In an age where meat-covered Lady GaGas and pop stars with dollar signs in their names populate the world, it’s increasingly hard to stand out and rise above competition. In the cocktail arena, a bartender can don feathered hats and glittered jeggings but if the drinks don’t pack an equal or greater “wow” factor, they’re not making headlines.
To set themselves apart from the nightlife pack, Epic Roasthouse in San Francisco has gotten creative with their cocktails. Putting the power of menu design in the bartenders’ hands, each was challenged to create their own concoction. Judged by fellow bartenders, management and waitstaff, only the best made it to the new Epic Originals bar menu. And man, are they epic.
Among the best: Agave Nino. The combination of tequila, agave syrup, lemon and Albarino made for a crisp, refreshing ‘I’m on a tropical island far, far away’ feel - without the pink umbrella and sugar overdose. Add a splash of spice from the jalapeno pepper garnish and you’ve got yourself one fine beverage.
Eva Peron, a sultry mix of Fernet Branca, ginger liqueur, vermouth, lime and ginger beer is as spicy as it is sweet. This combination softens the harsh blow of Fernet to the faint of heart but not without capturing its herbal and spice-infused essence.
Set on the bay-adjacent Embarcadero, Epic’s upstairs Quiver Bar makes for the perfect environment to enjoy said cocktails among others from the Originals list and the Classics menu. A panoramic view of the bay and bridge attracts tourists and locals alike looking to unwind in oversized leather barstools and chairs. If the drinks don’t make you warm and fuzzy all over, (which they will) the broken-in rustic, yet sophisticated setting will make you feel right at home. So much so, I am getting kind of homesick now. And thirsty. Perhaps another trip to the Golden City is in my near future.
It's comforting this time of year to learn we were right about beer not only being the Zenith of civilization, but actually causing civilization.
This was a pet theory of mine since at least high school. It makes sense that, in the thousands of years we evolved before books or cable TV, things were boring and there was precious little reason to sit around in groups.
Oh, sure, there was the campfire and the wild beasts and all that -- but the invention of the couch was virtually unthinkable in that situation.
But one bright day we discovered beer. Granted, some late-night History Channel watchers will contend that ancient astronauts gave us the secret of fermentation, but it was probably just an accident of fate. That fermented stump-water was centuries away from a pint of Allagash Black's 2-row barley nirvana. So what if it tasted like warm PBR you found in your college roommates dirty sock hamper?
None of us forget our first time, unless we're so drunk to have never captured the memory in the first place, but it's odd when somebody's an adult and hasn't done it yet. But my friend chose well when she picked me as her guide, because I am a professional after all.
Me? My first time was behind the Tomahawk Post Office, at an age sure to furrow the brow of any distillery compliance officer. It was rough but thrilling and if memory serves it was J.W. Dant, the half-pint size.
So it was an honor when my new friend asked me to help her drink bourbon for the initial round. Technically, maybe, she's had bourbon before in a Mint Julep or some such disguise, but we both know she was ready for the next step.
Ah, the challenges. Do you go with the top shelf, the Bookers and Woodford's of the world? Or how about one of the classics? You think of the sweetness of Ezra Brooks. This was to be the foundation of her entire bourbon experience, so maybe Jim Beam? Who would have thought that performance anxiety could rear its ugly head in such a joyous process?
She seemed amused at the seriousness I bestowed upon the choice. Of French stock, she was not 100 percent buying the backstory about bourbon being invented by French folks in Kentucky, and that the county seat of Bourbon County is Paris. She also perhaps doubted that I'm a Capricorn with Scorpio rising, once had dinner with Johnny Depp in Aspen and god knows what other name-dropping nerves-induced rants I babbled on about in less than 30 minutes time.
Spirited Places: Merkato 55
Written by Dan Dunn
Merkato 55
55 Gansevoort St.
New York, NY 10014
(212) 255-8555
review by Kelly Chambers
The era of expensive vacations to exotic and trendy locales is over… at least for most of us… for the time being. So instead, we gotta get as exotic as we can in the ‘hood. Book a table at Merkato 55, a restaurant/club in the West Village, and leave your notions of what it means to have breakfast at the door. As one of my fellow adventurers (birthday boy Peter G) pointed out, “Crunch (clubbing + brunch) is any respectable hipster’s new favorite meal of the day.”
Dining in the plush, dimly-lit disco den that is Merkato 55 is not for the faint of heart. Getting your buzz on before the sun sets requires bold booze ordering. Our table of mostly professional 30-something birthday celebrators started with a bottle of Silver Patron with 31 shot glasses. We followed that with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Now, hopefully it will take slightly less time to get your first drink than it did for us to get ours. Clearly, the prospect of a VERY LARGE TAB and accompanying TIP lit less of a fire under the asses of the servers and maitre d’ than one would have expected.
