Slouching Towards Euphoria: The Alembic

After seeing a noisy pop rock band, called the Noisettes, at Amoeba Records in the Haight, my friends and I stopped off at a bar called The Alembic. It occupies a space that was a taqueria, now it is a high church to good spirits.

It’s interior resembles a roadhouse, a very clean roadhouse, a roadhouse where the drinks start at six bucks and head up from there. Little alembics line the shelves, along with cocktail books and pictures of pipes and kilns. The ceiling is covered in brass with two fans that languidly rotate. The tables and the floor are distressed wood. I tried to comfort it, but to no avail. They have a chalkboard that is held up by ropes and a pulley. The board lists the extraordinary amount of fine booze they sell. The bathrooms are sparkling clean and they have rolled cloth towels. The place is a mixture of down home and decadent.

I was told that the owners also own the fine hippie brewery, Magnolia’s down the street, so it is no surprise they carry Magnolia’s excellent craft brewed beer on tap. They carry other top notch beer also, including a great Belgium beer selection. Don’t ask for Bud or Coors here, fool. To my pleasure, they carry the most gin I’ve seen anywhere. I tried the Dutch gin called, Boomsma Oude. I had it in a martini, which was a mistake. Boomsma Oude is aged in oak barrels, which gives it a smooth and earthy taste. Smooth is good for martinis, earthy is not. This would be excellent in a highball glass.

The real pleasure in Alembic is the choice of bourbons. Bourbon is very trendy right now, but not in a lemon-flavored way. The Alembic has dozens of aged bourbons. I had a drink, I’ve never tried before: the Mint Julep. Outside the bar, they had a small chalkboard with a quotation of Hunter Thompson regarding the Mint Julep. I wish I wrote down the quotation, but if Hunter recommends it, I’ve got to try it. I assume he has sent many a pious person down the treachery slopes to hell.

A Mint Julep at The Alembic is made with mint, sugar, 12-year old bourbon and "brutally crushed ice." They are not kidding about the brutality. The bartender put the ice in a canvas bag and beat it with a stick. The drink is served in a silver cup. The cup frosted over. It was a hot night, a rare hot night in San Francisco, and I wanted to say in my worst Southern accent, would y’all like ‘nother Julep to fight the vapors with?

I admit it: I love this bar. I highly recommend you check it out.

The Sweet Sin of Gin

The New York Times had a gin comparison in their dining section today. Evidently they tried eighty gin martinis between four people. I like those odds. But even better was this well-made point:

“Before we discuss the findings, though, we need to clear up a little matter. It’s come to my attention that some people believe martinis are made with vodka. I hate to get snobbish about it, but a martini should be made with gin or it’s not a martini. Call it a vodkatini if you must, but not a martini. Gin and vodka have as much in common hierarchically as a president and a vice president. Vodka can fill in for gin from time to time and might even be given certain ceremonial duties of its own, but at important moments you need the real thing. Vodka generally makes a poor substitute for gin in a martini or any other gin cocktail.”

Hallelujah, brother, Testify! I hate to be redundant when ordering, but with the vodka craze—that thankfully is ebbing—I have to order a “gin” martini, so I won’t get the bastardized kind. Luckily gin is coming around again, the NY Times article lists a great many that I have not tried. But I will, oh yes, I will. First one I will try is Plymouth, which they think is the best for a martini.

A side note: I’m very cautious when ordering a martini. I go by a couple of rules.

Really good-looking bartender = I order a beer. Usually these guys and gals are hired to be eye candy, and have not learned the finesse of mixing. There are always exceptions, but beware.

Also, Irish/English/Scottish pubs = I order a beer or a scotch. When in Rome, or Dublin…

Dance clubs = puh-leeze; they don’t even carry cocktail glasses. It’s beer or a vodka and cranberry juice.

The best place for martinis are hotel bars, lounges, or punk clubs with rockabilly bartenders. Hotel bars with their starched shirts and inflated prices are pretentious but they do mix well, especially if there is an old timer behind the bar. Lounges can be hit or miss, but at least they try. Rockabilly bartenders are very proud of their martinis and they are usually great.

Even so bartenders still shake a martini. I don’t know about bruising, but I don’t want to see ice shards in my martini. A martini should be pure, like a calm lake. It is a preview of how my soul will be after the imbibing. Drinking is not just taste and smell; it is visual (and it is aural when you clink someone’s glass in a toast.). See, don’t get me started on martinis. Shesh.