Great Bars/Great Drinks

storied concoctions from a pantheon of the world's most famous watering holes

With the possible exception of sex, drinking is the only human endeavor in which fact and fancy are so intertwined and where myth inevitably becomes mystique. Guzzling legends persist, nourished by sentimental tipplers who grow misty-eyed recalling the time Toots Shor vanquished Jackie Gleason in a mano a mano drink-off at the former's West Side temple of palship. "Let the bum lay there," growled Toots, as the Great One slid to the floor, helpless as a beached whale. Another perennial chestnut concerns the afternoon Hemingway put away 15 Papa Dobles at La Florida Bar in pre-Castro Havana, consoling a jai alai player who had blown a crucial partido and, incidentally, mucho dinero. That's a heap of consolation for one afternoon, since a single Papa Doble takes four ounces Bacardi rum, plus a pro forma squirt of lime juice and grapefruit juice, shaken with ice and poured unstrained into a double old fashioned glass. Then, of course, there are nostalgic yarns of incomparable watering holes of the past--The Stork, Sheaphard's and the old Metropolitan Hotel Bar, where Professor Jerry Thomas nightly concocted his death-defying Blue Blazer before cheering throngs. The burden of all this being that bars and bartenders ain't what they used to be.

Baloney. Many of the storied bars are still going strong. And there are some dandy (text continued on page 122) newcomers, run by deft, innovative bartenders, where conversation, ribaldry and heroic drinking bouts abound. None is more internationally renowned and admired than The "21" Club, a Prohibitionera speak-easy housed in a converted brownstone on West 52nd Street in New York. At the stand-up mahogany bar lining the south wall of "21's" main-floor dining room, drinks are served in eight-ounce stemmed wine goblets, unstrained and unadorned, unless garnish is specifically requested. President Eisenhower's regular was a bourbon old fashioned without sugar--just bitters and a lemon twist. He never took more than two, according to Bru Danger (nee Bruno Mysak), former Marine and movie cowboy, now "21's" full-time bartender. Bruno, still a performer at heart, enjoys creating drinks "to match the personality of the customer." Case in point--the Honeychile, formulated for Countess Honeychile Hohenlohe: a Scotch sour sweetened with honey instead of sugar. The drink has become a standard at "21"--popular with laryngitic warblers and thespians, as a sore-throat remedy. Other enticing Mysak variations on standards--a Jack Rose cocktail made with calvados and a tequila collins, which he calls the Eddie Collins, after a friend. The Green Monkey is a Mysak original--one ounce Galliano or Roiano strained or over ice, topped with one half ounce Pernod and garnished with a wedge of lime. Give Bruno a clue and he'll whip something up to your personal taste.

The staid Oak Bar of Manhattan's Plaza Hotel is quite another cup of usquebaugh. In all the recent upheavals, the adding of Green Tulips, Oyster Bars and discos, not a hair of the Oak Room's Edwardian head was touched. It still has the broody Renaissance shadows, ornate ceiling, leather armchairs, turn-of-the-century Everett Shinn murals and old-money ambience. Tables still bear the complimentary bottle of spring water, and even the pretzels are a throwback. Today, however, the mostly male clientele (in pre-lib days, women's hours at the Oak Bar were restricted) subsists largely on vodka martinis. About 3000 of these tranquilizers slide across the mahogany every week, usually with a twist. The Oak Bar's specialty, created by the talented Mose Peracchio, is served in a bona fide 1890s-style mustache cup. Naturally, it's called the Handlebar--one and a quarter ounces Scotch, three quarters ounce Drambuie, one half ounce Rose's sweetened lime juice, shaken with ice.

Another former male refuge, The Waldorf-Astoria's Bull and Bear Pub, reflects its previous incarnation in the deep-toned woods, burnished brasses, hunting prints, carved decoys and old fowling pieces. Years ago, Buffalo Bill Cody was a regular at The Waldorf Bar. Admirers frequently invited the colonel to join them in a blast, an offer that, apparently, he couldn't refuse. His invariable response was, "Sir, you speak the language of my tribe."

Head bartender Louis Pappalardo, who goes back 40 years with the Bull and Bear, is a thoroughgoing pro. He may zip up your martini with a few drops of Scotch or shake some triple sec into a gimlet. Louis recently grabbed first prize in a bartenders' contest for his Yellow Fingers--one sixth banana cordial, one third blackberry brandy, one third imported gin, one sixth fresh whipping cream, shaken and strained into a lowball glass. Nothing you'd stay with all night but pleasant as a change of pace.

