brisk bay air set in.
Brian MacGregor shakes up his Tippler's Delight
Brian MacGregor, Rising Star mixologist at Jardiniere, shook up a storm with his titillating Tippler's Delight (1½ ounces Navip Slivovitz, ¾ ounce St. Germain, ¾ ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice, dash of absinthe, shaken with ice and strained).
And, if you're wondering what my favorite dish of the evening was, here comes the grand finale…
Scott Nishiyama wows us with his Foie Gras "Neige"
Scott Nishiyama, Chez TJ, hands down, took the cake for the most ridiculously delicious dish served at this event: Moulard Duck Foie Gras "Neige," Blackberry Gelee, Cashew Puree, Sunchoke Salad, and Housemade Mustard Toast.
On the bottom of this heavenly dish was a smear of rich cashew butter. Scattered on top were little cubes of blackberry gelee and big, plump blackberries, some microgreens, and crispy baby radishes, sliced paper-thin. (In Nishiyama's original recipe, he uses sunchoke chisp rather than radishes). On the side rested a baton of brioche-like housemade mustard bread. And showered upon it all was the most glorious mound of shaved frozen foie gras.
Yeah, I'll just let that sink in for a sec.
Nishiyama (who cut his teeth at a few little places called Daniel and The French Laundry) makes the foie gras torchon in-house, soaking it in Sauternes and seasoning it with kosher salt, sugar, pink salt, and white pepper. He then freezes it so that it can be grated into a fine snow-flurry of gastronomic bliss. And, it's not just a wee sprinkling he imparts, no, he keeps it coming until a lavish foie-blizzard has accumulated on your plate.
Ugh, I know I'm gushing like a smitten schoolgirl, but it really was simply divine. The frozen foie melted delicately on your tongue, and settled into the dish so that the creamy cashew puree took on its luxurious flavor. And the blackberry accents added just the amount of acidity needed to cut the richness, while bringing out the sweetness of the dish at the same time.
Apparently I wasn't alone in my sentiment. As people took their first bite, I witnessed reactions ranging from utterances of "Holy Sh*t" to sounds not suitable for children. Needless to say, the dish won the People's Choice award as best dish of the event.
Rising Stars and Mentors
The wining and dining carried on into the night, and then even further into the night at the industry-only after party hosted at Elizabeth Falkner’s Orson, where, by the way, I had my second O-face inducing taste of the evening –- a deep-fried Monte Cristo with melty gruyere and Canadian bacon, served with strawberry-raspberry jam and powdered sugar.
The other night at work, I watched as a fellow server carried a tray of cocktails to one of his tables. On that tray were three beverages known as Shirley Temples.
As he passed me, I commented with mock indignance, "Poor Jane Withers, no one ever named a drink after her. It's always Shirley, Shirley, Shirley."
Which was exactly what was happening as I spoke the words. One Shirley, two Shirley, three Shirleys down...
So I resolved then and there to create a drink in Jane Withers' honor to make up for nearly seven decades-worth of slight.
For those of you not well-versed in Depression-Era (the 1930's version, not the present one) pop culture, Jane Withers gained fame as Shirley Temple's nemesis in a film or two, most notably in Bright Eyes. Meaner, bigger, and less endearing, she was still entertaining enough to hold her own against Miss Temple. And if I have to explain to you who Shirley Temple is, I am going to cry.
Just watch and you'll see what I mean:
When I got home, I thought about what to make and came up blank. Who even remembers Jane Withers anymore, except me, I mean? Should I just simply do a take-off of a Shirley Temple? Would I add bitters? Make it taller? I was frustrated. There is little pay-off in naming anything after a child who lived her early years in Miss Temple's enormous career shadow.
I needed a drink.
And, suddenly, there was the answer. I decided then and there to forget all about Miss Withers and create an adult beverage in honor of the infinitely more famous Miss Temple. I know what you're thinking-- I'm a star-(expletive)er.
