Rising Stars Revue, Ghirardelli Square

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.

A euphoric evening it was.

StarChefs.com’s Rising Stars Revue
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
7:30-10:00 pm
Ghirardelli Square, SF

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.

And we're done. I hope everybody's happy.

Homemade Irish Cream

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.

Homemade Irish Cream Liqueur
Recipe from The Hungry Mouse.

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:

San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Events - FuncheapSF
The 10 Best Irish Pubs in the City - 7x7
Bay Area Restaurants, St. Patrick's Day Specials - SFGate
John Campbell's Irish Bakery Opens in Pac Heights - SFoodie

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:

15 Recipes to Celebrate St. Patrick's Day - L.A. Times Test Kitchen
What to Eat and Drink on St. Patrick's Day - Serious Eats
The Great Irish Soda Bread Debate: 7 Soda Bread Recipes – Epicurious
The Irish Club's Irish Stew & Chocolate Guinness Cake – Nigella Lawson
Chocolate Irish Whiskey Cake – Bay Area Bites
Dark Chocolate Mint Brownies – Bakerella
Stout Float - Gourmet
No More Green Beer: 4 St. Patrick's Day Cocktails - Derek M. Brown at The Atlantic

Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch

It all started with a G-chat…

Ali: Do you make punch ever?

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.

"A merry Christmas, Bob! Said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken…I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob!..."

Like a lot of Christmas revelers out there, I count A Christmas Carol as my favorite holiday story. Yet my reason for loving this Dickens tale is probably a little different than you might expect. Although I find Scrooge's metamorphoses from Bah-humbug kill joy to jolly benefactor heartwarming, I adore his transition from gruel eater to Smoking Bishop drinker even more. In one day, old Ebenezer goes from eating only to survive -- I mean, come on, gruel for dinner on Christmas Eve? -- to purchasing the largest and best Christmas turkey in London.  His change is so dramatic that he actually suggests imbibing a bowl of Smoking Bishop early in the day with the much abused Bob Cratchit. I find this act even more profound than when he raises Bob's salary a moment earlier. It's Ebenezer Scrooge's wish to indulge in a holiday cocktail that seems the greatest evidence he has found his yuletide soul. Ah... good old converted Scrooge and his new-found love of the drink.

But what is Smoking Bishop and how did it get such an entertaining name?  I did a little research and found a great clip from a Morning Edition episode in 2002 on NPR. In the piece, Neda Ulaby interviews Cedrick Dickens, Charles Dickens great-grandson, who explains that "people back in the 1800s enjoyed a whole range of 'clerical drinks,' and Smoking Bishop was one of these. "Pope is burgundy, Cardinal is champagne or rye, Archbishop is claret, Bishop is port, and so on," Dickens goes on to say. I just love the English and their naming conventions.

Smoking Bishop is basically a type of warmed sangria made with port. From what I can tell, it's a traditional Christmas drink, but I'm not sure if this happened because of the reference in A Christmas Carol, or if it was already a holiday beverage before that. Whatever the case, as a lover of sangria and A Christmas Carol, I think I'll need to give it a try this holiday season.

The 1999 version of A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart is the only film version I know of where Scrooge actually calls the drink Smoking Bishop (which is how Dickens himself referred to it in the story), although as my family only watches this version (which is my daughters' favorite) and the Alastair Sim's Scrooge (which is my favorite -- too bad he scares my kids), I'm sure there are others I'm not aware of.

In the all-time classic Alastair Sim's version -- who, as far as I'm concerned, plays the greatest Scrooge of all time -- they have changed the line so Scrooge now says "a bowl of hot punch." I wonder if they changed the line because they didn't think anyone would know what Smoking Bishop was; whatever the case, I'll forgive them as it's a near perfect Christmas film otherwise.

And for your own holiday entertainment, watch the full version of Seymour Hicks in Scrooge from 1935.

To make your own bowl of smoking bishop, here's the recipe from Ms. Ulaby's interview

Smoking Bishop

• Take six Seville oranges and bake them in a moderate oven until pale brown. If you cannot procure any bitter Seville oranges, use four regular oranges and one large grapefruit.

• Prick each of the oranges with five whole cloves, put them into a warmed ceramic or glass vessel with one-quarter pound of sugar and a bottle of red wine, cover the vessel, and leave it in a warm place for 24 hours.

• Take the oranges out of the mixture, cut in half and squeeze the juice, then pour the juice back into the wine.

• Pour the mixture into a saucepan through a sieve, add a bottle of port, heat (without boiling), and serve in warmed glasses.

