Drink 25: The African Violet (Part I)

Before I get into the drink, I'd like to just apologize to this blog's fans for not posting in so long! The last couple of months have been hectic (as you can imagine, December is pretty busy for a toy salesman, and then I was very focused on grad school auditions). But I am back and should be posting regularly again. In fact, I'm getting back into the swing of things with not just any post, but a TWO PART post! I haven't had one of those since The Murdered Moose so you KNOW it's exciting. Now, read all about The African Violet

The Name: The African Violet                                                                                 

The Bar: Superfine (126 Front Street, Brooklyn, NYC)

 

The Story Behind The Name: I'm an only child, and so when I left home to go to college, it was predictable that my parents would feel a little bit of empty nest syndrome. Now, all parents respond to this situation in different ways. Some pick up a new hobby, some get a dog, and some simply follow their children and live in a trailer camped outside of their dorm room. Although she briefly considered that last option, my mother ultimately settled on another option all together. She decided to get a plant. Specifically, and this shouldn't be too surprising considering the title of this post, an African violet.

But not just any African violet. An African violet that she named Irving. Who was the best African violet in the whole wide world.

Irving. The best plant of all time.

I first heard of Irving's existence during a phone call with my mom where she excitedly told me she had purchased an African violet. I don't remember my response, to be honest. I probably said something vaguely encouraging like "good for you!" But at the time, I was not aware of how big a part of my life Irving would soon become. From that day on, every time I called home, I would receive an Irving report. This report was always prefaced with "Do you want to hear how Irving is doing," which was funny because it implied I had a choice. And the report was pretty much always "Irving gave me a new flower today!" The first time I came home from college, I got to meet Irving, and it was a huge ceremony. It felt like I was meeting a celebrity. Or, more accurately, it felt like I was meeting a new member of my family.

My mother, for her part, seemed mostly unaware of just how much she talked about Irving. When my dad and I first mentioned that she talked about him as if he was my new brother, she seemed surprised, but soon conceded and, with that acceptance, the level of Irving enthusiasm intensified. As part of a stand-up routine in college, I actually include a whole bit about Irving. I was worried that, when my mom watched it she'd object, but as I said the words "I've been replaced by a plant" my mom just nodded her head and was like "yeah."

This story is, I know, ridiculously cute. My mom has been known to get excited about things before, but her love of Irving was truly adorable and heartfelt. Like the movie Babe.

That'll do, plant. That'll do.

But, also like the movie Babe, this seemingly cute story WILL make you cry. Because...at the start of my senior year, I got an email that Irving was struggling. He was no longer as vibrant as he once was, was losing leaves rapidly, and needed emergency surgery (read: pruning). A month later, Irving had still not recovered. Irving, my mother's African violet, and my brother, had passed away. My mother sent me an email with the following paragraph.

On a sadder note, we mourn the passing of Irving this evening.  And we celebrate his life.  He brought many hours of joy and humor to our family.  He will be missed.

Private services were held with immediate family members.  We all shed a tear ~ as he shed his leaves.

 In Pace Requiescat

But while Irving was gone, his legacy lives on. The next year, I got my mother a gift card to the local florist, which she used to purchase a new African violet, this time named Irving II. Unfortunately, Irving II is a bit of a problem child, and has failed to live up to his predecessor. My mother chose him for his distinctive leaf pattern, which he still has, but he has failed to produce flowers for quite some time, which, for an African violet, does seem to be a shortcoming. My mother has grown increasingly frustrated with him. I bring him up and she says "Don't even get me started on Irving II." At one point she even threatened to bring him back to the plant shop and exchange him for another plant. My father and I were horrified--this joke that my mother's African violets are treated like children has always been just a joke, but threats of exchanging Irving II for another plant made that joke feel incredibly real. "YOU CAN'T DO THAT," we begged of my mom, and we passionately started championing Irving II's cause. "Have you ever considered that perhaps your negativity is contributing to his inability to grow flowers?" I asked at one point. My mother's eyes got wide. "I have been NOTHING if not supportive," she insisted. "I've praised him, I've encouraged him. Miles, I've SUNG to him." I 100% believe that she has sung to him. Possibly "Grow For Me" from Little Shop of Horrors which is both very apt and also very worrying.