Well, I guess you're right. I am a star-(expletive)er (never, mind you, in a literal sense). And why not? Shirley Temple the mega-child star transitioned successfully into adulthood as Shirley Temple Black-- wife, mother, representative to the United Nations General Assembly (Nixon), the first female Chief of Protocol of the United States (Carter), and U.S. Ambassador to both Ghana (Ford) and Czechoslovakia (Bush the Elder). If anyone has earned a good, stiff drink, it is she.
Shirley Temple Black
The Shirley Temple is far-and-away the most popular "kiddie cocktail" in the world-- fitting that it was named for the most popular child actor to have ever existed.
The original Shirley Temple drink was, as one rumor has it, created by a bartender at The Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu in the 1930's-- a place Miss Temple visited with her family many times.
It is a non-alcoholic beverage made with ginger ale or some sort of lemon-lime soda, grenadine syrup, a garnish of maraschino cherries and a slice of orange. The Canadians love to add a splash of orange juice, and so do I-- it just makes the thing that much more wholesome, which is something Canadians know all about. After all, they did send us the original America's Sweetheart, Mary Pickford. Miss Pickford, if you didn't know, served as the hairstyle inspiration for Miss Temple. No Pickford, no Curly Top.
The whole notion of kiddie cocktails centers around their ability to allow children to participate somewhat benignly in adult cocktail culture-- preparing them in a sense for their futures as alcohol-swigging grown-ups to whom they look up, both physically and morally.
Maybe they're not so benign, after all.
The idea of the Shirley Temple Black is entirely upside down. It is a drink that allows me to mix and mingle with the wee 'uns from time to time without having them point at my Manhattan and ask what's in it. With an innocent-looking, yet boozy Shirley Temple Black, I can gently tone down those shrieks of bouncy castle delight, or steel myself for the twenty-seventh consecutive screening of Thomas the Tank Engine more or less unnoticed.
At the next children's party I am obliged to attend, when the host or hostess asks me what I'm having, you know my answer's going to be:
"I'll have a Shirley Temple, and make it Black."
Makes One Deceptive Little Cocktail
Ingredients
1 ounce white rum
1/2 ounce Maraschino liqueur
A splash of grenadine
A splash of fresh orange juice
Ginger Beer
Crushed ice
Orange zest or a slice of orange for garnish.
Preparation:
Fill a highball or double old fashioned glass with crushed ice. Pour in rum, maraschino liqueur, grenadine, and splash of orange juice. Fill to near the top, but not brimming (remember, there are children present whose motor skills aren't yet finely tuned) with Ginger Beer and garnish with orange.
Drink immediately to bring your own motor skills closer the the level of the precious little ones.
Variation: The Jane Withers
Just like a Roy Rogers is the classic cola-based alter ego of a Shirley Temple, I felt the Shirley Temple Black was in need of a foil. Feeling guilty that I was turning away from the woman I had originally intended to honor, my friend Rebecca suggested this drink might be delicious with a slug of rye instead of rum.
Of course she would say that-- her boyfriend is an amazing mixologist.
So here you go, Miss Withers-- a drink created especially for you:
The Jane Withers
It's kickier than a Shirley Temple Black, and guaranteed to unclog your pipes faster than Josephine the Plumber.
To make a Jane Withers, simply substitute rye for rum.
When I first discovered this recipe for Homemade Irish Cream from The Hungry Mouse, I knew I had struck Leprechaun's gold. It was easy (with 8 ingredients, almost all of which I already had in my kitchen), it was straightforward (step 1: blend, step 2: imbibe), and it was flexible (Extra-boozy? Just a hint of boozy? Your choice!).
At a loss for what to do with all that creamy, frothy, goodness?
• Start your morning right with some Irish Coffee -- you'll be singing sunshine, lollipops and rainbows…guaranteed.