• Drink the mixture, and keep Christmas well!

When I was a kid, I always imagined I would grow up to wear strappy high heels with designer dresses and that I would dash off to parties full of urbane conversations. At these events I would drink champagne cocktails. Blame it on a childhood watching too many Doris Day and Deborah Kerr movies, but my real-life adulthood never quite lived up to my Pillow Talk expectations.

After recently pondering the lack of glamour in my life, I realized that although elegant cocktail gatherings can be delightful, I actually enjoy my life of small dinner parties with friends and family more than I probably would the type attended by Ms. Kerr and Ms. Day ("probably" is the key word here). So instead of longing for a 1960s life unachieved, I decided to start making champagne cocktails.

There are so many reasons to serve champagne cocktails, but the top three are:

1. Champagne (or prosecco, cava, or any other sparkling wine) tastes delightful when mixed with other alcoholic beverages.

2. The shimmering splendor of a champagne cocktail, particularly when partnered with alcohols that have a rich color, make them perfect for the holiday season.

3. Champagne cocktails are effortless to prepare.

Making this elegant fizzy drink is as easy as pouring two or more types of alcohol into a glass. This means that even the failed martini makers among us can feel like accomplished bartenders. The original champagne cocktail consists of champagne, bitters and sugar, but as I'm not a big fan of bitters, I go for sweeter amalgamations. Port, Muscat or other dessert wines are my top choices, although raspberry, cherry and pear liqueurs are a close second. Grand Marnier, Cointreau, and brandy also work well, and I hear blueberry schnapps makes a gorgeous aperitif. But honestly, just mix in whatever sounds good to you.

It doesn't matter if you're having a chic cocktail party or an intimate celebration dinner; it's easy to add a splash of Doris Day chic to your holiday season.

How to Make a Champagne Cocktail:
Place 1 ounce of your chosen alcohol into champagne flute and then fill with champagne, prosecco, cava or sparkling wine.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Every %@*&-ing where I go. The store windows, the hideous wreaths on the bumpers of SUVs, the Holiday sweaters, the music (please, God, make it stop). I'm already up to my turtleneck in Holiday Crazy and we're two weeks away from the big day.

It's a tough, depressing time of year for a lot of people. The days are short, the nights are cold, and the pressure of putting forth good cheer is enough to drive anyone slightly mad. Alright, it's enough to drive me mad. I promise not to speak for anyone else.

I should just count my blessings and remember all of those things I said a was grateful for over the last holiday.

One of the things for which I am currently grateful is the fact that I do not live in Sweden. It's a gorgeous country alright, with gorgeous people and whatnots, but really. If it's cold here, it's colder there. And the nights? Long. Really, depressingly long. I sometimes wonder how they get through the winter in one piece.

Apart from the medicinal use of sunlamps, one major way the Swedes cope with the winter blues is alcohol. And lots of it. Of course, this is how a lot of people cope with the Holiday season. It's a double-edged sword, really, (do I need to mention that alcohol is a depressant?) so you may want to proceed with caution. May.

This winter, one of my several drinks of choice is a nod of solidarity with my half-frozen Swedish brothers and sisters-- glögg. It's festive without trying too hard, it's simple to make in large batches, it's warm, it's delicious, and, with the help of a little brandy, it really helps take the edge off the Holidays. And, of course, it's just plain fun to say. If you're not quite certain how to pronounce it, just sidle up to a Swede-- they're a friendly lot.

Glögg

Makes about 6 servings

One of my favorite things about glögg (apart from its remarkable warming powers) is the fact that the Swedes have included bar snacks right there in the drink. By adding almonds and raisins that (usually) sink to the bottom of the glass, you've got one more reason to say "bottoms up" or, if you really want to carry the Swedish thing a bit farther, "skål."

Ingredients:

1 bottle (750 ml) dry red wine. Don't be foolish enough to use one of your best bottles. One that is merely drinkable will do.

1 cup brandy

12 while cloves

6 to 8 cardamom pods, lightly crushed

2 cinnamon sticks (you may break them into pieces, if you like)

1/2 cup sugar

4 to 6 strips of orange zest (which may be used later as garnish)

raisins and blanched almonds for garnish

Preparation:

1. Combine wine, brandy, cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon in a saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium head for about 15 minutes. Do not boil and do not over-simmer or else you will cause too much of the precious, medicinal alcohol to evaporate. Stir in sugar and orange zest.

