Monday, February 19, 2007
Dead Poetic license
Last week, I went out to dinner with some friends to celebrate my buddy Neo's 28th year of existence in this mortal coil. Afterward, we went to this bar on the Upper West Side called the Dead Poet. I got myself a scotch, helped Neo pick out some songs on the jukebox, picked out the choicest quotes about alcoholism attributed to various dead poets hanging on the bar wall, and was generally having a grand time...until I got a look at the drink menu.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, librophilia, NYC, people who died, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity
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