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Sidecar

“I need a pretentious cocktail to order.”

The request immediately snapped me from my daydreams.

For reasons I won’t go into here, we were headed to a social function.  And Liz wanted to send the appropriate social cue: engaged, but slightly and arrogantly aloof (see above: pretentious).  Not negatively and actively pretentious, but rather one of perceived pretentiousness, as in: I dressed up to go out and I speak with proper grammar.  That kind of pretentiousness–the kind that would complement her husband’s trenchcoat/tie/scarf-wearing pretentiousness.  You get the idea.

Mix pretentiousness with drinking, and in this very specific scenario, she was married to the right man.

“Ah, well then you need an obscure yet classic cocktail,” I replied, then began thinking.  It had to be something she would drink, obviously, yet it had to be something I’d never seen on a menu before.  But, it had to be rooted in old traditions–a recipe that had an official IBA standing and contested origination history.  A memory coalesced of Alton Brown (culinary pretentiousness personified), arguing his historical version of the margarita’s predecessor.  The associated visual he had provided was even in a Parisian cafe–or bar, whatever the French call those establishments.  It was a perfect backstory, if only I could remember what it was called.

I remember having had one before, though I didn’t remember when or where.  It had a dark spirit, and was sweet and citrus-y.  I lapsed into silence, waiting for the fragmented neurons to fire in the appropriate sequence.  Minutes passed since my response; while I grumbled to myself, cursed my memory, and browsed through my phone hoping to find the answer.  Yet Liz didn’t interrupt my thoughts.  Perhaps the visual signals I was sending indicated a heavy CPU load, like a fervently-blinking yellow light–you just let it finish what it’s doing before trying something else or it might lock up and crash.

“A sidecar!”  Huzzah!  I then researched the exact ingredients: cognac, lemon juice, and an orange liqueur–which sounded good to Liz.  Then, to complete the effect, we discussed the manner in which such a drink had to be ordered: with a specified liqueur and manner of serving–ultimately concluded to be Grand Marnier and served up (and Courvoisier–if your preference is for that mediocre product of marketing other cognac that’s only drunk because of its popularity among hip-hop singers, kill yourself).

At the restaurant, the waitress took down the order with an obvious air of skepticism, probably assuming that someone at the bar had to know what it was.  She returned with a cocktail–served up and in the appropriate vessel…with a glass of something else alongside.  Upon inquiry, she explained that that was the Grand Marnier.  Apparently somewhere along the way someone considered the liqueur to be a separate request, rather than a preferred ingredient.  No matter, once the Grand Marnier was mixed in, it made for a very respectable sidecar.

Liz found it very agreeable to her palette, and decided to request the drink elsewhere, and each time it was a phenomenal success.  This made me re-think my own cocktail of choice, the Manhattan, because 1) Bourbon is increasing in popularity, and 2) Possibly as a result of the first reason, the Manhattan is now well known, which leads to 3) The drink appears on cocktail menus now which means that everyone makes their own non-standard version, they’re watered-down, and they’re overpriced.  My weak-ass Manhattan cost $10 next to Liz’s significantly stronger and tastier $7 sidecar.

So now I’m jealous.  We can’t both order the same drink, and the sidecar’s become her socially-refined signature cocktail.  Perhaps it’s time for me to just move on.  Bourbon, you were good to me for a long time, but you’re kind of a whore, and too many lips have touched you.

–Simon

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Perspective

With the looming winter there just aren’t as many projects to undertake (and to write about), but rather than make yet another video game post I thought I’d ramble a bit about economic and workplace observations.  I’m sure that sounds riveting, but I’m not one to mislead with a false premise.  If you prefer, simply rename this post’s title to: Ten Things You Need to Know About the Millennial Worforce (in the typical clickbait list fashion).

Although, I still don’t consider myself a Millennial.  I fit somewhere into that forgotten Generation-Y group, before Millennials but too young to be a Gen-Xer.  And like everyone else, I feel that my generation had it worse, and I will explain why.

I will do so by mentioning two movies that I consider to be flagships of this Lost Generation, Gen-X: Fight Club and Office Space.  Media serves as an excellent historical record of a society.

