The Rocket Returns Tomorrow

Anyone interested in tasting some free Ardbog while doing their best Slim Pickens impersonation should come by the Redwood City store tomorrow between 5 PM and 6:30. We'll see you there!

-David Driscoll


Best of NYC: 2013

It's been another fantastic week in New York City and my wife and I are ready to call it quits for 2013. Manhattan is pretty much our favorite place in the whole world because there's nowhere else where you can eat and drink non-stop while always experiencing something new, cutting edge, and exciting - at any hour of the day! We come here every year without fail, so we're always on the lookout for new ideas. We've had some pretty outstanding drinks and some stellar meals thanks to a few lucky turns and some great recommendations from friends. I didn't really plan on blogging while we were on vacation, but since I have the computer and the time I thought I'd hand out our two best-ofs from this year's trip. If you find yourself in New York anytime soon, you might want to try out the following two places:

Best Meal: Catch (Meatpacking District)

This one caught me off guard. We were pretty much going here for the celebrity version of Where's Waldo and some socialite people watching, but this new spot in Manhattan's uber-trendy Meatpacking District is absolutely fantastic. We did see some very famous people while dining at Catch (Mary J. Blige eating right next to us - freaking awesome!), but it was both the food and service that really shined. It was so good we ate there twice. The yellowtail hamachi, coconut shrimp sushi roll, baked shrimp, grilled salmon, seared snapper, and pistachio scallops were all stellar - fresh, perfectly-cooked, and tasty. The wine list was also vast and reasonable. We were able to snag bottles of both Craggy Range Sauvignon Blanc and Donnhoff Riesling without bankrupting our bank accounts. We already knew that Regis and Kelly loved Catch, but now we're big fans as well. We'll definitely be coming back.

Best Drink: Mai Tai at Dutch (SoHo)

This was a totally random pit stop on Prince Street while stranded in the 93 degree humidity. It was more of a necessity than a choice. It turns out that Dutch is actually quite a famous little place, but we didn't know that. I figured out they had their act together, however, when I noticed their Mai Tai used Banks 5 Island rum and real orgeat. It got even better when the bartender used two kinds of ice - large block ice for the lower section comprised of the white rum, housemade orgeat, and fresh-squeezed citrus, but then a sno-cone of perfect pebbles on top with Black Strap rum poured over it like shaved ice. In this case, the dark rum floater was like a summer slushy! In the hot summer heat, this Mai Tai was both clever and practical. The ice kept the dark rum from mixing with the lower half, allowing the perfectly crafted cocktail to pass through the dark seal on its way to my mouth. YUM!

-David Driscoll



I've become fairly cynical over the past few years in the booze business, mainly because I've realized much of the allure with wine and spirits lies in the fact that there's so much to know that others do not, rather than the sheer pleasure of drinking. There's a certain personality out there that gravitates towards the areas of least resistance, hoping that the percevied mastery of something less ordinary is better than the competance of something familiar. I remember my friend's brother growing up, who wanted to be revered as a basketball star like his brother was. The only problem was he wasn't any good at basketball. Or baseball. Or soccer. Or any of the normal sports kids play. That's why he started looking at roller hockey leagues and lacrosse clubs, hoping that out of the ten kids in Modesto interested in these sports, he would be good enough to stand out. It wasn't about doing something he liked or having fun. It was about garnering praise.

Sometimes I feel like wine carries a similar intrigue for those seeking attention. A little bit of wine knowledge is generally held in fairly high regard, at least in the major metropolitan areas. You don't even have to be right! I sat next to a guy at dinner last night who was just making things up, hoping to impress his date ("This wine is made from a grape known as White Burgundy, it's different than chardonnay, much sweeter"). Because very few people understand the details, facts, or nuances regarding what is a very large and complicated wine world, it tends to draw in those with a tendency for pedantry, which is why wine is often linked to snobbery. After a few chapters of reading in a basic wine manual, the odds are that you'll know more than your neighbor. The same thing could also be said for art, another genre where the patron has very little idea of what makes one subject better than another. Much like with wine and spirits, we rely on experts who tell us why certain works are considered masterpieces and others simply child's play.

