BACK...

No, no- how is it possible that so much time has passed without a post?  Madness.  Unforgivable madness.  But that ends now~ There are just too many adventures to be had, too many places to explore, and too many cocktails to be shaken to stop now.  Regardless of the political climate and economic turmoil of our present days we will persevere, with a hey nonny nonny, and hot cha-cha (and plenty of ice.)

FISH CREEK, WI - PENINSULA PLAYERS

Peninsula Players is the oldest residential Theatre in the country. It is Special. It is lovely. It is the place where every actor would like to spend their summer working and every one of their friends would like to visit. It's very much like an actor's summer camp; we eat together (well), work together (hard), and yes, occasionally sleep together (it happens). It's quite simply a great place to work, to live, and to "love and be loved" (a saying painted on the back of the old theatre and the unofficial motto of the players).

Set in the bucolic north woods of Wisconsin on the Door County Peninsula, the theatre sits on the shores of Green Bay. There is a large picnic area by the water (where we generally eat our buffet lunches and dinners together) and an "Actor's Lodge" where we eat during inclement weather, receive our mail, or watch a movie by the fire after a show. There is also a fire-pit for bonfires at intermission and for Saturday night "Bar Nights". Theatre patrons can get a cocktail or a glass of wine before the show, watch an amazing sunset over the bay, and then head into the theatre to watch some of Chicago's finest actors and directors at work.

The theatre, up until just a few years ago, was absolutely charming but light on the amenities. It was built in the 1940's and a permanent roof over the audience added in 1957. The audience sat in folding director's chairs placed on gravel, and the dusty and crowded backstage, while nostalgically alluring, was hot, dirty, and a bit heavy on the bats and bugs. There was virtually no fly or wing space, and the sides of the theatre bowed under the weight of the lights.

In 2006, however, a new multi-million dollar theatre was constructed, and I'm glad to say they did it right. It has all the rustic charm and allure of the old theatre while boasting air-conditioned dressing rooms, ample fly and wing space, a new lighting and sound system, and comfortable seats for the patrons. If you have the chance to visit, do it, you will not regret it.

Up the hill from the theatre are five four-unit cabins where the actors, directors, and designers live. The rooms are clean and actually quite charming. Most nights, after a show, the cast and crew can be found gathered on the deck of one of the units for a contemplative cocktail or three. There is also an outdoor 'Living Room' area for larger gatherings.

The most enchanting facet of working at Pen Players is the almost intangible and undefinable feel of the place. It's rustic and relaxing, yet the quality of work is exceptional. The management likes to hire people that they've worked with before, especially ones that are good and happy campers; ones that play well with others (both on stage and off). Eating, working, and living together creates a real feeling of family for cast and crew alike, and the memories, friendships, and loves forged there are the stuff of legend. Well, at least for we few, we happy few, lucky enough to have trod the boards of Peninsula Players.

SALEM, OREGON - PASS

Most State Capitals into two categories: the great ones (Austin, Juneau, Madison) and the truly godawful ones (Sacramento, Lansing, Trenton). Salem, Oregon is solidly in the latter. Even the State Capitol (above) is bland and unattractive. I was placed in Salem at the start of the general election as the Chief Field Organizer for several surrounding counties. It was a tremendous amount of work, which resulted in very, very little tippling for yours truly- but when I did find a moment for a reflective cocktail, I was sorely disappointed at every turn. There is a ubiquity about Salem bars- neon signs, televisions, smoke, mediocre food, and a stunned vacant expression in every bartender's face when you don't say "I'll have a pint of...". I have nothing more to tell you about this city, except that it should be avoided at all costs if you're thinking of having a pensive cocktail. It is a complete loss and should be given a polite pass by the likes of us as we drive on along the road in search of that restoring cocktail we so richly deserve.

