One For My Baby…

Bull Shot - P. J. Clarke's

There are just too many days as of  late when I find myself feeling a level of post meridiem melancholy that would normally be  reserved for those wee small hours after midnight. But this extended period of  pensiveness does justify my singing the first few lines of that Mercer/Arlen classic at least twice a day now.

One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)

It’s quarter to three,
There’s no one in the place except you and me
So set ‘em up Joe
I got a little story I think you ought to know

We’re drinking my friend
to the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road…

The talk around Tin Pan Alley was that Johnny Mercer worked out the lyrics to Harold Arlen’s unconventional 48 bar,  key changing melody while sitting at the bar at New York’s P. J. Clarke’s. Another famous patron would  fan the flame of this American torch standard with a version that would ultimately define tears in your beer and late night laments. And this is only fitting, since Frank Sinatra, who is more often associated with Sardi’s and Jilly’s when it comes to prominent city saloons, would always raise his last glass of the evening at P. J. Clarke’s when  socializing in Manhattan.

In the current issue of American Public House Review there is an effective recipe for a Bull Shot which this editor first discovered while sitting at the aforementioned landmark tavern on a similarly cold gray afternoon  many years ago. It occurs to me that there is just enough vodka left to make two.

So I think I’ll throw on a little Sinatra, and have one for my baby… and one more for the road. (Click the last two links to hear Francis Albert Sinatra do it as only he can)

Posted by: Chris Poh

 

OF CHRISTMAS CAROLS AND SMOKING BISHOPS

Chris Poh, the editor of AMERICAN PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW and I, the Creative Director of the said on-line journal, produce a weekly, free form  radio show called THE BLEECKER STREET CAFE on WDVR FM - 89.7 in central New Jersey. We are on the air Fridays from noon until three E.T. You can catch us on the web at www.wdvrfm.org.  Every year on the Friday before Christmas we perform an impromptu, unrehearsed, hugely improvised, and otherwise completely unprepared radio-play of Charles Dickens,’ A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Because we at AMERICAN PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW are blessed with a staff that share, for better or worse, a distinctive worldview and similar opinions as to what constitutes thespianic talent, we, of course, engage the profound, theatrical faculties of Kathleen Connally, our photoblogger extraodinaire and David McBride, our intrepid Marketing Director in our yearly ruination of this Dickens’ classic.

In our “improvisation,” which has been an annual event now each year for about eight, The Bleecker Street Players seem to unknowingly rehash identical attempts at comedy year after year, and we forgetfully over-play the same dramatic elements of the good ol’ story every time too. It’s loads of fun though.  We likewise repeat much ado about the selfsame curiosities that crop up in the story which are unique to those Dickensonian times in 19th Century London. Among those curiosities is a libation that Scrooge, after his epiphany, proposes as a shared consecration of the new found friendship between himself and his long-suffering employee, Bob Cratchit. The drink is called a “SMOKING BISHOP” and it never fails to prompt questions as to the recipe and lore of this enigmatic elixir.

It seems that in certain regions of England at that time, spirited beverages, especially wines, acquired figurative, popular-culture, nicknames from the world of the ecclesiastical. “Pope” meant burgundy, “Cardinal” was champagne, “Archbishop” represented claret, and “Bishop” was the apellation for port. So “SMOKING BISHOP” indicated a hot and steaming, port-based beverage to be enjoyed in the candle light as a brace against the chill of the London winter and perhaps as an analgesic to soothe the sinus headache effected by the all-pervasive and tormenting coal smoke.

Because we at AMERICAN PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW consider it our mission to serve the pub community with the history, the traditions, the legends, the news, and any practical knowledge as to the world of spirited beverages and their purveyors, we offer this recipe for an authentic, Dickens’ style ”Smoking Bishop.”

Procure six bitter oranges such as Sevilles and bake them in a medium oven until they begin to turn golden brown. If you can’t find bitter oranges, use four, regular, juicey oranges (not navel oranges) with one grapefruit, or perhaps two lemons.

Prick each orange with five whole cloves. Put them in a bowl (not a metal pot) with a bottle of decent, but hardly world-class red wine and 1/2 cup of sugar. Cover with a towel or board (no metal lid, nor foil). Leave it out on the counter for a whole day and night. Don’t refrigerate.

The next day, remove the oranges and squeeze the juice back into the wine. Pour everything into a pot (now you can use metal) with a whole bottle of port. Heat, but be careful not to boil or evaporate all of the Christmas spirit. It should be steaming however when it is enjoyed in warmed glass mugs preferably with handles.

Ed Petersen, Creative Director of AMERICAN PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW

The High Ball – Remembrance of a cocktail

My parents entertained frequently as I was growing up in the 60’s. On many a Saturday night, I was put to bed early while my father and mother hosted festive soirées for the gang from The Presentation BVM Parish Society.  These were not the composed and level-headed “cake and coffee” socials of friends well met through their church congregation.  No, these were Roman Catholics who appreciated gospel stories where the operative metaphor was the miraculous transformation of water into wine. These Faithful accepted as Divine Revelation that Jesus himself enjoyed a party, savored the spirit of the grape, and even knew, but did not always hold to, the etiquette of when, during a celebration, to serve the finest vintage. In other words, The Presentation BVM Parish Society partied at my parents’ humble home in Northeast Philadelphia with a generous flow of love in their hearts and the holy distillation of God’s own harvest in their cocktail glasses. For a while, as any kid would, I fussed about my banishment from the living room and our lone TV. But, I soon discovered that from my stealthy, spy perch at the top of the steps I could secretly bask in the adult exultation downstairs. I also learned that the most popular drink by far which was raised in the countless toasts proposed was the Highball .  .  .  at least it was at my parents’ Kennedy-era galas.

A recipe is available for this cocktail which is simple, but not without requisites. Please click:

The High Ball

Posted by: Ed Petersen