Thankfully, my mother did not get rid of Irving II, but she did buy a third plant, this one named Irviletta. And Irviletta has been the show-off that Irving II simply is not. She produces more than enough flowers for both plants, and she, Irving II, and my mother seem to all be very happy together.

My mom with her plants, Irviletta, Irving II, and Groot.

Ordering The Drink: I was out to see a show at the marvelous St. Ann's Warehouse in Brooklyn with my parents, and we went to get dinner beforehand. We are decidedly Manhattan folk (this is, after all, the first drink I've gotten for this blog in Brooklyn so far)

Superfine, a cool restaurant which has benefited greatly from the increasing trendiness of the DUMBO neighborhood. It serves classic food, but with a twist, and was a really wonderful find. The innovation of its menu extends to its cocktails--while we were eating at the restaurant, there is a large bar that one can sit at, and the entire place had a pleasant, laidback vibe that one looks for in a neighborhood bar. 

The bar at Superfine

Since my parents were with me, I decided this was the perfect time to order a drink in honor of my mother's collection of Irvings. So, after we finished our first round of drinks (I had an excellent hot toddy) I asked out waiter if the bartender would be willing to make me a drink based on the name "The African Violet." He said that would be no problem and went off to get the drink. My parents and I were all excited!

Completely ready for a purple drink to come my way, I sat back and waited. But was rather surprised when a decidedly un-purple drink was brought over. I was intrigued.

The Drink:

The African Violet...or is it?

Rum (probably coconut rum)

Lime Juice

Grenadine

 

Assessment of Drink: A fairly simple drink, but really excellently presented. When the waiter brought the drink, he only listed the alcohol as rum, but tasting it, there was a distinct coconut flavor so my guess is it was a coconut rum specifically. And so this was very tropical and yummy. The lime was nice, its sourness cut through the other potentially sweet flavors, and brought out more of the tart flavors in the grenadine. Speaking of the grenadine, it was by far the best part of this drink, and what really set this drink apart from your standard everyday cocktail. As you can see in the picture above, the grenadine was sort of concentrated at the bottom of the glass, so it was not a major flavor the entire time you had this drink. For the most part it was just the coconut and lime (or...perhaps I should say the lime in the coconut...) but came into play when you got to the very bottom of the drink. It was like a little treat--this sweet reward for finishing off the drink. Grenadine is cloying on its own, but when combined with flavors to balance it it can be incredibly appealing. Cut by both the rum and the lime, the grenadine became very vibrant. It tasted almost like candy. The drink was really great, but it ended really strong especially. It wasn't just a cocktail, it was a bit of a journey-- a drink that evolved as you enjoyed it and that's pretty cool. I can't think of any complaints!

Does It Live Up To The Name: So, as good as this drink is, it does of course beg the question "what the hell does this have to do with African violets?" Well, the restaurant was a bit loud (some groovy live musicians started playing towards the end of our meal) and there are a few clues that suggested that perhaps the waiter had misheard me when I placed this order. For one thing, the fact that the drink was not purple or floral in any way suggested that the "violet" part might have been lost. Secondly, when our waiter placed the drink on the table, he said "So this is rum, and lime juice, and a splash of grenadine for the blood." 

The mention of blood was really a huge red flag. While all three of us enjoyed the drink, we couldn't help but wonder if whether we were drinking an African Violet at all. Sure enough, when he came back, we said we loved the drink, but asked if could clarify what drink he thought I ordered. Our waiter clarified that he thought I had ordered a drink called The African Violence.

I explained that I had said Violet, so no, I had not wanted to drink a cocktail inspired by the Sudan after all, and we all laughed at the hilarious misunderstanding. The waiter, honestly, looked kind of relieved. "I thought that was kind of dark," he said, in an understatement.

So, yeah. This drink was not an African Violet at all. And so it, of course, does not live up to the name of The African Violet at all, since  that wasn't the bartender's phrase of inspiration. So, I guess I'll have to talk about whether it lives up to the name The African Violence...which...no it doesn't. Now, to be fair, I wouldn't particularly WANT to drink a cocktail called The African Violence, so I'm not sure what I wish the bartender had done, so they were dealt an unintentionally bad hand. The splash of grenadine at the bottom didn't convincingly represent blood for me, but then again, I am happy I wasn't given some grotesque blood-splattered martini. So, I guess the way to approach this would have been to bring out the African part of the name more? Rum was a good choice--they do have African rums after all--but the coconut flavor which admittedly made this dish so yummy is not one that is relatable to African. So, whether it's the African Violet or the African Violence, this drink doesn't really live up to its assigned name all that much. But, I give the bartender a pass considering the name mix-up.

