(Will Foster, proprietor of Casita Bar in Shoreditch, and our new Embury U.K. correspondent, recently payed us a visit in New York where, in addition to checking out a Yankees game (the groundskeepers' choreographed performance to 'YMCA' during the seventh-inning stretch left him extremely amused), he attempted to hit every every serious cocktail bar in Manhattan. This is his account of that brave and foolish endeavour.) Personally, I like a nice cup of coffee, and toast is always better done on both sides. Notwithstanding, there are many who would describe me as quite the epitome of an Englishman – I own a few tweed jackets, have a taste for good claret, port and malt whiskey, and NEVER discuss my feelings. So, it was with quite a sense of trepidation that I boarded Virgin flight 6 from London Heathrow to New York JFK. Don’t get me wrong – I’m very pro-US. I have spent the last eight years holidaying in St. Petersburg, FL, have been skiing in Maine, and very much enjoyed a childhood vacation to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The trick to the US, I have learnt over the years, is getting used to the idea of excess. Which other country, I ask you, would have 300 different types of barbecue sauce on a supermarket shelf, or have cheese dispensed from an aerosol? Love it. With this in mind, I was looking forward, with reverent anticipation, to a week of excess. I was not to be let down. My guide for the week was Embury Cocktail’s man with the plan, Jason Rowan, and it was within two hours of landing, that I found myself in Death & Co’s new venture, Mayahuel, 304 E 6th St. The pair of us sampled three of their cocktails, served by a very charming young lady (they all are in NYC, I noticed), and were, bar one, very impressed (the Smoked Palomino was a bit much for both of us, but the Selena Fizz was a wonderful concoction!). Damning jet lag, we pressed on, via a pizza stop, to what was to become our base of operations for the next few days, Louis 649, on the corner of E 9th and Ave. C. (For the remainder of Will's bar-by-bar travelogue, continue below. (Advil and some soda water with bitters recommended.)
Being a Tuesday evening, it wasn’t the most jam-packed bar in town, however, we were instantly made welcome and felt at home as bartender Maia whipped up Pisco sours and Martinez cocktails for us. At about 3 in the morning, the flight finally caught up with me and we both headed off to our base camps for a well-deserved and much-needed sleep.
Wednesday brought glorious sunshine (I believe the morning was nice too) along with a scorching heat. Determined to be the good tourist, I showered, dressed and leapt out of the front door to explore this brave new city, pretending not to be hungover in the least. I dined on Union Square, at a rib house, which was most satisfactory, then began to make my way toward the Empire State. The heat, by now, was beginning to drag me down, and my hangover was showing no signs of leaving. For some reason, every time I crossed a block, the Empire State would seem further away. Not a good state of affairs. My watch read a quarter after four, and I was due to meet the lovely Miss Sarah Besette from Pernod Ricard at five at her office on Park Ave. S. Luckily, at this point, I rounded the corner and was met by the tourist-clad entrance to the Empire State herself. I figured half an hour would easily be enough time to jump in the elevator to the top, and whizz back down to go keep my appointment. It was not to be. After going through airport-style security, I was presented with what was quite possibly the longest queue I have ever seen to buy a ticket. My heart sank, and I decided to sack in the whole tourist thing, and go cure my hangover. Besette collected, we headed down to Double Crown on Bowery. Being a little early in the day, we found it closed, so headed for a few pre-cocktail cocktails at Gemma, a small Italian place over the road, next to the Bowery Hotel, where we were shortly joined by the ineffable Mr.Rowan. After a pleasing Negroni, I caught sight of a bottle of Ricard behind the bar. It being a suitably barmy evening (one can only drink Ricard on sunny days), I ordered one with water. I don’t think anyone in New York, or possibly the entire United States ever drinks Pastis, or if they do they have never taught the staff at Gemma how it is served, because what I received was a bucket of the stuff with a cool glass of iced water on the side. Much merriment ensued as I tried to poor one into another causing most of it to cover the bar, my lap and Sarah’s handbag. Fun. Slightly smelling of aniseed, we paid up and toddled over the street to Double Crown. Essentially a restaurant, Double Crown boasts a long service bar with an impressive array of spirits and a British-inspired cocktail and food menu (Pimms is a novelty in the US, it seems, where they get away with charging $12 for it!!!). Bartender Brian McGrory, a very personable Scots lad, mixed up some beautiful drinks for us, including a stunning Nashi-pear and lemongrass Martini. Several drinks later, we staggered on to the wonderfully-named Please Don’t Tell on St Mark’s Place. How cool! What seemed to be a greasy burger place, turns into a very swish, yet very dark cocktail bar where one can enjoy beautifully-fashioned cocktails accompanied by hot dogs!! Ideal. My memory begins to get a little hazy at this stage, but I believe we ended up back at Louis 649. I remember bourbon. That’s about it. Thursday was yet another mind-blowingly hot day, which is very bad for a very hungover young man. I spent the day in the apartment watching the Military channel (excellent documentaries on the Nazis and all things Second World War!). Jason had very kindly organised tickets for a Yankees game at the new stadium that evening, so, still slightly drunk, and sweating aniseedy things, we pootled up to the subway, and began the long right out to the Bronx. Baseball, I found, is not a tricky sport to follow, nor is it the fastest game in the world. It is, however, extremely cathartic and an ideal reasonably non-alcoholic way to pass a summer’s evening. Jason’s friend Stuart kept me updated on the game’s events, answering all my inane questions, and explaining at length why the Mets were better than the Yankees. From a British point of view, baseball seems to be more about the vast amounts of food covered in liquid cheese being consumed and the screen displaying daft members of the crowd than the overpaid fat chaps swatting a ball around a park. I enjoyed it very, very much. Game ended, we trekked back to the Lower East Side to the safety of Louis 649, where several fortifying cocktails revived us. We were joined there by Beefeater’s silver-tongued silver-tongued Brit, Dan Warner (who’s apartment I was staying in that week), Narem from Bobo, in the West Village, and Simon from Pernod Ricard. Needless to say, the night ended in a similar way, with us all staggering home at some ungodly hour to cultivate hangovers.
Friday arrived at some point during my alcoholic slumber, and with it came even more heat. Another afternoon of second-world war documentaries, interspersed with a lovely lunch at a Cuban joint on E 9th St, was followed by yet more drinking. New York bartender, Jerry Stillianassis was my host for that evening, and he treated me to drinks at the Griffin, in the Meat-Packing District. Absolutely packed, and seemingly not with anyone over the age of twelve, it was a good reminder not to go to nightclubs, and to stick with good old fashioned grown-up bars. It was, however, a lot of fun, and Jerry was a consummate host. His friend was the bar manager there, and I’m not sure we paid for any drinks! I imagine you can guess where we ended up after.
On Saturday, nearing death, Jason informed me we were throwing an Embury party at Stuart’s place in Williamsburg. Jason was writing a piece for OUT magazine at the time on punches, so we were tasked with the mixing of some summer punches for the masses. While Stuart fried up some excellent perch and shrimp, Jason and I created what has become the Shanghai 24 (see recipe here). A very pleasant afternoon of Punch with shots of tequila passed us by, and as the guests left and we tidied up, there remained only one more thing to do on my final night in the big apple. So, in the comfort and style of a black Lincoln, we crossed the Williamsburg bridge, took a right onto ninth and pulled up at Louis 649. From the safety of dear old blighty, New York seems a blurry memory. I have a few photos to remind me what it looks like, and a few souvenirs stuck up in my bar (a dollar bill, a subway ticket, and of course the business card from Louis 649!). All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I look forward to the rematch in London!
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