ASTORIA, OREGON - AND A NEEDLE

On the shores of the mighty Columbia River, just a little down river from the Pacific Coast, is Astoria; the oldest American city west of the Mississippi. A former fishing village, it is now just a small river town- but one that is not without its charms or even a tippling needle in the haystack. Astoria was featured prominently in the film, or rather, the movie "Goonies". I can't say that I've seen this particular 'entertainment', but from what I've heard it featured prominently in the upbringing of adults of a certain age, and thus the mention. I just thought you might be like to know.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge straddles the mighty Columbia and provides access to lower Washington state. I came to Astoria with the Obama Campaign, working as the field organizer for Clatsop County (which also includes the more popular Seaside and Canon Beach, Astoria being the county seat). Above you'll see my modest office/HQ, just a stones throw from the river and also the view in the top pic. This being my first time in Oregon (outside of Portland) I was amazed how similar one bar is to the next: lots of neon, lots of smoking, always a few video poker machines (legal in OR), a few rough looking regulars, at least two televisions, and plenty of micro-brew beers. This model as described held little allure for me, as you can imagine, so I struck out to find the exceptions to the rule.

Under the support arches of the imposing and oddly beautiful bridge is the Workers Bar and Grill- an excellent dive in the blue collar vein. Lots of plaid and denim on the clientèle, and at least forty years of news articles and fishing gear on the walls. Avoid the tap beer and stick to the bottles, your health may depend on it. But the bartenders are capable enough and the regulars friendly, so it's worth a visit.


Down at the other end of town, is the Rogue Ale Public House. Situated on the rather rickety pilings of pier 39, this somewhat generic seeming new pub does provide wonderful views of ships meandering under the bridge and pushing down the Columbia, which makes it worthwhile despite the service. I had a terrible martini here, owing, no doubt, to an absence of the Tippler spirit and soul in the lugubrious bar staff. Probably wise to stick to the beer here as well, though a nice view I have to say. There were some other establishments about town worth visiting that I have not mentioned here; the Ft. George Brewpub (no cocktails and thus omitted), the Schooner (rather good food but too many TVs), and the Triangle (too smokey most nights) just to name a few.

But as I mentioned, there is a needle in this haystack; and that needle is Fulio's Pastaria. Fulio's is quite simply the best Italian Restaurant I found in Oregon, or the entire west coast for that matter. I could go on and on about the food (the seared Caesar Salad, for instance, and the Spedini are two of the very few reasons I would plan a return visit to Astoria) but I was most pleasantly surprised by the care and attention they paid to cocktail preparation. Being able to find a perfectly shaken Hendrick's Martini (by no means a ubiquitous brand) in this cocktail wasteland was akin to some of history's greatest geographic discoveries. Surely just as Lewis and Clark (who's trek ended at the shore in Seaside just down the road) stumbled upon a few unexpected miracles along their journey, it's nice to know that should you ever find yourself in the wilds of Northwest Oregon, there is a miracle waiting just for you...

PORTLAND - HUBER'S

Situated inconspicuously inside the old Railway Exchange Building on 3rd Avenue, Huber's is an incomparable gem; as well as an absolute must-visit for all of our tippling ilk who happen to visit Portland, Oregon. Upon entering this shrine to cocktails of another age, I felt the rush and thrill that I'm certain every intrepid explorer has experienced at the climax of an arduous quest. Granted I didn't have to cut through brush, tunnel limestone, or interpret hieroglyphs to find this treasure- yet the euphoria of discovery coursed through every molecule. In order to reach the bar area, one has simply to either walk along an old hallway past the Tonsorial Parlor, or meander through the diner portion of the restaurant. At first you'll ask yourself “is this it”? But then you enter the main room and you know. You just know.



Huber's celebrated its 100th anniversary of continuous operation in 1979. It has been designated a historic landmark in Portland and is listed in the National Registry of Historic Places. The arched stained-glass skylight (above), the solid Philippine mahogany paneling, and the terrazzo floor are original fixtures from 1911. So are the brass cash register behind the bar, the brass ship's clock above the door, as well as the pewter wine bucket and its silver wine stand. It is of another time indeed.