Also, immediately after we finished the drink, we got some praline cheesecake so all was immediately forgiven.

Superfine was a wonderful find, and should I find myself in DUMBO in need of a drink, I will definitely make my way over again. The food was great and the drinks were great...but I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed to have not gotten an African Violet drink in Irving's honor. That's why I ordered this drink again a few days later. Stay tuned to read part II of my story when I order The African Violet again (this time, making sure the waiter hears the name correctly).

Drink 6: The Old Beach Can

The Name: The Old Beach Can

The Bar: West 3rd Common (1 West 3rd Street, NYC)

The Story Behind The Name: It has been said that friends are the family that you choose. For me, this quote is summed up perfectly by my relationship with a family called the Quinns. My family became friends with David and Leslie Quinn when their daughter Leila and I were in the same playgroup as babies. Even at a very young age, Leila and I clearly developed a special bond—the two of us quickly became best friends. And just as we became friends, our parents became friends too. Before long, our families were seeing each other on special occasions, vacationing with each other, and just generally spending lots of time together. Leila and I looked somewhat alike, being the same age and both having blonde hair, and people would sometime see the six of us—our parents, Leila, and me—on the street and would ask if Leila and I were twins. Both sets of parents would answer, in unison, “yes.” When asked who the parents were, they would again respond in unison with “we are.”

"Twins"

 Perhaps it is from this joke that Leila and I grew to think of ourselves as twins born a month apart and to different parents. As babies, we even developed a secret language, speaking nonsense to each other and start giggling.

To this day, I consider the Quinns—or “Quinnland” as they are affectionately known to me—as an extension of my own family. Even though they have since moved out of NYC to Hastings, we see them often, and still vacation with them most summers. 

Vacation photo with Quinnland

There will most likely be several drinks on this blog which will pertain to stories I share with the Quinns, so you can look forward to some of those soon. But, in honor of Leila’s birthday today (happy birthday, Leila!) I’ve decided to start the list of Quinn-themed drinks with one named after one of our longest-running traditions: The Can.

One day during summer vacation, we were on the beach. While Leila and I presumably ran around and climbed on things, our parents spent a couple of hours sitting on a beach, throwing rocks at a beer can that had washed up on shore. They would throw the rocks, trying to hit the can, and would continue to do so until the can had reached the edge of the ocean. Once it was about to get dragged away by the tide, one of them would quickly run to the ocean, grab the can, and bring it back so they could start over again. It was a simple activity, but they had a grand old time doing it. When we left the beach, David secretly took the can with him, unbeknownst to my parents.

My dad’s birthday is in August, and so a few days later, Leslie baked a pie in order to celebrate. When my dad cut into the pie, however, he paused. His knife had hit something solid inside. He reached in and pulled out…you guessed it, the very same beer can from the beach, hidden there as a practical joke by the Quinns. Not to be outdone, my parents secretly saved the can and hid it from the Quinns to find later. The can became "The Can," continuously exchanged hands, and so a tradition was born.

For years and years, The Can would be passed back and forth-- hidden inside puppets, found in luggage and hidden throughout apartments in increasingly elaborate ways. In one especially memorable move, the Quinns contacted my Uncle Peter in Vermont, and had him wrap the can and present it to us one year for Christmas during a Secret Santa gift exchange, hidden in a box of maple syrup (Uncle Peter makes maple syrup and actually produces 8% of Vermont’s maple syrup crop. I’ve been known to be a bit of a maple syrup snob because of this, and can be annoyingly critical of any maple syrup I deem inferior). When Leila and I entered college (Leila actually wrote a beautiful essay about the can and its significance in her life for her college applications), there became new opportunities for us to pass the can back and forth. Roommates and significant others alike were contacted so that the can would pop up on our respective college campuses.