2. Sprinkle raisins and almonds into the bottoms of however many glasses you're using.

3. Strain glögg through a sieve, saving the orange zest for garnish, if using, pour into awaiting glasses, and serve hot.

When I was twelve, my father took me to see a little film called Evil Under the Sun-- the last in a trio of tony Agatha Christie whodunit films that somewhat shaped the person I am today. The first, Murder on the Orient Express, cemented my passion for train travel and smart suits; the second, Death on the Nile, ignited a fondness for women in floppy sun hats and beautiful, wee handguns. It was Evil Under the Sun, however, that really stayed with me. Some would understandably think the reason was Diana Rigg having a field day being a classic, haughty, soon-to-be-murdered bitch, or getting to see Roddy McDowall in a never-ending series of sailor suits, but they would be wrong. Not too far off, but wrong, all the same.

It was Maggie Smith. Maggie Smith and her cocktail parties. I don't think my father had any idea what he was getting me into when he took me to see that picture.

It was a simple scene, really-- almost a throw-away, apart from firming up the tension between Diana Rigg's Arlena Marshall and just about everyone else residing at an exclusive, Mediterranean island resort. While passing around a tray of hors d'oeuvres to her guests, Smith asks the world-famous detective Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov) if he would care for a cocktail. "Care for a cocktail, Monsieur Poirot? A White Lady, Sidecar, Mainbrace, or Between the Sheets?" Poirot rejects them all and asks instead for either crème de cassis or sirop de banane. With a bit of a sigh, she acquiesces, only to move on to offering Diana Rigg a sausage-- the one thing of which one would think she had had enough, given her proclivities.

And that was it. I followed the murder well enough, and the inevitable, intricate unveiling of who-done-what. But I kept thinking about those cocktails. As I sat in that theater, I decided that I was going to be the sort of chap who drank Sidecars and Between the Sheets while Cole Porter tunes were played somewhere out of sight on a piano. I filed their names away in my memory and bided my time.

When the appropriately legal time finally came nine years later, I unleashed my inner Maggie Smith, marched into a very (to me) upper, upper lounge in Los Angeles, and ordered a Between the Sheets from the bartender.

"I'm sorry," he said, "You're going to have to tell me what's in it." When I recovered sufficiently from the shock, I next asked for a Sidecar. "Can you tell me what's in a Sidecar? Maybe if you knew what you were asking for, I could help you." Devastated, I settled for a martini to drown my nine years-worth of disappointment. How on earth could a bartender at the Atlas Bar & Grille-- a place decorated in the luxe fashion of a 1930's Supper Club, a venue that showed old films from that era on a giant screen, no less-- not know how to make a Between the Sheets? Given its Hollywood location, I should have realized that everything, maybe even my beloved fantasy cocktail, was an illusion.

Perhaps he was right-- I should have done a little research. I bought a book of classic cocktail recipes, just to make sure the screenwriters hadn't made up the names.

They did not.

Very much relieved and filled with renewed hope, I made my way back to the bar the following week-- this time armed with the recipe. I called out the ingredients in a voice that was only vaguely Smith-like, and finally got what I'd been waiting for. I got my Between the Sheets.

Between the Sheets

Like most cocktails, the origin of the Between the Sheets is murky. Some people believe it was created at Harry's New York Bar in Paris (the place, incidentally, where George Gershwin partly composed An American in Paris) in the 1930's. Others hold fast to the notion that it was the brainchild of a bartender at the Berkeley Hotel in London in 1921. It doesn't matter much to me. I'm just grateful that someone created it.

The Between the Sheets is a very close cousin to the Sidecar-- a drink most bartenders now know, thanks to the surge of interest in classic cocktails. Made of white rum, brandy, and Cointreau, it even comes with a sugared rim. It is a tart, refreshing member of the sour family of alcoholic beverages.

The following recipe is not the classic one. While white rum is well and good in its place, I think it has a bit of trouble competing with the brandy and other flavorings. I have substituted my favorite dark rum instead, which makes its own, indelible impression without overpowering the other players.

Not unlike Dame Maggie Smith herself, if you ask me. I know you didn't ask me, but if you did, that is what I would tell you.

Ingredients

1 ounce dark rum. My personal preference is Zaya (thank you, Shannon).

1 ounce brandy

1/2 ounce Cointreau

1/2 ounce lemon juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup

Ice

A twist of lemon or orange peel for garnish, which is purely optional. Or sausage, if you are feeling saucy enough and think you can pull it off.

Preparation:

In a cocktail shaker, insert ice. Pour all liquid ingredient over ice. Close lid of shaker. Shake vigorously and pour into an awaiting martini glass. Garnish, if that pleases you.

