My last day in New Orleans was Sunday, July 25th. That day at noon, being a few hours away from my flight departure, an hour past having checked out of my hotel after getting one hour of sleep, and 6 hours after having gotten caught in the mighty aqua force of Tropical Storm Bonnie on Iberville Street, I was interviewed by Tim McNally on AM 690 WIST New Orleans. Barely moments into the interview, and before I’d really even gotten my bearings, Tim asked me what got me into this whole cocktail field.

Oddly enough, I had no prepared answer for this. I’d never really thought about it. It just kind of seemed to happen. But faced with the embarrassment of making my live radio debut by saying, “uhmmmmm,” I quickly reached into the proper spot of my subconscious and fetched the real answer. The real answer was, quite simply, Murray Stenson.

If I were ever to move to New Orleans I would almost certainly end up writing the best novel ever written. People all over the world would drop their bags and look to the sky in awe and reverence over what had just been accomplished, sensing the seismic alteration of the universe my words had caused. Mothers would clutch their children. Construction workers would remove their protective eyewear and proudly wipe away tears. Football players would pull up short of tacking their prey and instead offer pats on the back and warm embraces. Such is the level of inspiration of New Orleans and such are the possibilities when it gets wired into my brain. The title of the book would be one of those poignant couplings of words we typically take to be contradictory, such as Joy and Sorrow, Hope and Doom, Life and Death, or Sex and the City.

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Jazz, Cocktails, and Storyville is the title of an intriguing seminar to be held at this year’s Tales of the Cocktail, fronted by moderator David Wondrich and featuring the stylings of Allen Katz, Phil Greene, and Chris McMillan. I spoke with Monsieur Wondrich recently (OK, about a two weeks ago…what like you’ve never procrastinated anything in your life?) and asked him what Jazz, Cocktails, and Storyville was all about. He was quick to inform me that it is about jazz, cocktails, and Storyville.

This is why we do the interviews folks.

(annoying aside distracting from this article’s utter lack of substance: I once attempted to write the word “won’t” in a text message, and upon writing “w-o-n,” the predictive text on the phone guessed I was attempting to spell “Wondrich,” causing me to seriously re-evaluate my life.)

To get only slightly more specific, the seminar will explore the intersection of cocktail culture with “the sporting life.” By sporting life, we are not referring to fox hunts or polo, but rather the brothels, pool halls, card halls, dance halls, jazz and ragtime music, and all things scandalous that thrived in the once legally sanctioned Red Light District of New Orleans, AKA Storyville.

Sidney Story, a New Orleans Alderman, in 1897 successfully passed legislation through the New Orleans City Council that legalized prostitution in a specific district of town lying two blocks from the French Quarter (Basin Street is often referred to as the district’s “gateway”). The legislation was inspired by the Red Light Districts of the Netherlands, and motivated by a desire to regulate prostitution, and in so doing preserve property values in other parts of town. The result was a unique niche in American history, and most likely a lot of memorable nights in old New Orleans.

Storyville, as it came to be known in reference to its creator, proved to be the perfect environment for the too-risqué-for-decent-society Ragtime music, as well as the oh-my-lord-that’s-the-work-of-an-even-greater-devil Jazz. And apparently the denizens of Storyville figured since they were all going to hell for their sins, might as well enjoy some fine cocktails on the trip. Voila. There you have it. Jazz, Cocktails, and Storyville.

The musicians to emerge from, or at least dabble in, the Sporting Clubs of Storyville included Jelly Roll Morton, The Storyville Honkytonks, The Half Way House Orchestra, King Oliver’s Band, The New Orleans Owls, and the legendary but never recorded String Beans. Also associated with Storyville is Louis Armstrong, who legend has it delivered coal to the Sporting Clubs, and while there figured he might as well stick around and become a legend.