Because of this gulf in understanding, the wines (and even whiskies) that are obvious to the general consumer are rarely embraced by the experts. It's difficult to appreciate merit if you have no understanding of what came before it. Sometimes, however, the wines that are rated highly by critics tend to be too esoteric for the newbie palate. This can often result in bitterness between the two groups because one cannot understand the absence of practicality, while the other hates the idea of basic mass appeal. What I really appreciate, however, is when these two roads intersect and something wonderful is created that is easy to grasp, yet profound and new. Something like that happened during the 1980s in New York City.

The early 80s in New York was one of the most important periods in the history of modern popular culture. The downtown scene was bustling with young creatives like Jean-Michel Basquiat, Madonna, Debbie Harry, Fab Five Freddy, and a slough of other artists whose impact would forever pave the way for future talents. One of the most famous artists from that period was Keith Haring, whose street murals and graffiti style transcended the basic subway tag, using simple imagery to tackle issues of gender, race, and homosexuality. You didn't need to visit a museum or a studio to view Haring's work. He would paint huge murals on the side of buildings, around the walls of a local pool, or in the bathroom at a community center.  Haring's mural at the LGBT Center (pictured above) on West 13th Street is still there if you ask at the front desk to see it. Like his pal Basquiat, critics weren't sure how Haring fit into the legacy of modern art, simply because so many people who didn't know anything about art history were enjoying his work. How can it be good if so many regular folks without MFA degrees appreciate it?

Sometimes it takes a while for praise to come your way. While Haring was definitely celebrated by his own community in New York, his stock only really began to soar after his death in 1990. Many of his paintings sell for seven figures these days. Haring was good at what he did and he stuck with it, regardless of whether the experts wanted to call it fine art or not, because it made him happy and it made the public happy as well. There was never any attempt to condescend or impress with his work, only to make life a little bit more beautiful. If only all of our motivations in life could be so simple and pure.

-David Driscoll


Our In NYC


I'm armed only with my iPhone camera and I'm without the aid of photo software, so please excuse the blurry, out of focus images. This is just a quick update to let you know that New York City is full of amazing places to eat and drink (as if I needed to tell you that). If you want to live it up in Gotham, the Nomad Hotel is an absolute must. We went there for brunch today, as well as drinks yesterday evening, and it is one of the classiest places I've ever visited. The Library Room, with its leather-bound chairs and mahogany shelves, is where we started the morning with coffee, before heading into the main dining room for our meal.

There are four Bloody Mary options for lunch. My wife got the classic tomato base with horseradish, but I opted for the manzanilla sherry base with beets and hot chili peppers. Oh my God. Maybe the best Mary I've ever danced with.

What to order? There are many options and they all sound and look fantastic. I saw a number of people order the chicken sandwich, which sounds rather bland, but is far from it. It's served with black truffles and foie gras on a brioche bun. It looks absolutely divine. In the end, however, I opted for the steak and eggs and it was a fine choice. The meat comes topped with salsa verde and is cooked to a stunning perfection.

We ended up walking around to number of fine watering holes, including one of our favorite SoHo bars called Officina Latina (they've got fantastic spicy cocktails). If you thought getting a bottle of Pappy or Pliny the Elder was tough, however, it's nothing compared to the Cronut - the half-croissant, half-donut concoction that has swept over lower Manhattan like the Tickle Me Elmo doll. Black market Cronuts are selling for $100 a pop because you've gotta line up at 6 AM to even have a shot. Many people wait all morning long only to find out that the Dominique Ansel bakery has sold out. It's absolutely nuts. But not unfamiliar. I totally get it.

-David Driscoll


Eating to Drink

One of the biggest fronts that wine drinkers like to put up is the idea that wine should always be paired with food. That's what it's for. It's not meant to simply be drunk alone or enjoyed on the side. You can only drink Rioja if you're eating lamb. You can only open that Cabernet if you plan on grilling a steak. Not doing so would represent an egregious mishandling of fine alcohol. You wouldn't really be getting the wine's true potential. While sometimes a bit strict and fanatical, these rules have never really bothered me because the right meal can and will enhance the flavors of the drink. They might be a tad pedantic from time to time, but at least they're based on real results.

However, one of the most incredible ironies concerning American wine drinkers, and usually among those who consider themselves foodies, is the fact that there's never enough food on the table to enjoy the wine they're drinking. Dinner will involve Champagne, white wine, red wine, maybe even a Sauternes, but all you'll get along side them is maybe one crostini, a tiny salad, and a small slice of meat with a piece of arugula. How in the hell do they expect you to soak up all that booze? Even worse, this small plate phenomenon has completely infiltrated the cocktail world. You'll sit down at the bar to slurp two glasses of pure liquor, but the only nibbles available are a tiny olive plate or maybe a few candied nuts. But, hey, the olives were house-brined.