I first stumbled across Huber's one chilly afternoon, having been pointed in its general direction by a helpful barkeep at the Locust Club just down the street. There is a diaphanous glow in the late afternoon hour at the bar, the result of prisms redirecting the sunlight from the street to the skylights in the ceiling. The bartenders are dressed impeccably, the rich mahogany bar is warm and immaculate, and when you reverently take your seat to the dulcetly intoned “Good afternoon sir, may I start you off with a cocktail?”, you know in your heart that you are in good and capable hands. I ordered an extra dry Bombay Martini up with a twist. A nod of the head, and the barman went about his work slowly but deliberately before serving up one of those martinis that restore your faith in our culture. “Surely” you say to yourself, “Any age that can produce such a wonder as this can't be altogether unsound.”




During my second martini (and by no means my last) I found that Huber's had endured prohibition by prospering as a restaurant and speakeasy (serving Manhattans in coffee cups). Freshly carved roast turkey was the most popular staple, and is still featured today. They have a remarkable happy hour and late night menu featuring fresh turkey sandwiches, seared Ahi Tuna, Steamed Mussels and a variety of remarkably inexpensive and delicious meals; several of which I enjoyed that very afternoon. The evening passed peacefully and pleasantly, and if I could have stayed longer, I would have. I sauntered out to the cold, indifferent, Portland street, confident that I would return to my latest cocktail haven just as soon as possible- and I did, the very next day. By all means go, and let me know when you do, so that I might live vicariously through your every sip.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Gentle reader, an eventful year has passed since I last wrote of my Tippling peregrinations. Fear not, I wasn't committed to an alcoholic sanatorium. Nor did I join one of those programs no doubt helpful to some of our brethren who, through no fault of their own, quite simply can't maintain a civil air when taking of a cocktail or seven at the appointed hour. No, no, not me. Rest assured I toured and tippled as is my wont, but only in delicate moderation and alas, never at that violet hour.

A call to duty compelled me to dive even deeper into the political waters and devote my all to the election of our current President. There were some highlights along the way, of course, which I would be remiss in not bringing to your attention. The following posts should bring you up to speed nicely on those not-to-be-missed places that I've encountered over the course of the last year. I'll also backdate the posts in order to maintain a certain chronological integrity.

AUSTIN - THE HEART OF TEXAS

Oh do I like Austin. Now granted, I was there in March and April when the weather was clement and lovely as opposed to the steamy nightmare that I'm sure it is now, but Austin has climbed quickly into the pantheon of tippler favorites- settling comfortably on the bar stool next to established regulars Chicago, New York, and San Francisco and ordering the sort of cocktail that lets us know we're in the company of a kindred spirit. I know, I know, you can't quite believe it. “Texas?” you say incredulously, are there really imbibers of our ilk in that vast, muggy, rodeo-lovin', oil-profiteering, stolen-from-Mexico wasteland? Honestly, not really, (and certainly not in Dallas or Houston), but Austin is still a great, great town.

The Senator likes it too- pictured here at a rally in front of the Texas Capital. I was working in the Obama HQ just a few blocks away and we stole out on a Friday night around ten to hear him give the speech that we knew well but still enjoyed. The Capital building, a wonderfully impressive structure, was built with the assistance of stonecutters from Scotland. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. I've often wondered what became of those Scotsman, someone should write a book...

One blissfully sunny afternoon I sauntered down from the office and grabbed a stool at the Texas Chili Parlor. The interior of the bar was very much in the 'roadhouse' vein, with old Austin posters, memorabilia, and news clippings. The old plank floors and worn furniture were comfortable though not shabby. I noticed that they had Don Julio Reposado and had a gimlet rocks (so as to fit in). In no time at all I struck up a conversation with the bartender, who introduced me to a couple sitting next to me, who introduced me to another bartender who was ending her shift. She wanted a shot, so she bought a round for the other bartender, the couple, and I. Then the couple took a turn. Then the other bartender. The owner. Then me. It was madness, but you couldn't ask for a friendlier crew. I sauntered out into the still bright early evening and strolled down to South Congress as on a cloud.

And then... the Continental Club; one of those mystical places where everything (the music, the décor, the vibe) seems to come together seamlessly- the 'perfect storm' of taverns. Now granted, it is a live music venue, and as such, ineligible for true cocktail hour greatness. This is not the place where one relaxes in violet hour solitude with a contemplative cocktail, but it is a great bar. There are two main drags in Austin. The first, stirring up echoes of Peach Tree St. and Bourbon St. is 6th street (more on that next post). The second is South Congress, where it's more about quality than quantity.