As for the cocktails of Storyville, most famous would be the Ramos Gin Fizz – invented nine years before the inception of Storyville but nonetheless all the rage during its thriving years – the Jack Rose, and Moran’s Parlor Punch. While much can change between now and July, these drinks are the leading candidates to be served at the seminar. No decision yet as to how the Ramos Gin Fizzes will be shaken, but I’m rooting for a John Henry-esque competition between a lineup of shaker boys and a single Bon Jour handheld frother. Think of how memorable that would be should the shaker boys, like John Henry, beat the machine only to die in victory…

Music will be played from the era to accompany our chats and sips. However, there will be no prostitution at the seminar. Apparently some time around 1917 the feds stepped in and made it illegal again. The good people of New Orleans fought this intrusion from The Man, thus once again proving that New Orleans is only begrudgingly part of the United States, which is of course one of the many reasons we love it so. In the 1940s most of the structures of Storyville were razed in order to build housing projects – those bastions of human suffering and poverty – thus indicating the forms of crime and corruption preferred by The Man, which of course is one of the many reasons we loathe him so.

So join us for Jazz, Cocktails, and Storyville…and stick it to The Man.

For further reading on the subject, seek out the book, “Stomp and Swerve,” written by some guy named David Wondrich…no relation I’m certain.

Jazz, Cocktails, and Storyville is all the rage on Friday, July 10, 2009, from 10:30 AM – 12:00 PM, in the Queen Anne Ballroom at the Hotel Monteleone. Buy tickets here.

The Munat Bros. are nothing if not the sad, pathetic losers hanging out, drink in hand, long after everyone else has called it a night, swaying to the beat of some non-existent music, calling out, “Where’d everybody go man? Party’s just gettin’ started dude!”

So it makes perfect sense that we’d still be in New Orleans for a day and a half after everyone else had retreated to their home environs, eager to resume normal lives and pretend like it all never happened. (In a way, isn’t Tales of the Cocktail a little like “The Breakfast Club?” Lots of people from different walks of life are thrown together into an unusual situation, wherein the normal social barriers lose their relevance, everyone loses their shit for a while, then goes their separate ways as Simple Minds wonders if they’ll call each other’s name as they walk on by).

If nothing else, simple minds is a common theme in both.

But here are some thoughts from our little extra wind-down time in NOLA.

The Jimani is a trove of goodness. We went there three times, and each time there were new people working, and each time they were friendly and fun. The food was simple, cheap, and good. And with all due respect to all the talented mixolobartendergists who worked so hard to provide so many lovely drinks for so many, my favorite imbibing experience of the week may have been the afternoon bottle of Red Stripe I had at Jimani with my red beans and rice ($6). It was such a perfect refreshment on a sunny NOLA afternoon, and had me recalling the classic hip hop line, “I drink a bottle of red stripe, to get my head right.”

Alex and Jenn, bartenders at the Bourbon House, are totally badass, not to mention hella frikkin balls to the wall awesome. Throw yourself at the mercy of Alex for a bourbon recommendation, and he will steer you some place lovely named Pritchard’s. If you’re liking your glass of Thomas Handy he’ll explain to you why you might also like the Vintage Rye. He’ll preach to you in convincing detail why the Hirsch 16 year is better than their 20 year. He’ll curse to high hell if you’ve already tried what he recommends.

Once you are settled in with something heavenly, he’ll regale you with tales of how his favorite bars should make a practice of selling sunglasses so he has some line of defense when stumbling out of them in the morning, or how he was arrested traveling the two blocks home from his favorite watering hole because he was attempting to make the trip riding solo in a shopping cart.

Let’s face it, the guy is part LeNell Smothers, part Hunter S. Thompson.

Oh wait, LeNell Smothers is kind of part Hunter S. Thompson already. Guess I’ll have to work on that analogy.

As for Jenn, well she’s just totally badass not to mention hella frikkin balls to the wall awesome.

Once all the Tales people have left, New Orleans seems like a strange place, and the Carousel Bar even stranger. The loudest man I have ever met came in on Monday night. He was from Texas. Just signed a deal with Microsoft and he and his wife are moving to Redmond, WA. Redmond is 17 miles from my home in Seattle, and I am worried he might keep me awake at night.

I fell in love in New Orleans. Unfortunately, it was with Noah’s Mill bourbon rather than some actual human. Then again, Noah’s Mill bourbon is something I could probably stay together with for the rest of my life. In fact, I would officially like to announce my Noah’s Mill whoredom. Somebody please give me some more.

