For a variety of complicated, therapy-inducing reasons, we spent Christmas in 1974 with my mother’s twin sister and her family in southern California. I was 10 years old and my cousins were all teenagers, so everything that they did filled me with wonder and awe.
Like, when my cousin’s boyfriend showed me how to use my new magenta gas-powered airplane — not a remote-controlled one, but one of the ones that was controlled by nylon strings connected to the fuselage. He got the engine started and I watched in wide-eyed amazement as he got it airborne, circled it around us twice, then plowed it, nose first, into a parking lot. Clearly, the guy knew what he was doing, so I dutifully packed up all the pieces, brought them back home with me, and checked in on them dutifully every month or so for years.
Or when another cousin elbowed me firmly in the stomach and I found that I couldn’t breathe.
“It’s OK,” he said to me, “you’ve just got the wind knocked out of you.” His use of the passive voice terrified me, because it implied that this was something that just happened randomly – that you could be walking around, living your life, and suddenly discovering that you couldn’t breathe. My uncle confirmed that yes, I had indeed just had the wind knocked out of me, and that I’d be fine. After 25 minutes or so (OK, it was probably more like 15 seconds) I discovered that I could take tiny breaths, then slightly bigger ones, and could finally look a little less like a blobfish in a Shaun Cassidy haircut, gasping on a pier.
But for me, the best memory of the holidays that year was New Year’s Eve.
The adults all dressed up and went out to some unimaginably sophisticated grown-up party, leaving me in the care of the teenagers. My youngest cousin, who must have been around 16, watched old movies on TV with me all night; then, at midnight, we went outside and honked the car horn to ring in the new year. Afterward we came in and ate buttered noodles.
It was far and away the best New Year’s Eve of my life.
Grown-up New Year’s Eves have been less magical.
Take Champagne, for example. I realize that I have the taste buds of a rhinoceros, but cheap and moderately priced Champagne can best be summed up in a quote from Fozzie Bear in 1981’s The Great Muppet Caper: “You know, if you put enough sugar in this stuff, it tastes just like ginger ale!”
So, here’s the thing: I get it. New Year’s is largely an adult holiday, where adults gather with other adults and celebrate how adult they are, talking about adult things — dental plans and conspiracy theories, mostly — and drink the most adulty drink they can think of, Champagne. But unless you are a supermodel or a guy with a yacht, most of us never really develop a taste for the stuff.
Is there an alternative?
Yes. Yes, there is.
The Manhattan
Ingredients
- 1½ ounces rye or bourbon. This week I’m using Bulleit Rye. (I’ve recently discovered that I like rye. Who knew?)
- 1½ ounces sweet vermouth — the red kind
- 10 drops cardamom bitters
- 10 drops orange bitters
- 1 cocktail cherry, the fanciest you can find. I like Luxardo.
Add all ingredients to ice in a mixing glass. Stir gently. This is one of those martini-like situations, where you probably wouldn’t like the result if you shook it in a cocktail shaker. This will have a cleaner, more vibrant flavor if it isn’t aerated.
Pour into a rocks glass. Sip gently. A Manhattan is not a drink that lends itself to drinking quickly. You’ll want to — actually, who am I to say what you want? You will probably be happier with your Manhattan experience if you drink it a little at a time, trying to identify the different elements that you can taste.
Grown-up/shmown-up; the best part is finishing this drink and eating the cherry. Don’t let anyone try to tell you different.
So, are there drinks out there that are more adult? Probably. At this moment, there’s almost certainly some guy working his way through a bottle of scotch, while the bar owner says, “Hey Mr. A-Bailey, why you so a-sad? Go a-home to you wife, huh?” Or maybe that’s It’s a Wonderful Life; at this time of year it’s hard to tell the difference between melodrama and real life.
Anyway, there are probably other drinks as adult as a properly constructed Manhattan, but very few that are as enjoyable. It is sweet, but not too sweet — that’s what the bitters are there for — and boozy enough to let you know it means business. There is a mixture of flavors that will distract from any boring adult conversation you find yourself in.
Keep your chin up; we’ve got this.
Featured photo: The Manhattan. Photo by John Fladd