I’ve been hearing plenty of talk lately about which prohibition and pre-prohibition cocktails are currently being celebrated on menus across the country. Most often cited are the Last Word, Aviation, Bees Knees, and the French 75 (which you can find in its originality and in variations such as the ’76, ’79, etc., etc., in pretty much every good cocktail joint in every major city). As someone who is relatively new to the scene, even I know that the inclusion of any of these drinks on a menu stands as a indicator that you’re in a nouveau cocktail bar that is worth its snuff. Yet many of these drinks have already become passe to the people ‘in the know.’
I suppose that explains the tendency for mixologists and bartenders to go forth and create new and complicated cocktails that fly in the face of tradition. I agree that there’s a time and place for that, but I’d also like to see bars staying true to the tricks that worked in the beginning, and getting a little more creative in what drinks they decide to revive from the dusty pages of cocktail books.
The girl pranced out into the busy street without a side glance to the left or right, purposefully ignoring the restrictive city-ordained pedestrian walkway, a mere 100 feet from her current location. The driver of the compact vehicle slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting the waif. “People that thin shouldn’t leap out into the middle of the road like that,” she thought angrily. Yet when the driver caught the girl’s eye for a brief moment she couldn’t help but be captivated by the fawn of a woman presented to her in the middle of the street.
The daylight highlighted her smooth milky-porcelain skin, shimmering like a doll’s freshly painted shell. A light dusting of cinnamon freckles danced across her nose and shoulders, as if her God decided that he needed to illustrate the fact that her soul is just a touch more sweet than her brunette counterparts. Glittery orange hair sighing in the sunlight, the breeze played softly with the strands, wispily falling around her delicate face.
With a glance and a smile, the driver’s anger melted away, and she secretly wished for a fleeting moment that she too could be a Ginger.