A tipple that should have won a prize--for saving lives the morning after--was created at Sheaphard's Bar, Cairo, by bartender Joe Scialom during World War Two. Originally named The Suffering Bar Steward, it was conceived as a hangover cure for the valiant British Seventh Hussars then quartered at Sheaphard's. The quaff was instantly rechristened The Suffering Bastard by the fun-loving hussars, as staunch at the bar as they were at the front. Swirl a 14-ounce collins glass with two or three dashes Angostura bitters and toss off the excess. Half fill the scented glass with ice, add an ounce each of gin and brandy, one teaspoon Rose's lime juice and cold ginger ale. Decorate with slices of lime, cucumber and orange and a sprig of mint.

Sheaphard's is long gone, but Scialom is alive and doing rather well at the Four Seasons in Manhattan. No two places could be less alike than the warm, red-plush-and-gold Victorian elegance of Sheaphard's and the sleek, metal-curtained austerity of the four-sided Four Seasons Bar. But neither decor nor geography inhibits this Mozart of the mahogany. His latest whimsy is the Cou-Cou-Comber--one and a half ounces vodka, one teaspoon Pernod, juice of one half lime and one teaspoon sugar, shaken well and presented in an unpeeled, hollowed-out cucumber. You sip the drink and chomp on the cucumber "glass" for an hors d'oeuvre. Scialom has an unusual background for a barman--he's a trained pharmacist, and it shows in his approach. "I dig tastes like a painter digs colors. They're part of me--inscribed on my senses." He finds American bartenders better mechanics, Europeans better hosts.

The closest thing to a movie-type Hollywood bar is the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel--truly a star watcher's heaven and the site of Sinatra's better bouts. On any given day you might catch Diana Ross, Elliott Gould, Ali MacGraw, Raquel Welch, a Gabor or two and perhaps a pride of prowling starlets in the pink-and-green main room or the lushly botanical patio. Those burly, cold-eyed types are bodyguards, and the bodies they're guarding are likely to be working on the bar's popular margarita--one and a quarter ounces tequila, one quarter ounce fresh lime juice, three quarters ounce triple sec in a salt-rimmed stemmed glass. The proportion of liqueur is higher than usual, and the drink is blenderized, so it comes up creamy and a touch sweet--which seems appropriate to the habitat. Polo Loungers are also partial to the Polo Dream, inspired by the stylized gold-leaf mural of an ancient Persian polo match over the bar--one and a half ounces bourbon, one ounce orange juice, three quarters ounce orgeat, shaken with ice and strained into a cocktail glass.

Angelenos and San Franciscans compete on every level--food, sports, theater and architecture--but when it comes to drinking, there's no contest. San Franciscans are serious about their tippling, and nowhere more so than at the Buena Vista at Beach and Hyde, one of the world's great hangout bars. The notable decorative accent is wall-to-wall people, from the ten-A.M. opening to the two-A.M. closing. Someone described an experience at the Bee Vee as "getting loaded in a New York subway." Pretty close. But to be fair, one must add the unbearably beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge seen from the Buena Vista's front windows at sunset.

The place claims to have introduced Irish coffee to the States. Fill a warmed Irish coffee glass to within an inch of the rim with hot black coffee. Sweeten to taste. Pour in one and a half ounces potstill Irish whiskey. Stir. Top with a collar of lightly beaten heavy cream by pouring it over the back of a teaspoon. Another Buena Vista favorite is also an import, the Bee Vee's version of the historic Ramoz Fizz--in a blender, buzz one tablespoon lemon juice, three dashes orange-flower water, half an egg white, one and a half ounces heavy cream, one and a half ounces Old Tom gin and one third cup crushed ice. Top with a splash of cold club soda.

For another vision of old San Francisco, there's the Sheraton-Palace Hotel, with its towering lobby, marble arches, glass-domed Garden Court and Pied Piper Bar, dominated by the Maxfield Parrish Pied Piper of Hamelin mural. The long mahogany counter, where Bet-a-Million Gates rolled dice for $3000 a throw, still draws the wizards of finance. Today, the betting is likely to concern the precise number of kiddies trailing after Parrish's Piper. The bar serves a Pied Piper original, the Amber Glow--one ounce gin, one ounce light rum, one ounce lime juice, one teaspoon grenadine, over ice in a highball glass, topped with club soda and a stick of pineapple.