On the last Sunday of every month one can enjoy “Heybale”, an excellent country swing band with an impressive array of musicians including an amazing fiddle player, a stoic stand-up bass player, and an oddly charming and effusive mandolin player who just seems so damn happy to making music that you can't help but go along for the ride. I decided to stay with the one that brought me and alternated between Cazadores Gimlets and Tecates, while occasionally dancing with the friendly Texas regulars. Such a great night, I found myself longing to return with my old Chicago pals to share this amazing city, its bars, and its people.

LAS VEGAS - R.I.P.

Las Vegas is dead- and much like the stars who once crooned and capered for nattily dressed gentlemen and ladies, it will always be remembered for the younger years; before the embarrassment and bloated vulgarity of the post-prime golden years (yes, I refer to the King). I rolled into town from LA, making the same trek as generations before me, in order to help with the Nevada Caucuses. Granted the working hours were long, but there's always time for a gentleman to tipple. One makes time, after all.

Sauntering along the strip on a Saturday in Las Vegas, one can almost sense what it must have been like back in the day- the lights, the excitement, a impeccably dressed gentleman strolling with a beautiful blonde. She took hours to get ready, and she looks fantastic. He enjoyed a martini and a cigarette while he waited for her, and never felt so relaxed in his life. They were going to make a proper night of it, and they looked the part.

"Man I really like Vegas"

-Elvis Presley

Granted, the lights of the strip are still there (and improved), but these romantic visions come to a crashing halt once you enter the present day casino lobby to the cheesy cacophony of dinging slot machines. I stopped at the Circus Circus, due in no small part to Dr. Thompson's description of it in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". It was appalling. The dress code could only be described as 'power boat chic'. For the gentlemen: tank tops or t-shirts with the sleeves cut off with knee length basketball shorts. Please do not feel compelled to suck in the gut. For the well appointed lady: sweatpants and a spaghetti strap tank top with "Bitch" emblazoned across the chest. Likewise with the gut. I ordered a Cazadores gimlet. The bartender looked hesitant, and I watched as he went back to consult with several of the other bartenders. The drink would have been merely passable if he hadn't misjudged the pour at the end of the bottle and poured me twice the amount needed. I had him put the whole thing on the rocks in a pint glass and retired to the slots.

After covering the price of my gimlet (which I was never able to sip contemplatively in that environment, as is my wont), I walked down to the newer casinos: Luxor, New York, New York, the Bellagio... but a casino is a casino; same clanging, consuming din, same crowd, same avarice. Some people love it... but it's just not for me I guess.

I drove out towards North Las Vegas to where I was staying, and stopped for a taco. The Taqueria El Palenque is the needle in the haystack of taco stands. The Friendly crew didn't mind that I was the only gringo customer, or that I was fantastically overdressed, or even the fact that I didn't speak Spanish. The food was as remarkably fresh and natural as the Tecate was refreshingly cold, and I was finally enjoying Las Vegas. I could have stayed there all night, basking in the hot desert air, sipping an ice cold beer, chatting with the regulars, and the lights of Vegas twinkling at a safe distance.

DUBUQUE – THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

After a lovely, quite rushed, and admittedly intoxicated Christmas in my beloved Chicago, I met up with another Obama Staffer for the drive out to Dubuque for the final week of campaigning before the Iowa Caucuses. Dubuque's a nice little town, charming even, though every bit as cold as what you might imagine for Iowa in January. I worked fourteen hour days; mostly knocking on doors, making phone calls, entering data, and cutting turf. But that doesn't mean I didn't find time at the end of the long day to repair to a local tavern for a restorative cocktail.

