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By devhahn, on August 9th, 2010
Continued from Part 5…
After putting a pile of fried oysters into my body at Mother’s, I was back at the Monteleone, aiming for the Carousel bar. It was about that time. I spotted Jeff Berry sitting at a squat table next to the bookstore, signing copies of his Beach Bum Berry Remixed. There was a potato of a man in a button-down shirt sitting next to him.
I said hello to Berry and thanked him for the Schumann lead.
“Oh, no problem,” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about the Periodista. . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 6 — Brian Rea
By devhahn, on August 8th, 2010
I was riding the streetcar down Canal Street toward the French Quarter. It was nearing 10 a.m. on my second day at Tales of the Cocktail and I was trying not to think too hard. Every time a neuron fired my head throbbed with equal parts pain and recrimination. At the Dauphine Street stop, two middle-aged men in wife-beaters and jean shorts were eating sausages out of a can. They knew how to start the day.
I’d gotten some good leads the day before, but I’d lost focus—lurched down the rabbit hole and passed out. Today I needed . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 5 — Mixography with Dave and Jeff
By devhahn, on August 4th, 2010
Continued from Part 3…
Time passed like it does on long nights. The ornate galleries of the French Quarter blended together in streaks of light. My cab pulled up in front of a velvet rope. I didn’t remember hailing one.
Tales of the Cocktail’s big ticket event that night was the Bar Room Brawl, a competition that pitted six bars from across the country against one another for the chance to be heralded as the Best Bar in America. Los Angeles was represented by The Varnish, Sasha Petraske’s newest speakeasy, with Eric Alperin at the helm. New . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 4 — The Bar Room Brawl
By devhahn, on August 4th, 2010
Continued from Part 2…
Our cab stopped in front of a townhouse barred by a six-foot-high iron gate. We stepped out into a roaring symphony of cicadas. Adam Lantheaume hit the buzzer on the gate. A plastic banner strapped to an upper balcony read The Mixoloseum. I could hear the wailing of a clarinet off in the distance. We spent a few minutes baking in the night air before a man in faded gray livery let us in.
“Welcome to Mixo House,” he said.
A long hallway with white wainscoting led us into a room full . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 3 — The Mixoloseum
By devhahn, on August 2nd, 2010
Continued from Part 1…
I knew Adam Lantheaume as the owner and operator of The Boston Shaker, a cocktail supply shop in Davis Square. He was at Tales of the Cocktail hosting a coming-out party for a new product line. Bittermens bitters, made by a husband and wife team based in Somerville. The party was at Cure, New Orleans’s hottest new cocktail bar, located five minutes from absolutely nothing.
When I arrived I made nice with the Bostonians then went to the bar for a drink. Before I could order, somebody handed me a glass of punch. . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 2 — Clues at Cure
By devhahn, on August 1st, 2010
I was wrenched from sleep by my iPhone alarm clock. For a second I just lay there, my head throbbing in time with the electronic marimba beeping on the bedside table. My mind ached with alcohol and half-forgotten names. It was 9:30 a.m., I’d just gone to bed three hours earlier, and I was going to be late for my first seminar.
I’d arrived in New Orleans the day before. The Crescent City was playing host to Tales of the Cocktail, an annual conference celebrating all things drink. All the big shots were there—authors, celebrity bartenders, liquor company . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: New Orleans, Part 1 — The Monteleone
By devhahn, on July 18th, 2010
I was sitting at Highland Kitchen in Somerville drinking my third glass of water. I’d sweat my weight biking up Central Street to get there. On my right, an old man with a handlebar mustache was chasing a cucumber slice around his glass with a straw. On my left, three women were talking loudly with Boston accents. ighland Kitchen is your best bet on finding a good Boston accent and a good Aviation in the same room.
Joe McGuirk was behind the bar. I’d been watching him for an hour. The man’s a maestro. He pours spirits with . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Highland Kitchen—McGuirk’s Vindication
By devhahn, on July 11th, 2010
It was 3:25 in the afternoon and hot as hell. I should have been at work. Instead, I was racing down Commonwealth Avenue and breathing exhaust. I had an appointment to make. Jackson Cannon, the bar manager at Eastern Standard, had agreed to an interview. If I could do it that day.
I crossed into Kenmore Square sweating bullets and pulled my bike up in front of Eastern Standard. Beneath the red overhang, people in polos and shades were dining al fresco. I felt like a barnyard animal. I wiped my dripping forehead with my shirttail and went . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Eastern Standard—Lifting Hemingway’s Prints
By devhahn, on July 6th, 2010
In a Harvard Square basement, exposed-filament bulbs burned golden beneath steel housings, Arcade Fire rumbled in the eaves, and a man in a straw porkpie hat and a beard sat alone at the bar. Outside, it was ninety-five degrees and the 4th of July. Down there, the AC had already started to dry my throat. I was at one of the newest fixtures of the Boston cocktail scene, Russell House Tavern, to meet with one of the oldest: Brother Cleve.
I’d heard whispers about Cleve since I started drinking cocktails in Boston. Some call him the Godfather of . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Brother Cleve—The Godfather
By devhahn, on June 27th, 2010
If you’re lucky enough to be biking past the Charles Hotel in Harvard Square at 1:30 in the morning, you might begin to hear a dull roar. It’s summer, and the patio at Noir is a dense, throbbing mass of loosened ties and fallen-strap dresses. From one until two in the morning, Noir is your last chance for a last call in Cambridge.
If you show up during daylight hours, it’s a different story. I locked my bike by the Legal Sea Foods, walked through the hotel lobby and past the beaded curtain into Noir. It was happy . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Noir—A Mystery in Print
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