10:30 a.m. on a weekday morning is not my usual cocktail hour. But with a cheerful SF Chefs. Food. Wine volunteer saying "Breakfast is served!" as he placed a cute pink drink in front of me, well, what could I do?

It was, after all, educational. The drink was a raspberry rum daisy, made with white rum, lemon, and raspberries, an olden-days cocktail made artisanally up-to-date through the use of small-batch Caribbean-style Baptiste rum and a locally made fruit syrup sweetened with raw cane sugar and thickened with gum arabic, that secret weapon of molecular gastronomy. And the occasion was Cocktails Get Into the Mix , an exploration of the past and present state of West Coast cocktail culture, moderated by Alcademics editor Camper English. In conversation with English was Duggan McDonnell of Cantina and Thad Vogler of the upcoming Bar Agricole.

Drawing a contrast between the technique-obsessed, traditionalist, authenticity-driven New York style of places like Milk and Honey, Death & Co. and the more free-wheeling, flavor-inspired California vibe, Duggan laughed, admitting, "We're more of a hot mess behind the bar." But both Vogler and McDonnell gave New York City its props, saying they'd both learned a tremendous amount about how even the simplest decisions--what sort of ice to use, whether to double-strain (using a cocktail strainer first, a fine tea strainer second)--can make a dramatic difference in the final result.

But, much like our restaurants, the current West Coast cocktail scene is driven by the extensive, year-round availability of amazing produce. "We eat and drink incredibly well here, we're tasting things constantly," noted McDonnell, who connects this vibrant, terrior-driven food culture with the rise in inventive, market-driven cocktail menus.

These drinks may look simple, but much of the work happens after hours, with bartenders simmering their own herb- or spice-infused syrups, amassing collections of quirky amari (the bitter digestive liqueurs beloved by true cocktail geeks), even growing (or bartering for) herbs, fruits, or seasonings. For bartenders less interested in getting in touch with their inner chef, there's Small Hand Foods run by Jennifer Colliau, a bartender at the Slanted Door, whose Berkeley-based company creates "classic ingredients for pre-prohibition cocktails," including grenadine, gum syrup, orgeat, and pineapple and raspberry syrups. All are made in small batches using raw cane sugar (no corn syrup) and no artificial ingredients.

As the group of us sipped our rosy daisies (flavored with Colliau's raspberry gum syrup), Vogler pointed out the difficulty of sourcing spirits that haven't come though the big industrial distillers. Even small-batch labels often buy their base spirit--neutral alcohols usually derived from grain--from big producers, then redistill, infuse and flavor it to their own specifications. This, he noted, was behind the simple but surprisingly inflammatory decision of Oakland's Camino restaurant to yank vodka from their bar menu, instead carrying only a small selection of spirits and seasonal ingredients. (They've since found a small distillery that meets their standards.) When California-grown limes weren't available, the bar used lemons. This caused quite a stir in the press and blogosphere around town, as diners happy to dig into free-range rabbit and sustainable sardines were incensed at not being able to order their usual vodka tonic.

"You have to throw out a lot of stuff if you decide not use anything with artificial flavors or colors, or high-fructose corn syrup," said Vogler, who worked on Camino's cocktail program. That meant no Campari, no maraschino cherries, almost none of the usual fizzy mixers. It's annoying sometimes, admits Vogler, but also fun, more like being a pastry chef with 5 or 6 creations a day than a typical bartender.

Another difference in the East Coast/West Coast throwdown: the pervasive Latin and Asian influences here, and the predominance of tequila, sake, soju and other similar liquors here in lieu of the whiskeys, bourbons, port and sherries more popular in New York. At Cantina, McDonnell noted, the two most popular cocktails are Asian-Latin mashups: the 5-Spice Margarita, and the Latin Buddha, which blends Buddha's Hand citrus vodka with serrano chiles and ginger beer.

A lengthy cocktail competition during the midday food-and-wine tasting seemed to prove nearly all these points. In an Iron-Chef-styled move, the 3 bartenders had to whip up, on the spot, an original cocktail featuring a secret ingredient. The ingredient? Fresh herbs, from dill and rosemary to purple basil and fennel flowers and sage. The winner, Nick Varacalli's "Pass me the lemon, honey" matched lemon thyme with honey-sweetened bourbon, a bit of Canton ginger liqueur, fresh lemon, sweet vermouth, and bitters. A little fresh, a little sweet, a little bitter, and some herb to top it off: what could be more Californian?