And finally, let me emphasize how much I loved New Orleans. Such a beautiful city, so full of vibrant things, both ugly and beautiful, but all very much alive. I recall a moment when my longtime and dear friend Chris, a New Orleans resident, hopped into a cab with us to head out to dinner. Suddenly, I felt as though we were in some Caribbean colony, characters in a Graham Greene novel, racing off to some meeting with our envoy, soaking in all the beauties of life and at the same time embroiled fully in all it’s contemptible corruption and sorrow. You know, like Our Man in Havana feeling the Power and the Glory.

Then I got a grip on myself. But Graham Green never did, god bless his soul…

“Oh, no. Martyrs are not like me. They don’t think all the time—if I had drunk more brandy I shouldn’t be so afraid.”
– The Power and the Glory

“Reality in our century is not something to be faced.”
– Our Man in Havana

As I sat more or less comfortably among the rows of the Vieux Carre room’s denizens, watching Robert Hess, Paul Clarke, Erik Ellestad, and some Canadian media whore named Boudreau talk about homemade cocktail ingredients, I started to think to myself: “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a book featuring drink recipe contributions from each of these panelists, and also including recipes for some of their own homemade ingredients? And wouldn’t it be even more splendid if among these recipes were ingredients being discussed at this very seminar, including Boudreau’s Berry Shrub and Amer Boudreau? And wouldn’t it be just too good to be true if such a book also contained contributions from 22 other top bartenders and mixologists, with homemade ingredients brazenly flaunted throughout? And wouldn’t it just be the crowning jewel on this already impressive throne if this book were available for absolutely no charge?”

That’s what I was thinking.

Then I looked down at my briefcase and realized I had about 100 copies of this book by my feet. Then I recalled that we published it.

C.Mixeur is afraid of some things, like walking more than three blocks, trees, nature, and nuclear holocaust. But one thing he is not afraid of is disrupting Paul Clarke when Paul’s trying to lead a seminar. So up to the front of the room he marched, a brief whisper ensued, and moments later Paul very nicely sicked his groupies upon us, depleting our book stock. We later handed the rest of them out at the close of the Spirit Awards (neither of us are afraid to crash a party either). If you are one of the unlucky few to not have received one this week, track us down and we will get one to you (and we are not afraid to utilize the postal service either).

Yes, this is shameless self-promotion. I, you see, am an American Media Whore, far more pernicious than the Canadian breed.

Allow me to close with a brief capsule review of the rest of the day, in a manner I think best captures the experience.

Cochon for dinner, catfish yum, Noah’s Mill Bourbon bigger yum. Back to Monteleone, people returning from Tiki party with coconut heads, people with Sonnema baseball hats, baseball hats now on coconut heads. Over to Arnaud’s French 75 bar, tasty sazerac in a frosty mug, who are these people? I thought you brought them. Why are they sitting with us? Oh they’re gone. To the Casino, peek in the awards, everyone’s drunk, half of them on stage, Dale DeGroff accepting an award, here they all come, give them books. Back out to casino, band starts playing, a few people dance, follow them to exit, more people dance, bartenders from Milk and Honey fight over who gets to hold their award. Over to Giovani’s for midnight breakfast, huge crowd squeezing into narrow door, are you on the guest list? If not just push your way in the list is crumpled up and no one is sober enough to read it anyway. Inside Giovani’s, very hot, soaked with sweat, sausage eating weather, 12 different stations making cocktails, 1 of each for me please. Out the door, New Orleans heat cool in comparison, back to Monteleone, even cooler, Carousel Bar, Gwydion Stone emerges, unmarked bottle, pours a little, it’s Marteau and it’s so wonderful. C.Mixeur struts around lobby, stops at each person – Stephan and Alex from Bitter Truth, LeNell, etc. – guess what I’VE got, wanna try? T.Mixeur follows him like puppy dog, wanting more. Time to head to bed, text message, Absinthe House is hopping, to hell with bed, to Absinthe House, Pacific NW confab on the corner, award winners laughing, losers weeping, big giant beautiful mess.

Home. Sleep. One more day. God help us all.

Every good preview deserves an equally good review, so after attending Essential Guide to American Whiskey with LeNell Smothers and Gary Regan, it seems appropriate to reflect back on my original sneak peek of the event, and see how close I came to getting it right. As the three of you who read the thing may recall, it included a list of what to expect and what not to expect…

DO NOT expect: to be entertained by the wit and banter of the presenters as you sample various whiskeys and learn to make cocktails out of them.