If you're going to drink, you're going to need to eat. There's a reason people who are hungover crave greasy food like Jack in the Box or fried eggs with hash browns - it makes you feel better to put something substantial in your stomach. Heavy eating usually neutralizes heavy drinking, in my experience. I'm currently on the 18th floor of my hotel in Manhattan, sitting by the window, enjoying the incredible view to the north and the Empire State Building. It's early. I'm awake because I couldn't sleep any longer, but it's not because I'm hungover, despite the heavy drinking from last evening's events. It's because I am full. My stomach is still pushing at the elastic on my pajamas, testing its give. My wife and I don't play around when we go out boozing in New York. There's no time to be groggy and useless the next day.

After taking a nap yesterday afternoon, we rose around six to have a drink before dinner. Looking to escape the humidity, we passed on the rooftop bar at the Standard and decided to head a block over to Pastis instead, looking for the air-conditioned, basserie cocktail experience. We sat at the counter, gazed at the wall of Ricard behind it, and ordered some beverages. Both of us began with the Rive Gauche - an agricole rhum drink with St. Germain, white wine, and lemon juice - and after warming up to the bartender, we started talking about the Bay Area. It turns out that our man had just spent two weeks in California and had fallen in love with the state and its many micro-breweries. After revealing my industry credentials sometime during the second drink, he said we absolutely must stay for a third and that's how I wound up drinking another large glass of pastis on an empty stomach. Talking about your liquor-buying job with a bartender can be quite hazardous if you've got other plans for the evening, but luckily we did not.

Rolling deep with three cocktails before dinner at Pastis is quite fun, I'd highly recommend it, as long as you're not eating dinner there when you're done. I'm sure the seared organic salmon with baby spinach, fennel, and pequillo peppers is quite delicious, as is the classic steak frites. However, I'm also quite sure that, along side a bottle of wine, neither are capable of balancing out the food to booze ratio needed to keep my stomach from turning itself over - even if I did add on the arugula salad, chicken liver mousse, and oysters on the half shell appetizer. I'm sorry, but the American version of French cuisine just doesn't pair well with alcohol. I've never had to ask for seconds in Gascogny. I've walked away from meals in complete agony, clutching my stomach, sweating pure fat out of every pore during the night, but I've never complained about not getting enough to eat. For some reason, however, Americans like to pretend they're not hungry when they are - and they add way too much booze on top of it.

The only answer for a three-cocktail warm up is pizza, especially when you're near Greenwich Village. John's of Bleecker St. is a fifteen minute walk from Pastis, so we high-tailed it down Hudson street and hopped in line with the other hungry guests. When we finally were seated I ordered a bottle of pinot grigio and a large pie with onions and olives. After taking our first sip of wine, however, we knew it wasn't going to be enough. The two of us can take out a large New York pizza when we're not hungry, so I quickly added a second to the bill. The waiter looked surprised, then smirked slightly and said rhetorically, "Wow, you're not kidding, are you?" No, sir, we most definitely are not.

We plowed through the first pizza like it was made out of paper, but that's to be expected. It was only our second night of seven in Manhattan and, to us, John's pizza is among the best in the world. The first pizza was the treat, the prize for our vacation. The second was merely a reenforcement for the alcohol. We were in familiar territory. Last year's jaunt in New York involved one evening where a forty-minute wait for a table ended up with two pre-dinner Negronis before we sat down for wine and pasta. By the time we made it over to the Library Bar in the East Village, we were feeling it. After a round or two at the iconic punk watering hole, we were down-right drunk. However, that's when my wife headed into Burger King and I stumbled into the Popeye's next door, and we both emerged with bags of french fries and bisquits. We sat there on the street bench, stuffing our faces, laughing at the predicament we'd found ourselves in, but knowing the grease would save us. We awoke the next morning in fine shape.

Last night's pizza explosion was no different. We fortified our guts, stopped off for rehydrating coconut water in Abingdon Square on the trek back north, and made it back to the hotel for slumber. I remember cursing the fact that I had never been so full, but I'm certainly not regretting it now. I'm ready for some coffee and another warm day in the city.

-David Driscoll