Welcome to Wonkette Happy Hour, With This Week's Cocktail, The Sazerac!

The perfect place, the perfect time, the perfect drink.

Sigh. I want one right now.

The very first thing I do when I arrive in New Orleans is walk to Jean Lafitte’s Olde Absinthe House and order a Sazerac. And the very last thing I do when I leave New Orleans is to drink one last Sazerac at the Absinthe House. I spent all week in the city of my dreams, making friends and learning my craft at Tales of the Cocktail. I drank a lot of Sazeracs while I was there. But it’s the first, and the last, that matter the most. Here’s the recipe.

Sazerac

2 oz. Sazerac rye whiskey

½ oz. absinthe

½ oz. simple syrup

4-5 dashes Peychaud’s bitters

Fill a small rocks glass with ice. Add absinthe and swirl until the glass is cold. Dump out the glass. Add syrup, rye, and bitters to the empty glass. Swirl again. Garnish with a lemon twist.

This is a perfect dive bar Sazerac, simply for the economy of effort. At Hemingway’s, I’ll use a stirring vessel to get my Sazerac perfectly mixed and chilled. Behind the stick at Jean Lafitte’s, you’ve got one tiny dishwasher and a surly barback. No stirring vessels, no spoons, no wasted effort - just grab and go. The perfect drink for its place and time.

A perfect Mai Tai in a fancy tiki bar, an ice-cold beer in a backwater dive bar, an elegant French 75 in a bar where the writers wear white tuxedo jackets - each is the perfect drink, because they are a part of the place you drink, and sights and sounds and scents flavor every cocktail when you taste them. Taste is memory, and we are making memories with every breath we take. I love making cocktails with long, intriguing, expressive flavor profiles, because the process of tasting and making memories stretches out and gains intensity. A cold Bud in a dive bar is a power chord. A beautiful cocktail in an elegant speakeasy is a song.

We talked a lot about ideas like this at Tales of the Cocktail. I had the distinct pleasure of hanging out with thousands of the best bartenders in the world, making friends, learning, and getting shitfaced drunk together. And boy howdy, did we drink. There were dozens of tasting rooms set up all week, filled with distillers and distributors begging you to taste their booze. A 21-year-old bourbon? Don’t mind if I do. A brand new citrus gin from one of your favorite brands? Certainly. An Islay scotch finished in sherry casks? Absolutely. A gentian-flavored spirit from a brand you’ve never heard of? Why not? I didn’t spend one full hour sober on my first day at Tales. That’s nowhere near as much fun as you’d think.

As the days went on, I focused less on the booze and more on the people and the classes. I met bartenders who traveled all the way from Hawaii for a seminar. I met more rum and pirate fanatics. I met Midwestern bartenders from bars I’ve never heard of. (I now have a “to-drink” list for when I get out of town.) I took classes on making your own booze. (I made Malort! Deliberately!) I took classes on taste, and sense, and place. I took a class on how to start writing the book.

But I didn’t go to many parties at night. As big as Tales of the Cocktails was, the city was bigger. I sauntered through the Quarter in my straw fedora, nursing my bad knee with an elegant walking cane, drinking in the sights and scents and feelings of this old, elegant, battered town. I sat down in white-glove restaurants for supper. I ate chicken cracklings in skeevy dive bars on the Quarter’s edge. I made friends at the Old Absinthe House. As much as four short days would let me, I became a part of this town.

It’s not always a pretty place. Madmen argue with themselves on street corners. The pavement’s been ripped away in the name of progress. The roadside puddles... well, the locals call them “street gravy” for a reason. But this city will love you if you let it. There’s no place like it in the whole world. I’ve only begun to explore this beautiful town, and it’s gotten deep under my skin. I can’t wait to go back and have another Sazerac. That drink, that bar, that place, that time will always call me back.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Bar shot. Like it or not, this is what peak dive bar looks like.

Sazerac Rye Whiskey: I’m pretty sure that the Absinthe House uses a cheaper rye. But I’m snob enough to use this balanced, peppery rye that’s native to New Orleans. Visit the Sazerac House when you’re in New Orleans; the museum is elegant, polished, and more fun than a bourbon museum ought to be.

Absinthe: The Old Absinthe House is undoubtedly a dive bar. Hundreds of cards are stapled to the walls. Old sports jerseys hang from the rafters. And yet, they have one of the largest selections of absinthe in America. When you go, ask for an absinthe flight. You’ll be amazed. The House has a rail absinthe; I have no idea what it is. I was too drunk to care. Use your favorite.

Simple syrup: 1:1 sugar and water. Stir it and let it sit in the fridge until it’s dissolved.

Peychaud’s Bitters: Be generous. This brightly colored bitters has a strong anise component that reinforces the absinthe flavors and gives the cocktail its color.

I’ve got the day off from Hemingway’s; Courtney and Zane sensibly decided that my feet and liver needed a day to recover. Ask me anything in the comments. I’ll be here all night to talk about the trip.

OPEN THREAD!