This prediction turned out to be absolutely correct. We were certainly entertained by the presenters, but more by their mordacity and persiflage than their wit and banter. And we didn’t sample various whiskeys; we horked’em down. And perhaps we did learn to make a cocktail with them, but by then we had all horked down five whiskeys, so who will actually remember what we learned?

DO expect: lewd and indecent sexual acts performed under at least one of the conference tables.

This turned out to be an incorrect prediction. Oh, there were sexual acts being performed under the tables, but none of them were indecent. In fact, they were quite decent indeed, thank you very much.

DO NOT expect: a guided tasting of three bourbons, one wheat whiskey, and one rye, plus use of another wheat whiskey in self-creating a certain beloved mixed drink.

This also was an incorrect prediction, as it turns out we did have a guided tasting of the above whiskeys. However, the surprising element was that it was actually the audience guiding the presenters, rather than the other way around. Members of the crowd called out descriptors for each one, which were gratefully lapped up by Gary and LeNell. Eventually, we grew suspicious that this whole thing was merely a ruse to get us to offer up our best ideas so the presenters could steal them and use them as their own in future conferences or books. When confronted on it, Gary admitted that he’d actually only had whiskey once, years ago, and that he “frankly couldn’t stand the stuff.”

(Authors’ note: that last part was a lie.)

DO expect: excessive peer pressure, applied by the presenters, to shoot copious quantities of straight rye until certain erogenous areas of the body have their interests piqued, as the presenters leer.

This was more or less correct. The peer pressure was more passive aggressive than I had anticipated. Gary merely suggested shooting all five whiskeys as an alternative approach to the event, then coyly let it lie. Over the course of the seminar one could witness various audience members starting to quiver, then convulse, then suddenly lunge for the glasses in front of them and start guzzling whiskey as their embarrassed friends attempted to restrain them. All the while, Gary was throwing his head back, cackling maniacally.

(Author’s note: again the last part kind of got away from me.)

As for erogenous zones, Gary did ask LeNell if he could lick his whiskey off of her nipples, and after some thought she agreed, but it went no further than that. She later retorted by asking Gary if he would stir her Old Fashioned with his penis. Gary seemed noncommittal about that one.

(Author’s note: this part is true)

DO NOT expect: a spirited and informative discussion on the history of American whiskeys – including bourbon, rye, wheat, and corn – from its earliest days to modern experimental techniques.

OK OK! I can’t keep joking around anymore! Yes, it was a spirited and informative discussion on all things whiskey. It was made to be fully interactive from the start, which allowed many individuals to join the discussion, including Toby Maloney, Stephen Beaumont, and Sammy Ross. It was entertaining, educational, and altogether stimulating, spiced up with the occasional penis joke.

There, I said it. God do I feel dirty.

Today was a proud and joyous day for the Munat Bros., as we ushered double top-secret brother David Thompson into the fold. David swigged from many a gallon jug of rum with Chesterfield Browne when both were young’uns in Barbados. And David currently has an occasional seat at the dinner table with his boyhood acquaintance, the Prime Minister of Barbardos. The Prime Minister’s name? David Thompson. Yes, that is correct, they are both named David Thompson. David promises us he will use his personal sway with the PM to ensure many new falernums will wash upon our shores soon.

(Author’s note: David promised no such thing and is currently napping so cannot defend himself from this slander)

So where to take the newly arrived, “Lonely Voice of Reason” of Munat Bros, Inc? Why it just so happens there were tastings of both Cruzan and Rhum Clement on the mezzanine level. We started with the Cruzan room, and found the humble servant pouring for the masses was none other than Wayne Curtis. In case no one believed it was him, he had his book there with him. He also had a series of 250mL bottles filled with the various incarnations rum assumes before it actually becomes rum. This was a very fun idea. However, I may now always associate Cruzan Single Barrel with the scent of fusel oil, which began to permeate the room after repeated sniffs by the curious little tasters. There was another bottle that we weren’t sure what it was, and Wayne simply told us that if we saw it tip over to run like hell.

We then weaved our way over to the Clement tasting, which was a whirlwind. Two white rums, along with the VSOP, the XO, the Cuvee Homere, and the Creole Shrubb were quickly poured and consumed. I mean quickly. The presenter moved from one to the other like an auctioneer, pouring each one directly into the little plastic cups in our grubby little hands, and each one needed to be finished in order to be ready for the next, lest you miss out on one and tumble from the merry go round.