And throughout all of this, do not forget that this is a beer can. But not just any beer can. This beer can is now at least 22 years old, and has not aged well. It had already not been in great shape, having been weathered by the ocean when my parents decided to throw rocks at it for several hours, and is now even worse for wear after years of being passed around. It’s crumpled, crumbling, and generally falling apart. But throughout the years, the can has continued to pass between our hands, and means a lot to all six of us. This past year, as a Christmas present to our family, the Quinns had the can silver-plated so as to better preserve it. It’s now proudly displayed in my parents’ apartment (for now).

The Can, artfully displayed on a plate

And that is why this next drink had to be called The Old Beach Can, which I settled on since I think it sounds like it could more feasibly be the name of a cocktail than simply “The Can.” Most of the stories behind the names of the drinks on this blog are humorous, but this name carries a lot of significance for me, and I had high hopes that it might live up to expectations.

Ordering The Drink: I had not been to West 3rd Common before, but it has a reputation as one of the best bars for students at NYU. I was there early before it got too crowded and grabbed a seat at the bar. The bartender, Jess, seemed a bit alarmed at the request. After I explained that I wanted her to invent the drink, she asked "What is this? Some type of trivia contest?" I explained it was for a blog, and she went to go confer with some other bartenders seated at the other end of the bar. I overheard one person say "Yeah, Malibu. That'd be beachy," and also "Yes. Pineapple. Yes." There was also lots of talk about rum and I was okay with this. 

Jess confers with other bartenders as she puts the drink together.

 Soon, the floral, red drink was presented to me. 

The Drink:

So floral and red.

Malibu Rum

Meyer's Dark Rum

Pineapple Juice

Grenadine

Muddled cherries, strawberries, and lime

Served on the rocks

Assessment of Drink: The drink contains a lot of sweet ingredients, and I've previously spoken about how overly-sweet drinks are really not for me. It's not that I don't like sweet liquors-- and Malibu is certainly delicious-- but when drinks are too cloyingly sweet they're hard to take. Luckily, that's not the case here. It's a great example of how a sweet drink doesn't have to be too sweet. Adding the Meyer's Dark Rum on top of the Malibu helps make the coconut flavor not too overpowering. When I complimented Jess-- who had a really great energy and seemed quite satisfied with her handiwork-- on this, she mentioned that she added extra lime as well to help cut through the Malibu.

I was also a huge fan of the muddled fruit at the bottom. I'm a sucker for alcohol-soaked fruit, and the crushed cherries and strawberries were delicious to munch on after the drink was done.

Muddled cherries and strawberries at the bottom of the glass.

In general, I've had other drinks quite similar to the Old Beach Can. The combination of flavors are not particularly unusual. But that's because they work really well together. It's a reliable drink, and a crowd-pleaser which I have a feeling most would enjoy. A solid drink all around-- I almost ordered another after finishing the first!

Does It Live Up To The Name: When I initially thought of the name, my focus was on the "Old" part. I imagined whiskey being utilized in this drink-- alluding to an Old Fashioned. Some sort of classic, strong cocktail. But, perhaps because the tradition of The Can has taken on such a life of its own since that day where my parents pelted it with rocks on the beach, I didn't really give too much thought to the "Beach" part of the Old Beach Can. Which is why I was surprised that this is what Jess chose to focus on. But, it makes sense, and given that it was Jess' focus, this drink works. The prominent use of rum made it definitely feel like a drink one could sip on a tropical beach.

The focus on the beach aspect, however, meant that "Old" and "Can" were put on the backburner. Which is fine. I don't know if it was intentional, but I actually felt the idea of the can was present in the vessel in which the drink was served. Rather than a highball or a martini glass, it was served in a standard beverage glass that one might expect to have a soft drink in. Basically, it was can-like in appearance. Which worked (although it made it hard to get at the delicious muddled fruits on the bottom). And I guess that the "Old" part could be present considering how classic these flavors are.

Perhaps the highest compliment I can give the Old Beach Can is that it lived up to its namesake. More than any other drink, this one could have been very disappointing given how meaningful The Can is to me, but I left very satisfied. Jess and her brain trust of bartenders put together a great drink-- and the muddled fruit really put it over the edge. It had been a long day (which is why I was getting a drink in the first place) and I was tired so I left early before a crowd formed, but I can easily see West 3rd Common being filled with excited young patrons. A nice neighborhood spot, and the perfect choice for getting the Old Beach Can.

 

Leila poses with The Can. Happy birthday, twin!