During the roaring Twenties, when Americans were dry-gulched by Prohibition, tourists and expatriates discovered the great Continental bars. None was more intriguing than the fabled Paris Ritz, where Hemingway handicapped the ponies in the morning and later toted up losses, over a martini or two. In later years, he switched to the lighter cassis vin blanc--white Burgundy tinged with currant liqueur. Frank Meier, overseer of all the Ritz bars, is credited by some with inventing the sidecar--equal parts of brandy, triple sec and lemon juice. Not true, says Bertin, Meier's successor. One of Meier's protégés, Bertin, perfected his skills at the Ritz's Petit Bar, then for ladies only. Today, Le Petit Bar is a clubby, wood-paneled and leather-upholstered sanctum open to all, and Bertin is serving the drinks. He has his patron's touch. The Ritz Spécial is a Bertin creation--one sixth crème de cacao, one sixth kirsch, one sixth sweet vermouth, one half cognac, shaken with ice and strained into a cocktail glass. Like all who excel at their work, Bertin takes great pains, varying proportions ever so slightly for each individiual. He feels a cocktail should be "candid"--not overly complex, with an appeal to the eye and a pleasant aftertaste. He importunes trainees to "never remember certain things you heard and never accept a drink while working."

Harry's New York Bar, Paris, can drop more big names (Scott Fitzgerald, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Gene Kelly, Jeanne Moreau, the Beatles) and more original cocktails than the Ritz. It also claims to serve the driest martinis in town and to be the place where the all-time chugalug record was set: two and one tenth quarts of suds in 11 seconds, by Princetonian J. H. Cochrane, a veritable tiger. Harry's was founded by two Americans, jockey Tod Sloan and a café owner named Clancey. The Stateside influence is evident in Ivy League pennants, which combine with English college colors and antique bank notes to give Harry's a unique look. Harry's son (yes, there was a Harry), Andy MacElhone, takes credit for the aptly titled Petrifier, which contains a paralyzing eight-and-a-half-ounce pay load of liquor. Into a large tankard with plenty of ice, pour two ounces vodka, two ounces cognac, two ounces gin, two ounces triple sec, one half ounce Grand Marnier, three dashes Angostura, juice of one lemon and grenadine, to taste; stir; fill with ginger ale and garnish with a cherry, slices of lemon and orange and a mint sprig. They allow only one to a customer, which seems a heartless interdiction for your average two-before-dinner imbiber. Harry's White Lady offers an interesting commentary on taste trends. The first version called for equal parts of white crème de menthe, triple sec and lemon juice, shaken and strained. Gin was later substituted for the crème de menthe.

Britain stood shoulder to shoulder with France in the humanitarian mission of slaking Prohibition parched Yankee throats. Around 1922, the Savoy Hotel, London, made two unprecedented moves. It imported the premier American bartender, Harry Craddock, and declared it would always have ice on hand at its American Bar. Craddock's advice to his British disciples was succinct:

1. Ice is almost always an absolute essential for any cocktail.

2. Never use the same ice twice.

3. If possible, chill your glasses before using them.

4. Shake the shaker as hard as you can: Don't just rock it. You are trying to wake it up, not put it to sleep!

Craddock also admonished customers to down cocktails quickly, "while they're laughing at you." The current vogue for pouring on the rocks would have distressed him. A technician rather than an innovator, Craddock nevertheless admired creative work, as his loving description of Professor Jerry Thomas' Blue Blazer shows. "Put three ounces Scotch whisky into one mug and three ounces boiling water into a second. Ignite the whisky with fire, and while [it's] blazing, mix both ingredients by pouring them four or five times from one mug to the other. If well done, this will have the appearance of a continued stream of liquid fire. Sweeten with one teaspoon of powdered white sugar and serve in a bar tumbler with a piece of lemon peel."

Craddock's successor, an affable Orangeman named Joe Gilmore, handles the half-English, half-foreign Savoy clientele capably. He believes in the beneficence of ice, even to prechilling the gin, vermouth and pitcher before mixing a martini. He's added a couple of commandments to the master's dicta: "A good cocktail should be simple, perfectly made... and ready when the customer arrives."