Careening away from that table, we found ourselves face to face with a row of bartenders mixing drinks with the various products. One featured a rum and the shrubb mixed with Nocello. After sipping this, David looked at the drink as if he were thinking what sort of thrashing one might receive if they served someone a rum drink with walnut liqueur in it in Barbados. At all the drink stations were tubs of beautiful, baseball-sized globes of ice, which would be cracked up fresh for each drink.

All this led to David and I needing a little break, so we slipped away into the elevator. As the doors were about to close, Gary Regan wisped in through the crack. I introduced myself as the person who did the Tales Blog preview of Essential Guide to American Whiskeys, and he promptly punched me in the ear.

(Author’s note: No, he didn’t)

And the day is just beginning…

“It’s a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can’t eat for eight hours; he can’t drink for eight hours; he can’t make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work.”

-William Faulkner

Clearly, William Faulkner never went to Tales of the Cocktail. And for those of us who have proven him wrong on at least two of these counts (and if you have achieved the rare trifecta then hats off to you, tiger), we will make it a point to sneer condescendingly when ever we pass the Faulkner Suite of the Hotel Monteleone.

Since arriving in New Orleans late last night the Brothers Munat (also known as the Bee Emms), have enjoyed their first experience at the Monteleone’s Carousel Bar (where festival-goers achieved the rare feat of finishing off the bar’s entire stock of Rye Whiskey), The Old Absinthe House, and…some other place.

At the Old Absinthe House, the water flows like absinthe, the absinthe flows like… absinthe. The beer? That flows like absinthe too, and so does the whiskey. The gin kind of flows like absinthe, but the vodka just flows like vodka.

The bartender at OAH poured us many a glass of Kubler and La Fee, and while doing this seemed to allow his mind to wander from time to time, forgetting that there was still high proof liquor being poured. Fortunately, he had thought ahead enough to use glasses roughly the size of a coffee pot, so there was no spilling.

As he ensured our demise, he chatted amiably with us, telling us how much he enjoys when it’s that time again for Tales of the Cocktail, and how we are his favorite customers he gets all year. He then moved down the bar, to the Scandinavian Warlocks named Thoth and Grobbendonk, and told them how much he looks forward to the Sorcerer’s Ball, and how they are his favorite customers he gets all year.

(editor’s note: The Old Absinthe House is a fine establishment and does not serve Warlocks)

Wednesday saw the beginning of the festival itself. Entering any of the rooms in which a Tales event is happening is somewhat like being born: you travel in relative silence and calm down a corridor, when suddenly an enormous bowl of light, sound, and smell opens before you, overwhelming the senses and leaving you screaming with fear (OK, maybe not quite, but screaming a little inside). However, as things become more focused the central nervous system adapts, and the sweet comfort of a fine elixir seems to say,”it’s nice here in this world…why not stay a while?”

We took in the Toast to Tales for a bit, and “heard” Senator Edwin Murray’s speech, which according to my notes went something like this: “hrmm-hm, hurra hurra hum, rim rem rom…SAZERAC!”

And the crowd went ballistic. Seriously. They did. Maybe they were better able to hear the part leading up to SAZERAC! than I. But my feeling is that screaming SAZERAC! in a crowded room at Tales is something akin to screaming fire in a crowded theater. We still await ruling by the supreme court as to whether or not screaming SAZERAC! at Tales is constitutionally protected speech.

A bit later I attended the reception for the blog-force, during which time I was reminded of the film “Barton Fink” in which Fink asks a film producer where he can find a writer to work with. The producer’s response: “Christ, throw a rock in here and you’ll hit one! And do me a favor Fink? Throw it hard.”

We were served a selection of cachaca cocktails using Cabana, with it’s fearless creator Monty circulating amongst us to chat. There was briefly food available, unfortunately C.Mixeur, as he is wont to do, reached the serving table first, and the rest of us were left to fight over three olives and the tail of a shrimp. [Editor's note: Actually, despite C's efforts to pound down every free shrimp served in New Orleans, the caterer kept coming back with more.]  Apart from that, it was a very enjoyable chance to meet our peers and something of a shock to me to learn that a few of them actually read this here blog.