• Not sure how many boys this Milkshake will bring to the yard, but pretty sure it will satisfy plenty of females. Booze, chocolate, and ice cream? That kills almost every bird there is.
• Irish Car Bomb Cupcakes, as amazing as they sound, and hands down one of the best icings ever concocted.
• And of course, there is no shortage of sexually explicit cocktails out there made with this luxurious elixir.
Makes: Enough to fill one large (750 ml.) Perrier bottle, and then some.
Ingredients:
200 ml. Jameson's Irish whiskey
14 oz. sweetened condensed milk
1 cup heavy cream
4 eggs
2 tablespoons chocolate syrup
2 teaspoons instant coffee
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon almond extract
Preparation:
1. Blend all the ingredients, except the whiskey, first. Then add the whiskey and blend again until thick and frothy.
2. Serve immediately or store in the refrigerator for up to a month. (Shake well before serving). *Contains raw eggs.
******
Green is the Bay Area's favorite color -- to be sure, there is no shortage of revelry on this day o' luck, with multiple block parties, drink specials, and special menus:
Or, if you have an aversion to loud, beer-scented party people, excessive use of mardi gras beads, and/or waiting to pee…celebrate at home. Eat something hearty. Drink something frothy. Bake something buttery:
Me: My punch knowledge is pretty limited. It's either from middle school (sherbet and ginger ale with random floating fruit) or college (a.k.a. Jungle Juice -- Kool Aide, grain alcohol, batches made in trash bags)...neither of which are particularly appealing.
Ali: Hahahahhaha. I have bad memories of Jungle Juice.
Me: I have no (clear) memories of Jungle Juice.
Ali: Good point. Can we bring anything for Saturday??
(Pause)
Me: Punch?!
And so, our limited experience with punch progressed from the unremarkable and nauseating, to the tasty and tasteful! The party punch was a knockout (har har) and guests were clamoring for a taste of the gorgeous hued elixir.
Fragrant blood oranges, lemon, and a touch of honey bring a floral, citrusy, sweetness to the mix without making it too syrupy sweet. And the warmth from the ginger adds just the right amount of spice and depth. Together, there couldn't be a better match to complement the Maker’s Mark.
What a great way to set the mood for a party. And have I mentioned how happy I am to have graduated from the Awkward Tween Punches and Blackout Punches of the past? This lip-smackingly good Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch should be called Grown & Sexy Punch.
Maker's Mark spike
Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch Recipe by Ali LaRaia, A Date With Flavor, adapted from Martha Stewart Living Magazine, Dec 1996/Jan 1997
Serves: 12
Ingredients:
20 blood oranges, yielding about 3-4 cups juice
9 cups water
1 medium-sized ginger root (about 4 oz.), peeled and roughly chopped
¾ cup honey
½ cup lemon juice
2-2 ½ cups Maker's Mark
Ice Block:
3 lemons, thinly sliced in rings
3 blood oranges, thinly sliced in rings
Bottled or Distilled water
Garnish:
1 lemon, thinly sliced in rings
1 blood orange, thinly sliced in rings
Preparation: To make the punch:
1. In a large pot add water, ginger, lemon juice, and honey and bring to a boil. Let simmer for 30 minutes until you can really smell the ginger. Remove from heat and let cool, then refrigerate.
2. Juice the blood oranges, then refrigerate.
3. Strain both liquids before using.
To make the ice block:
1. Take a large, round Tupperware container and fill half full with water. Add lemons and oranges which should bring the container to about 3/4 full.