Taken at face value, they’re comedies.  Looking deeper, however, I became irritated at the protagonists’ complaints.  In Fight Club, for example, a young professional becomes disillusioned with the consumerist society in which he lives, abandons it all, recruits followers, and then uses domestic terrorism to try and topple the financial sector.

I’m so angry and brooding. Look how cool I am though. In a later scene I take off my shirt.

Here’s another look: a young professional has more money than he knows what to do with, struggles to find meaning in his life, becomes an asshole at work, foregoes finding a meaningful relationship because he’s a misogynist and opts for a friend with benefits (to whom he’s also an asshole), then creates a gang to commit large-scale vandalism.

I’m so sad because I’m a cubicle jockey. Fucker–I had to work 9 YEARS to get my OWN cubicle.

In Office Space, a young professional becomes disillusioned with the lack of meaningful employment, struggles with having a relationship, then snarkily finds ways to strike back against his evil corporate overlords.  Or, a young professional doesn’t like his job and girlfriend, so he grabs the hottest girl he can find (obvious because it’s Jennifer Aniston–who’s always playing the part of hot chick), shamelessly ceases to do any work (but doesn’t quit his job–just pulls a paycheck while sitting around), then convinces a couple of his colleagues to commit computer crime and steal a lot of money, culminating in some vague message that these actions were maybe not justified, but permissible, since his boss/employer was terrible.

If I extrapolate a line of reasoning akin to the hierarchy of needs, then I would conclude that the Gen-Xers, not having to work as hard for economic sustenance, invented problems, or possibly focused too much on more minor problems, and as a result have a much greater expectation of their effort/reward ratio.

I mention all this because I work with this older generation.  As a whole, I’ve been reasonably content in my current role and department, feeling as though I’ve finally achieved a satisfying level of accomplishment and respect (see above: my own cubicle).  At least I don’t feel like killing myself anymore, so I was a little surprised that when we took our usual round of company surveys, the overall scores for the department were rather low.

I was not the only one who wanted to know why, as committees were soon formed with the intent of identifying the factors that were lowering the scores.  As I was conscripted, I had little say in my involvement.  So I just listened.  Common complaints were: inconsistencies regarding using benefit time, lack of established policies, perceived lack of trust, and a general feeling of being treated like a child.  I found little merit in these claims, seeing them as superficial interpretations of inevitable inconsistencies.

But I suppose the surveys did what they intended: measured the level of employee contentment; and the committees identified specifics.  Still, I can’t help but feel that the prior generation had it a little too easy.  I suppose, in time, the Millennials will consider me a big whiner with unreasonable demands too.

–Simon

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Nutcracker

I’ve never been to a ballet.  Of all the presumably highbrow experiences I pondered whilst sipping bourbon poured from my crystal decanter, ballet never crossed my mind.  I’m game for orchestras, but I never felt orchestral arrangements needed the visual aid.  Then again, I do seem to enjoy auditory experiences more than most, so perhaps this was to be expected.

Liz wanted to take the kid to see the Nutcracker.  I was dubious about the prerequisite attention span required, but part of being a parent is forcing culture into your child whether they want it or not, so I was on board.  Off we went to the Schuster Center’s Mead Theatre!

Why do they cram men into those? Can’t they just wear some sweatpants or something?

One of the consequences of an active mind is the need for discourse.  Lacking any prior relatable experience, the kid endlessly asked questions about what the hell was going on, which is a fair reaction really.  To a child’s mind, I imagine it would be very confusing to watch people dance around to instrumental music, vaguely acting out a story that wasn’t based in any sort of reality.

And one of the consequences of an introspective mind is the tendency to zone out.  The familiar melodies invoked thoughts of Fantasia, naturally.  I also recalled hearing that Tchaikovsky never considered the piece one of his better works, yet it became one of his better-known pieces.  Then I started thinking about the dancers and their well-known anorexia problems.  Then I awoke with a start, embarrassed that I had fallen asleep (though no one seemed to have noticed).  Damn is that music peaceful!