When in Rome... the old saw goes, and in the taverns of Dubuque beer and whiskey reign supreme. My local in the 14th Precinct was the Copper Kettle, where a shot of Jamieson and a Sam Adams sets you back a modest six bucks. By the end of my stay I would be greeted with a “Hey there tippler!” and my drinks would hit the bar before I hit the stool. What they lack in cocktail acumen they more than make up for with quick service. And they're absolutely right when they talk about how friendly Iowans are- I couldn't sit in a bar for more than five minutes without starting a conversation with one of the regulars. Granted, we weren't discussing New York Times op/ed pieces, but it being Rome...

At the other end of the precinct was Buddy's Supper Club- a cozy but somewhat bland neighborhood restaurant with a friendly dog, radish trays, and an old model train circling the room. Buddy, the owner, works the bar, while his wife works the kitchen. I never saw Buddy without a drink, and I was there for lunches and dinners. He also rewarded deep thirsts. I would normally have Stoli on the rocks, and marveled happily as his pours got heavier and heavier with each round, with each visit. With the bitter cold outside, and the Russian vodka inside, it seemed rather “to each according to his need...”, and I was fine with that.

New Year's Eve, and we were working at the HQ. Hoping to achieve a little respite, I grabbed the cutest intern I could find and stole her away for a cocktail. We ended up around the corner at Yen Chings Szechuan Restaurant, which featured the tiniest bar I've ever visited. Two stools, a five foot counter, and three shelves that were surprisingly well stocked. The bartender (Sam) seemed unsure about the notion of making a martini, so I walked him through the process literally step by step. He was an apt pupil who laughed loudly at the precise Vermouth measure before serving up a pair of remarkably well made Bombay martinis. Luckily he was eager and able to repeat the process, and we lolled in the New Year's bonhomie with the bored, giggly, English-challenged staff. Not how I usually ring in the New Year- but it did have a certain je ne sais quoi.

HONG KONG - EXPATRIOTISM

Everyone in Hong Kong is in a hurry. They're making deals, selling, buying, building, buzzing around at a dizzying pace. The city itself is made up of impossibly tall, skinny and densely packed buildings, like swizzle sticks jammed in a pint glass. Yet people here appear to know how to deal with the stress. Seems after a hard day's haggling you either take a few fish from the goldfish market in Kowloon home and sit and watch them, or you go out for a drink or three. On assignment from the Traveling Tippler, sidekick the Intrepid Imbiber (me) has put together a sampler of cocktailing dens in HK on which to report, because, let's face it, goldfish just aren't very interesting.

First stop is Club 71 in Mid-Levels. Hidden in an alleyway off of another alleyway off Hollywood Road, one suspects this would be a good place to go to hammer out illicit deals. One also suspects that one is not the first to think of this possibility. There's a bar inside the place, but everyone sits outside at the plastic tables.

The buzz of air conditioner units in the apartments above make conversations private. No matter, the pairs of middle-aged fellas playing DongGuang know better than to eavesdrop.

The Peak Bar is in a plum location, but it's not at the peak. In fact, it's only half way up the hill. The front of the bar opens onto the mid-levels escalator, which is an odd but very useful mode of commutation for thousands of apartment-dwellers perched high on the hill overlooking the central business district.

Given its location it doesn't seem the Peak Bar would have to try very hard to lure in drinkers, yet the bar manages its task with aplomb. Decorative tile floor, gleaming wooden bar, tasteful wrought iron chandeliers and ice cold wheat beer make it a rather congenial place to sit and watch fellow expats escalate past.

Wan Chai has more than its share of seedy bars, many featuring heavily made-up gals who make their livelihoods entertaining businessmen in cheap suits and American navy men on ship leave. An exception (though not totally lacking seediness) is the Horse and Groom (inexplicably, signs all over the place read "Horse and Carriage"). The place was totally redecorated in 1973 and I for one hope it's a long time before the owner again succumbs to the urge to spruce things up.

I ordered a Harvey Wallbanger, because that's the sort of drink you order at a place like the Horse and Groom. Despite the British-sounding name the crowd is mostly Hong Kong Chinese, mostly regulars, sitting in small groups around small round formica tables engaging in boisterous drinking games or quietly catching up. It's the perfect sort of place to empty a bucket of longneck Tsing Taos or sample cocktails from a bygone era with an old chum.