Isn't it pretty? Now, you would think that if you were to go into a cocktail bar and order a Sidecar, you would receive something that resembles the drink in this photograph. I have discovered that it is not so simple.
I moved to Lubbock about eighteen months ago, and as my readers know, I've been a good sport about the place. I have resisted the tendency, particularly among academics, to complain about the ways that Lubbock is neither Manhattan nor Los Angeles, and instead to appreciate the ample supply of big sky and friendly neighbours. My state of inner peace, however, has been strained by the matter of the Sidecar.
There are a number of institutions in Lubbock that present themselves as cocktail bars, complete with fancy leather chairs and mood lighting. Alas, not a one of them has been able to provide me with a Sidecar without a degree of Sturm und Drang. Here's how it goes: I order my drink, and the bartender meets my gaze with a confused stare and a "What's in that?" I realize that a Sidecar only has three ingredients (cognac, orange liqueur, lemon juice), but I find it hard to remember the recipe. This mental block arises from the fact that Sidecar-making is not my job. I am a film studies professor, not a mixologist. Indeed, if we take the name of the drink literally, when it comes to cocktails, I don't want to drive the motorcycle. I want to sit in the sidecar.
When I go to a cocktail bar, I want the bartender to take the proverbial handlebars. Think of it this way - when I go to the dentist, I don't want to have to tell them how to clean my teeth. In fact, that would be quite disturbing. Similarly, I want my cocktail bar to take care of me and know how to make cocktails.
In an effort to salvage my drink order, I will then ask the bartender if they have a book of cocktail recipes. They never do, which makes me question their status as a cocktail bar. At this point in the exchange, if my friend Amanda is with me, she will reach into her bag, pull out her iPhone, and look up a Sidecar recipe to show to the bartender. I of course appreciate this, but it opens up another problem pertaining to gender norms and West Texas.
In West Texas, people marry young. It is unusual for women to not only remain unmarried into their 30s, but also get PhDs, wear clothes they bought in Paris/Montreal/New York, and order fancy-pants cocktails. This means that when in public, I do not fit into any of the established categories of West Texas Femininity. Amanda, who is also a professor, is in the same boat, but it's even more complex for her because she has alopecia and is therefore bald. It's a good look for her, but it's certainly atypical in a part of the country where local businesses include Bumpits in their displays of back-to-school supplies.
On one level, we are extremely happy about not fitting into this aesthetic, but it does create a problem. Imagine, if you will, Amanda and I standing at the bar. I order a "weird" cocktail. Amanda orders a scotch. I can't remember what's in my weird cocktail. Amanda looks it up on her iPhone. We exchange some repartee with the bartender about how "This always happens". The bartender hands us one bill. Amanda and I look at each other and realize that we've been typed as a lesbian couple. (To my readers who may not know me, I'm not a lesbian, and neither is Amanda). As far as the cocktail bar is concerned, I'm the ditzy blonde femme who can never remember what's in her drink, while my butch, bald, scotch-drinking girlfriend handles the situation with her iPhone. Being typed as lesbians does not bother us in itself, but it does exacerbate the problem of finding suitable men in Lubbock, which is a whole other story.
As you can see, the Sidecar issue has become quite fraught - not only is it hard to get the drink that I like, but it also sets off a cascade of anxiety about the nature of specialized labor, the performance of gender roles, and the general state of civilization. It was starting to get me down, but in November, as I was planning a trip to Milwaukee, I thought that maybe I could get a Sidecar there, and everything would be better.
I visited Milwaukee for a film conference, where I met up with some of my old classmates for drinks. I pointed out that we needed to go to a cocktail bar so I could get a Sidecar. We were driven there by a woman I had just met, and who lives in Milwaukee. As we drove, she kept offering us alternate destinations: "Actually, there's a really good brewery..." "If you want a good wine bar..." "If you're hungry there's a good Thai place..." I kept interjecting that we absolutely needed to go to a cocktail bar. My insistence probably struck her as odd, and perhaps indicative of a drinking problem, but she didn't understand what was at stake. At last, we entered a bar at a posh hotel, and sat down with the martini menu. I was overjoyed to see "Sidecar" right there on the menu, and I ordered it with enthusiasm. My drink arrived and I raised it to my lips, gleefully anticipating the sugar crystals on the rim of the glass...
It was salt. Salt and cognac are a bad mix. Really, Universe?! Not funny! The drink was quickly replaced, but my recovery was long and difficult.
A month later I was in Winnipeg for Christmas. We all went for a fantastic Christmas dinner at the Fort Garry Hotel, and the plan was to meet up in the bar beforehand. I decided to order a Sidecar to see what would happen. The waiter didn't balk at the request, so I had high hopes. I received this:
If you compare this with the earlier photo, you'll note the substantial differences in appearance. This drink was quite tasty, but it was in no way a Sidecar. I declared cynically that the day I actually get a Sidecar without complication will be the day I die. My cousin advised me to stop ordering that drink in the name of self-preservation. I thought, oh, great, I've jinxed myself. Cruel world!
The next stop on my trip was Bellingham, Washington, to visit some of my old Chicago friends. I told them my tragic tale of the elusive Sidecar, and they suggested that we have a day of Pacific Northwest fun, i.e. walking by the ocean and eating at organic tree-hugger restaurants, and that we stop at a fine restaurant on Lummi Island. "I'm sure they can make you a Sidecar" they said. We took the ferry and enjoyed our constitutional by the sea, before stopping by the Willows Inn. My friends all ordered Sidecars in solidarity with me, and we agreed that the restaurant's avant-garde take on the recipe, substituting pear brandy for orange liqueur, broke the spell of my fatalistic prophesy.
The following day I took the train to Vancouver for a friend's wedding. (The bride, a fellow blogger, writes Yam I Am - see link at the top right.) It was a fab party, and at one point the bride, being a good hostess, advised me to drink more hard liquor. Since it was her day, I felt it would be rude to ignore her suggestion, so I asked the bartender, as usual, for a Sidecar. She looked at me and said "Yes! I will make you a Sidecar, but, wow, I haven't made one of those in years!" She asked if I could give her a few minutes to assemble the ingredients, as she had to send her assistant into the back to find the appropriate brandy. Also, she didn't have enough lemons to make juice, but she did something clever with lemonade, and I figured that would do. It's never easy. The drink was tasty, and I'm pleased to say, my obvious delight in it started a trend, and before long many wedding guests were sporting Sidecars. I thanked the bartender for her competence, and explained how nobody knows how to make this drink anymore. She said "That's because everyone who drinks brandy is six feet under." Cocktails of the Living Dead.
My Sidecar saga is still ongoing. In spite of myself, I have in fact learned the Sidecar recipe, but I still hold out hope that I will never have to use it. I have also learned to embrace the suspense and excitement that comes with ordering a Sidecar. As with everything in life, you never know what you're going to get, and it's more about the journey than the destination.
3 comments:
My dear, should your travels ever bring you to the City by the Bay, I will happily procure you the libation in its purest form.
You should write a cocktail recipe book that features cocktail/cultural litmus test commentary.
This is a great story. One of the funny parts for me was thinking "The bartender doesn't know how to make a Sidecar? Perhaps someone should explain the idea of "specialization of labour" to him". And then you made a reference to the specialization of labour, at which point I remembered, "Yes, that's right. We are both academic geeks." Of course, I say "academic geeks" with the utmost respect and affection. Also, I liked the part about trying to find a Sidecar in various parts of North America. But mostly I liked the reference to the specialization of labour.
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