As soon as Gilmore sights a client approaching, he starts preparing the man's usual. When timed properly, drink and customer reach the bar simultaneously. Unlike his mentor, Gilmore is an indefatigable inventor, creating new cocktails at the drop of a jigger. When our astronauts walked on the moon, he devised a Moon Walk Cocktail--one ounce fresh grapefruit juice, one ounce Grand Marnier, a dash of rose water, in a champagne glass, with iced champagne added to fill. Moon Walk makings were dispatched to the astronauts in Houston and elicited "grateful and sincere" thanks. A drink honoring Harry Truman's state visit, the Missouri Mule, was politely declined by the President, who wanted his bourbon with just a splash of branch, thank you. Gilmore may have reached the summit with his Paperback, a drink celebrating the soft-cover edition of the Savoy Cocktail Book. It takes equal parts of gin, framboise and Lillet. Stir with ice, strain and serve with a twist of orange. Noble.

The Gritti Palace in Venice is a bona fide 16th Century Palazzo, now converted into a hotel. Every effort has been made to preserve the palatial elegance--heavy draperies, exotic Oriental carpets, gilded mirrors and antique furnishings. The two inside rooms of the Gritti Bar reflect this lavishness, leaning to candlelight, luxuriously comfortable armchairs and sofas, dominated by pale-green murals and Giuseppe Fontana's smile. Signor Fontana is the Gritti's accomplished barman, who shares the trait common to all the good ones--remembering what you ordered last time. But, if the vibes are right, he may tactfully offer one of his own concoctions, such as the Gritti Special--one third Campari, one half Cinzano dry vermouth, one sixth Chinamartini, over ice in a highball glass. Punt é Mes or red vermouth can be substituted for the Chinamaritini. For afternoon sipping, Fontana suggests his Gondolier, a sort of Venetian Kir--three ounces dry white Soave, one tablespoon Cin, a twist of lemon and a splash of soda, all over ice in a small highball glass.

It wouldn't do to call Harry's Bar, just off the Piazza San Marco, the other great Venetian bar. Not with all the kings, contessas and newsworthy names who've made it their headquarters in Venice. Those who ponder such problems will tell you a charismatic clientele can make a bar overnight. According to Harry Cipriani, charisma has nothing to do with it. Put out generous, civilized drinks, in a pleasant atmosphere, and people will find you. "Most bars try for twenty-four drinks out of a bottle," he says, "so no one ever gets a decent drink. We don't take more than seventeen." Harry's main room is darkish, wood paneled, with a long mahogany bar. There's also a small downstairs--maybe a dozen tables. The action is lively, just good clean backbiting, except when someone's caught with the wrong partner. They still talk about the time a poodle jumped from a lovely lady's lap, ran up to a stranger and licked his hand familiarly. The gentleman hasn't explained that one to his wife yet.

Harry's serves terrific martinis, swirling each gently in an oversized brandy snifter "so as not to bruise the gin." People who want something unusual try Harry's captivating fruit mixtures: a Bellini--puréed ripe peach and champagne; a Titiano--grape juice and champagne; or a Roger--gin with a combination of three juices, peach, lemon and orange. Hemingway drank there and mentioned Harry's in Across the River and Into the Trees.

James Joyce is to Dublin bars what Hemingway is to their Continental counterparts. Many of them imply a connection with either Joyce or his works. One that doesn't, and doesn't need to, is the Shelbourne Hotel's Horseshoe Bar, once the parlor in the Victorian home of Lord de Montalt. A U-shaped mahogany counter juts into the center of the room, but blue cut-glass dividers at strategic intervals provide reasonable privacy for stand-up swiggers. Worn leather (concluded on page 201) Great Bars/Great Drinks (continued from page 124) banquettes line the walls, presumably for the infirm or effete. Each table holds a crystal pitcher of water, for mixing with the native whiskey. The locals know better, preferring their spirits unadorned, with neither ice nor mixers.

The house special, attributed jointly to head barmen Jimmy Kelly and Sean Keating, is the Cherry Blossom--one and a quarter ounces Irish whiskey, one and a quarter ounces lemon squash (lemonade or lemon soda), one and a quarter ounces fresh lemon juice, a good dollop of grenadine and an egg white, shaken with verve and vigor, "to wake it up," as Craddock instructed, and served in a highball glass or an eight-ounce wineglass.