This event seamlessly morphed into a Sloe Gin tasting around the corner, featuring one gentlemen who, needing quickly to procure some more lemon juice, squeezed an uncut lemon until it exploded and juice oozed from it. This brought back childhood memories of the opening to “The Bionic Woman” when she crushed a tennis ball in her hand. Suddenly I realized Tales was indeed a place where fiction becomes reality…even really bad fiction.

A few moments later the same gentlemen smacked his cocktail shaker to break the seal, and instead shattered the glass and sprayed himself with Sloe Gin. This illustrated why, in all the years it aired, not once did the Bionic Woman host a cocktail party. The tasting was capped off by a very nice woman appearing out of thin air and offering me a box that I thought was filled with a bottle of Plymouth Sloe Gin, but turned out to be a Plymouth Gin Tip Jar Clocktower. How many times must I be burned by this ploy before I learn my lesson?

By the way, I intend to have Paul Clarke sign the Tip Jar Clocktower and auction it on ebay. Stay tuned.

Time for more living and less writing. Tales waits for no man.

Twenty years ago was a dark era indeed for cocktails in America.

Appreciation for both the craft of the cocktail and the theater of bartending had all but fallen by the wayside. Why, even I often found myself quenching my thirst in such unseemly ways as taking slugs of peach schnapps directly from the bottle while lingering in some dark cemetery with friends.

Although come to think of it, that probably had more to do with the fact that I was 16 than it being “a dark era indeed for cocktails in America.”

At any rate, that dark era has certainly been transcended in the decades since (and I could neither name one brand of peach schnapps nor tell you where the closest cemetery to my home is…thank you very much).

This new dawn of cocktail appreciation is most clearly evidenced in the existence of Tales of the Cocktail. Surely Tales would not be growing yearly in scope, prestige, fame, and volume were there not a groundswell of interest from across the nation and other parts of the globe.

Still lingering in the shadows, however, is the cocktail’s big cousin, the punch bowl. The Flowing Bowl, led by Allen Katz and David Wondrich, aims to shine a little light on this other lost art, whose history is rich with now mostly-forgotten tradition, rules, and techniques.

I spoke with David about the presentation, and he expressed excitement over this opportunity to practice one of his favorite pastimes: evangelizing on behalf of the punch bowl. Punch, he explained “is often thought of as something you mix up in garbage cans at a fraternity party.” However, he said, punches were in fact the central and most honored form of spirit-imbibing for over 200 years.

(Incidentally, I was pleased to be able to expand upon Mr. Wondrich’s punch horizons by sharing with him the technique of making party punches in a washing machine. The agitation of the wash cycle creates an effect somewhere between shaken and stirred, and the soap residue adds almost Parfait Amour-like notes to whatever punch you prepare. The key is to not allow the machine to reach spin cycle, because, well, at that point all your punch is drained and channeled to a nearby sewer.)

David explained that in addition to its culinary merit as “an elegant and potent drink,” punch provides the obvious social advantages of not having to individually make your guests’ drinks all night when entertaining. The punch-maker is free to circulate amongst the crowd, soaking up all the accolades that come with being such a sophisticated and debonair host. Go ahead and bathe in that glory. You’ve earned it.

While the specifics of the Flowing Bowl presentation are yet to be finalized, David says he will likely go over the history of punch dating back to its pre-American origins, and Allen will talk about how punch is making a comeback today. They will of course go over the traditional techniques for preparing and serving punches, and have a bowl (or bowls?) for guests to taste in the back of the room (though the presenters reserve the right to change their minds and place the bowl to the sides of the room or even in front).

For those interested in learning more about the art of punch, there are several books. Some of these actually share the title The Flowing Bowl, most notably the 1897 incarnation by Edward Spencer, which was republished recently. Coincidentally, this book is currently being offered in a bundled deal at Amazon.com along with David Wondrich’s Imbibe!

Speaking of which, the lexicon of noteworthy written works on punch will be expanded upon in the not-too-distant future, as David himself will be releasing a book on the subject. He is currently working on this, and says he is envisioning it as a sequel to Imbibe! It’s working title is Punch, or the Delights (and Dangers) of the Flowing Bowl.