2. Put in freezer until frozen, about 5 hours.
To assemble:
1. Run ice block under hot water to loosen, and place at the bottom of the punch bowl.
2. Add the ginger-lemon mixture, orange juice, and Maker's Mark.
3. Garnish with sliced fruit.
4. Get punch-drunk happy!
Someone must close down the bar, but I am through volunteering for the position. This is not to say bourbon has lost its bloom, or that work days do not begin with brief foamy fantasies about the first cold beers to be cracked eight hours later. I can say (with a straight face) that serious carousing is an occupation for swollen wallets and spare time, and claim that, as of late, I have neither. I can rationalize moderation because I wake up very early and tire before last call the following morning. I can insist that going out is harder than staying in, especially when it's raining and there's work to do and Netflix in the mailbox. I can affect a jaded outlook, yawning that the sport of drinking doesn't hold the appeal it had ten years ago. I can label it a secondary activity, something I associate with games to watch, gigs to play, food to eat, and good conversations with friends. Big nights happen, yes, but usually on accident, I can say -- candidly, with no regrets.
Those are all parts of the problem (if embracing moderation can ever be considered one) but the real reason, the one that really has me avoiding bars and heading home early when I can't, is that these days, when I drink too much, my hangovers hit like Mike Tyson circa 1986. After a few too many, I wake up stuffy, morose, disoriented, ugly, and sore. I don't ever get sick, but I forget details about where I went and who I saw. I don't have the energy to do the things that the day ahead demands, and my mood plummets correspondingly. When I was 20, I could shake off boozy sweats, dehydration, and body aches, and spring out of bed after five hours of sleep to bound around the house, read, study, and socialize -- all miraculously on an empty stomach. Now, on those increasingly infrequent occasions where I over-indulge, I am discovering that I desperately require food -- breakfast maybe, or at least a snack of heroic proportions -- to piece myself together again.
Restorative noshing is welcome immediately after the party, or hours later, upon waking. The fact that I've only really realized this in the latter half of my twenties probably says something about my learning curve in general. If hunger pangs strike on the way home from the bar, possibilities are limited. Most restaurants aren't open. Chorizo tacos from El Farolito and Taqueria Vallarta hit the spot. I haven't been, but Nombe, the new-ish izakaya on Mission St., has a late-night take-out window selling ramen to revelers staggering home. Sometimes, an attack on the refrigerator is the best and cheapest recourse. I went out on Saturday night and stayed out -- gasp -- until 1 a.m. When I came home I realized nearly everything in the house that I felt like eating was being saved for a dinner with my dad the following night -- sausage for pizza, bread for croutons, and olives. Instead, I microwaved some leftover white rice and added salt and a few squirts of srirachi sauce. Something with srirachi sauce usually does the trick. Lately, I've also been especially enjoying plain corn tortillas roasted on a cast-iron skillet and then topped with srirachi and a few creamy squiggles of Kewpie mayonnaise. I do two at a time, folded over like miniature fusion-y quesadillas, and eat them fast, usually burning my mouth in the process.
For those disinclined to wallow in gastronomic gutters, there is also, of course, street food -- bacon dogs, tamales, and the ever-growing assortment of heavily Twittered carts that tend to pop up on corners outside the doors of drinking establishments. As good as some of this stuff is (I'm thinking about you, gumbo guy), such trendy offerings come with long lines, and waiting fifteen minutes for a grilled flatbread behind a bunch of ravenous drunk people is rarely an attractive option when you're ravenous and drunk yourself. Fifteen minutes? I could be home by then, putting the final drizzle of srirachi on a corn tortilla, wearing the sweats, watching a little Larry David before passing out with a smile on my face.
Tortilla with srirachi and Kewpie mayonnaise. You won't see this in Saveur.
Alcohol stirs the strangest cravings the morning after. Some people wake up and go for eggs, pancakes, waffles, sausage, and other conventional breakfast-y things. There is scientific logic to this. Eggs contain cysteine, a substance that breaks down the hangover-causing toxin acetaldehyde in the liver. Fruit juice actually hastens the rate at which a body gets ride of toxins like those generated by alcohol metabolism. Bananas, also common at breakfast, replace potassium lost to alcohol's diuretic tendencies. Fried or stupendously unhealthy foods appeal because sufferers suspect that grease will soothe their irritated stomach linings -- nevermind the fact that it's more likely to have the opposite effect. Psychology is powerful, however, especially the morning after losing brain cells, and I think that sometimes people condition themselves to crave the very things that will hurt them more. It's, in the long run, a fairly harmless sort of self-loathing -- sitting down to a plate of battered chicken, savoring the punishment disguised as a cure, letting your over-taxed body pay the tab your inconsiderate brain racked up. Some treat their morning afflictions like illness and self-medicate with more austere feasts -- steamed vegetables, spicy broths, and so on.