Among the great bars of the world are some with raffish, romantic and occasionally sinister overtones. The Raffles Club, Singapore, known for its Singapore Sling, and Quinn's Bar in Tahiti, known for its freewheeling bar fights, come to mind. Another is Dean's Bar, Tangier, founded by Joseph Dean, a charmer of English-African parentage who worked with Allied counterintelligence during World War Two. Dean's soon established itself as the North African hangout for the titled, wealthy, exotic and shady.

The place is intimate, resembling an English sitting room, with Moroccan accents and lots of bright flowers. Its particular contribution to the annals of tipsiana is made with Afri-koko, an unctuous coconut-chocolate liqueur from Sierra Leone, now obtainable in the States. The drink is called the Afrodiziak, and it's a powerful potion. For two Afrodiziaks, shake four ounces Afri-koko, four ounces white rum, juice of one lemon or lime and an egg white with lots of ice. Strain over fresh ice into two goblets, dividing the foam and fluid evenly between the glasses. Garnish with a slice of sugar-frosted fruit. Marrakech pepper, a whisper of allspice and a dash of sherry lend a distinctly African cast to Dean's bloody mary.

Of a genre similar to Dean's, but more funky than sinister, is the Grand Hotel Oloffson, oldest resort hotel in Haiti. Oloffson's is the Greenwich Village of the tropics, a refuge of the culture-and-show-biz crowd, including such diverse types as Mick Jagger and Bianca, Michael York, Rex Reed and Lord Snowdon. It's an almost quaint agglomeration of towers, minarets and bays, set off by gingerbready wood decoration--prime West Indies ramshackle. A mahogany pool table left behind by occupying Marines has been converted into a solid bar. And that's where Joseph Cesar dispenses the incomparable rum punches that have become a minor tempest in tippling circles. Trader Vic lists an Oloffson Punch among its drink offerings, which ruffles the feisty monarch of Oloffson's, Alvin Seitz, "because it's not made right and because it doesn't credit the originator." Cesar's recipe is tangier, containing a little more sweet and a little more sour. Here's the incontestably authentic Cesar's rum punch, as concocted by Cesar himself--two shots Haitian Rum Barbancourt, two shots lime juice, one shot grenadine, two or three drops Angostura and about one teaspoon sugar; shake and strain over fresh ice into a collins glass. The first punch is on the house, generally accompanied by Big Al's half-serious warning, "You won't like it here."

The Batik Bar of the Mauna Kea is as unlike Oloffson's pool-table improvisation as Seitz is unlike the Rockefellers--who happen to own this Hawaiian pleasure dome. Temptations and diversions at the Mauna Kea are endless. You can reel in 1000-pound marlin, chase wild boar up a 13,796-foot snow-capped mountain and ski down the other side, swim, snorkel or sail. But many sports prefer to contemplate the grandeur from the Batik Bar or the Café Terrace, snorkeling around in an orchid-laden mai tai. The bars and other public areas of the Mauna Kea are decorated with museum-quality primitive Pacific art and handicrafts--bronze ceremonial drums, New Guinea masks, gilded antique carvings from Oriental temples and colorful Hawaiian quilts hung as tapestries. Drinks are as sensual as the surroundings, and almost as pretty as the slit-skirted Polynesian waitresses who present them. The maitai, a blend of Hawaiian and Jamaican rums, is topped with a cherry, lime slice, pineapple stick and an orchid. The Mauna Kea Kiaha, served in a seven-ounce coconut cup, takes three quarters ounce Hawaiian coffee liqueur, one and a quarter ounces Hawaiian rum, one ounce each coconut syrup and milk, blended with crushed ice; mint and pineapple garnish. If you've been to any of the islands, you know about the native embalming fluid, okolehau, and you know enough not to drink it straight. It works well, however, in a flaming drink, the Pahoehoe--two ounces okolehau (or light rum), two ounces passion-fruit juice, one ounce grenadine, one ounce lemon juice (save the rind) and a sugar cube zapped with 151-proof rum. To flame, float the hollowed-out lemon rind in a goblet, add rum-drenched cube and touch with a match. At the Mauna Kea, there are crunchy Macadamia nuts for bar nibbles, which beat the hell out of peanuts.

Now, after all those great drinks, at all those great bars, you probably feel the need for a morning-after bracer, something to get the feathers out of your mouth. Just about everyone has a prized hangover remedy--from champagne cocktails sipped through a straw to hideous-tasting corpse revivers made with Fernet Branca or some other vile bitters. Try what you will, but when all else fails, there's always Toots Shor's memorable advice: "Just keep drinking."