In need of more instant gratification? Why not undertake a little homework assignment to prepare yourself for Tales of the Cocktail? Here is a recipe for the Rocky Mountain Punch, which is from “Professor” Jerry Thomas’ How to Mix Drinks, published in 1862. This recipe was reprinted last November in a nice article on David in the New York Daily News. Make this for your next gathering, and stride into the Flowing Bowl presentation with all the confidence of a grizzled punch bowl veteran.

Rocky Mountain Punch
Serves 20

One punch bowl
5 bottles champagne (or sparkling wine)
1 quart Jamaica rum
1 pint maraschino liqueur
6 lemons, sliced
Superfine sugar to taste

Freeze a gallon bowl of water overnight to make one giant ice cube. The day of the party steep lemon slices in the combined rum and maraschino for four hours before assembly. Just before the party, mix all ingredients in a punch bowl. The amount of sugar needed depends on the dryness of the champagne and the sweetness of the maraschino liqueur. Begin with two ounces and adjust. Add the ice block and serve in punch cups.

I was fortunate enough to try this punch, made under the oversight of Mr. Wondrich himself, when he hosted a Jerry Thomas seminar at the Teardrop Lounge in Portland last March. After one sip, I swore I could see Marilyn Monroe in a green dress performing her Rockie Mountain saloon act in Otto Preminger’s River of no Return. It turned out to be Paul Clarke, but that does not diminish the powerful sensory impact this concoction bestows upon its imbiber.

The Flowing Bowl, presented by Batavia Arrack van Oosten and Hine Cognac, will take place on Thursday, July 17^th, from 4:30 – 6:00pm, at the Hotel Monteleone. Tickets can be purchased here.

Those perusing this year’s list of events at TotC have likely made note of the provocative pairing of Gary Regan and LeNell Smothers as hosts of the “Essential Guide to American Whiskey.”

Those for whom self-preservation and self-dignity are concerns have undoubtedly taken steps to steer clear of this combustible and potentially illegal event.

Those desiring to gain some insight into what to expect from Mr. Regan’s and Ms Smothers’ presentation are advised to view the final scenes of Peter Brooks’ “Marat/Sade.” It will certainly not be the first time the two transformed an otherwise respectable conference facility into their own personal Charenton Asylum.

While anarchy will certainly rule the day, I nonetheless performed my journalistic duty in approaching the presenters, seeking some insight as to what the “plan” might be. Being the true gentleman that he is, Mr. Regan was quick to respond, as such:

“Lenell. This guy sounds like a complete bastard to me. Let’s stay well away from him.”

What ensued was essentially a game of psychological Three Card Monte in which I was the intended mark. One can easily understand the presenters’ reticence to reveal details of their intentions, as this has in the past allowed local law enforcement officials to quash their uprisings before they gained momentum.

However, as my sworn duty to the Tales Blog project, I remained determined to reveal the truth. After analyzing our correspondence documents for 72 consecutive hours, I believe I have cultivated a precise list of what to expect and what not to expect.

DO NOT expect: to be entertained by the wit and banter of the presenters as you sample various whiskeys and learn to make cocktails out of them.

DO expect: lewd and indecent sexual acts performed under at least one of the conference tables.

DO NOT expect: a guided tasting of three bourbons, one wheat whiskey, and one rye, plus use of another wheat whiskey in self-creating a certain beloved mixed drink.

DO expect: excessive peer pressure, applied by the presenters, to shoot copious quantities of straight rye until certain erogenous areas of the body have their interests piqued, as the presenters leer.

DO NOT expect: an illuminating review of common whiskey terms and the opportunity to ask questions directly to some of the world’s foremost experts on the subject.

DO expect: some sort of unseemly parlor trick involving candle wax to be performed.

DO NOT expect: a spirited and informative discussion on the history of American whiskeys – including bourbon, rye, wheat, and corn – from its earliest days to modern experimental techniques.

DO expect: a crude and juvenile debate on whether a “bigger whiskey is a better whiskey…” or if “it’s really about a lengthy finish…and mouthfeel.”

Essential Guide to American Whiskey, presented by Malt Advocate Magazine and the Whiskeys of Heaven Hill, will occur on Friday, July 18 from 4:30 – 6pm at the Hotel Monteleone. Tickets may be purchased here.

Hotel security and NOPD have been alerted.