Every year, usually when New Year's Eve approaches, publications feel it necessary to run stories about hangovers and how to avoid them. Typically, these pieces involve interviews with bartenders, operating under the assumption that these callous dispensers of liquid poison know something about recovery too. On Christmas Eve, Grub Street consulted some mixologists on the subject, and the responses were fairly telegraphed, with most suggesting hair of the dog remedies. Likewise, a Dec. 31 Examiner article expanded the sample group and saw similar results, with respondents largely sticking to the guns articulated by their respective professions. The bartender recommended more booze. The personal trainer advocated drinking plenty of water and working out. The doctor condemned drinking too much in the first place. The acupuncturist suggested acupuncture. I'm not sure if I have a profession to stick to, but I have done both drinking and thinking in my day, and for that reason, I hesitate to press any so-called "cures" on others. Hangovers are, after all, very personal things. I will however share a few meals that I have managed to enjoy under the bleariest of circumstances:
Indian buffet. This goes back to a summer home from college. The morning after a long night, some friends and I went to an Indian restaurant attached to a worn motel. After three plates of chicken korma, saag paneer, and samosas, I felt well enough to spend the rest of the day at the zoo. I'm not sure if there's a San Francisco equivalent, but once I woke up in San Jose, went to New Indian Cuisine, and came away again convinced that naan is merely Advil slicked with ghee.
A breaded chicken torta with chipotles from La Torta Gorda. I'm always momentarily tempted to get a junior, but the full is the way to go. Go home, eat half, and put the remainder in the fridge. Get some covers and stretch out on the couch. Watch basketball or half a season of a television show you've already seen. Look up at the clock. It's nearly dinner-time. Good thing you have a brick-sized piece of torta to eat.
A pickle, dill.
Soup. I'm a soup person -- that could be a post in and of itself -- but it doesn't help my hangovers unless it's French onion from Ti Couz, with some seafood salad and maybe a mushroom crepe on the side.
Chicken fingers and waffle fries with ranch dressing from Phat Philly. This is actually my girlfriend's thing. She's yelling at me from the other room to include it.
John Campbell's Irish Bakery. Once, a few years ago, I was staying out at my dad's in the Richmond District -- dog-sitting, house sitting, and cable-watching -- and I woke up after a night out with a painkiller-resistant headache, a sour hollow stomach, and my dad's whippet dashing around the bed in frantic circles. I had hopped off the 38 at 1:30 a.m. and decided to grab one more at the Blarney Stone. Pulling on a coat, leashing the dog, and stepping out into the stabbing mist, I walked back to the scene of the crime and had a piece of pizza (it might have been called "focaccia") from John Campbell's, the fantastic bakery next door to the 'Stone. This was like nothing you'd see at A16, Flour + Water, or even Pizza Hut. There was turkey or ham in cubes, peppers and onions, maybe. A white sauce and cheese, I want to say. The dog was whimpering, begging for a taste. I can't recall the details, but the slice (a slab, really) was like a combination of stew and scone, or an upside-down pot pie even -- bread-y, bland, and bad, at least as far as pizza goes. Yet held to a different standard -- alcohol absorption -- it delivered -- nearly as well as a corn tortilla with hot sauce and mayo.
The other night at work, I watched as a fellow server carried a tray of cocktails to one of his tables. On that tray were three beverages known as Shirley Temples.