Conclusion: The kid wasn’t old enough for this type of venue, I found it incredibly boring, and Liz was disappointed that they had apparently modernized it from the version she knew.  That’s culture I guess–an experience not terribly fun at the time, but something that forms a lasting memory to live on as nostalgia.  I hope that’s how the kid recalls this experience.

–Simon

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Dry Martini

Of all cocktails, none are as needlessly pretentious as the martini.  I say “needlessly” because there’s a very simple way to make them, with minor variations based on personal preference, as with all cocktails, yet unlike other cocktails, we as a people judge these variations of personal preference as bastardizations of an elitist beverage.

I have a good idea why: James Bond.

“Vodka martini.  Shaken, not stirred.”  (Nearby woman starts swooning and taking off her clothes).

Now I’ll add my opinions.  Martinis should be gin, not vodka.  Vodka can be used of course, but then it’s not a true martini.  They should also be stirred and not shaken.  Shaking them introduces air which modifies the taste and texture.  Of course, this method requires being patient, as one has to allow the gin to sit in the ice for a time to get the right amount of melting–this will drop the gin to the correct temperature as well as enhance the flavor with the small amount of added water.  In short–everyone is making their martinis wrong except me.  There–pretentiousness achieved.

But enough of that.  So I prefer extra-dry martinis.  This of course means adding a very small amount of vermouth.  In my case, this means a very teensy weensy bit of vermouth, like 2 drops.  As family was visiting for Thanksgiving I unsurprisingly sought solace in my liquor cabinet.  It had been a while since I had made a martini, and catching a glimpse of the vermouth bottle fancied my whims and I decided it was time.

Apparently my pretentiousness has limits, as I’ve never been one to appreciate more expensive vermouths–probably because I only use 2 drops at a time.

And it’s because I only use 2 drops at a time that I realized that this was the same bottle I’ve had since before I could legally buy it.

That has to be at least 50 martini’s worth

Dry indeed.  Perhaps, when I finally finish the bottle, I’ll have achieved ultimate martini-making mastery, and villainous women in fancy hotel bars will swoon over me too.

–Moorhead.  Simon Moorhead.

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Blood Price

My father was always pretty handy around the house I recall.  He’d change the car’s oil, fix the air conditioner, run speaker wire through the walls…you name it.  And it was through this hands-on instruction that I learned my own basic handyman competence and the self-confidence needed to undertake my eventual home projects.

Yet, there’s a price exacted by the animistic spirits of the home, if I understand anything about the supernatural world.  A blood price.  It’s akin to the Angel’s Share of evaporated bourbon, but more Lovecraftian.  The spirits grant the boon of accomplishment, but in turn must be paid a sacrifice.

For my father, this price was quite literally paid in blood.  Every time he fixed something, he bled–a hammer to the thumb, a slipped knife to the fingers, a burr on a pipe finding his hand–these are some examples.  The project saw fruition, but its culmination always required bandages.  At the time, I thought this correlation extremely amusing, the way all kids find grownups getting hurt amusing.  Little did I know that the pact would extend to all male heirs.  Now I too pay the price.

I was putting up Christmas lights on the roof and a friggin pine needle poked me deep enough to draw an actual stream of blood.  I was putting nails into a kitchen drawer to fix a broken slat and I skinned a knuckle.  But the biggest price I paid to date at this house was to have a clean oven, and by extension, a properly cooked Thanksgiving turkey.  Such was the impact of this lofty goal (impressing in-laws (or showing them up, depending how you want to look at it, wink wink)), that the price needed to be high.

I began cleaning, and noticed that the spray nozzle on the can of oven cleaner was gunked up.  I wiggled it, trying to dislodge the blockage, and it popped off.  This action released the pressure on the aerosol within that little metal delivery tube.  A blast of liquid sodium hydroxide impacted my face, and had I not been wearing my glasses at the time, would have caused ER-worthy damage, for the resultant chemical burn was instantaneous, not to mention painful.

A few seconds of exposure–glad it didn’t hit my eye

Statistics for kitchen injuries during holidays are rather amusing.  We might attribute them to alcohol, fatigue, or simply being in the kitchen more.  But I say no–it’s that the stakes of our projects are higher and so the sprites can exact a steeper price.

But the turkey was damn good.

–Simon