Tag: cocktails

Rojo Cielo es Mi Cielo, Tambien

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Last night, Zac took me to my favorite Mexican restaurant in the area because I had to show it off (he’s from Arizona and we’re seemingly alone in this city in terms of “our food.” Texas and Arizona are Mexican influenced to a very heavy degree, and DC is, shall we say……. Not.

I like Salvadoran food. I like Nicaraguan food, etc. But there’s no nostalgia in banana leaf tamales for either of us. It’s not that it’s inferior, it’s that it’s not home. I have learned that the best way to eat in the city is to talk to other cooks, and ignore the white guys (for the most part). It’s not because white people don’t know Mexican food……. Around here.

I have very, very high standards because I will take a quick aside to tell the story of how I met Pati Jinich.

My father is a huge Pati Jinich fan. Huge. I didn’t even know who she was. My dad just bought us tickets to go and see her do a cooking demonstration at the Mexican Embassy (my God DC makes normal things sound amazing). I am always excited to go hear a chef talk. I did not know who I was meeting in terms of PBS fame. She is to him who Vivian Howard is to me, although my dad is definitely on the Vivian train as well.

So, my stepmother noticed my dad’s fascination with Pati and started calling her “his girlfriend.” So, when he called to tell me he wasn’t coming, I said, “careful, Dad. I’m going to steal your girlfriend.” I told her this story.

That’s how we roll. Us cooks.

At the end of the day, it wasn’t a cooking demonstration. It was like flipping shit to every chef I’ve ever had. So, she talked to me longer than she talked to anyone else and was the only one who she said, “let’s take a selfie together.” She didn’t tell me she was going to kiss me, and you can see it on my face. It’s one of the most beautiful shots I’ve ever had in my life and it was taken by a total stranger.

Which is why I will tell you about the next great chef I met, Rachel Bindel, and then I’ll post a worse one. It’s not how I would have wanted it to turn out in terms of myself, but it is on brand. I feel shell-shocked at meeting Someone. A capital S because getting back into the rhythm of speaking “kitchen” burns in my soul. I am fluent in food, it’s what I love, and I just don’t have it together physically enough to really do the job well. As my last chef told me, “you have the heart of a chef.” It took me a very, very long time to accept that I couldn’t hack it physically because I was so determined to run my own kitchen at some point. Then, at some point, it was like “fuck it. You have CP. You can’t get better by working harder.” I was working 12 and 14 hour days multiple days of the week trying to get my performance consistent. If there was an award at restaurants for perfect attendance, I got it in DC.

So, it means a lot when chefs talk to me, because I was married to a chef for a long time and rode her coattails into the business, but stayed with it on my own. I miss cooking with her, personally and professionally. She remains to this day my favorite coworkers ever. Like, I definitely wouldn’t want to be in a relationship with her, but I would be absolutely fucked not to have her on my staff.

In food, you speak with your eyes because you don’t have time for communication except for “heard,” “behind you,” “coming in hot,” “around the corner,” and my particular weakness at calling back because math, “how many we got all day?” “All day” means counting up every instance of every entree on the board. If I’d become a chef, I would have let the sous handle all that (just the math part). I am not quick enough and I know it. Being a creative with autism/ADHD affects me differently as well, because my autistic side doesn’t multitask and my ADHD side thrives on chaos. It wasn’t a good fit for me, but it is my idea of heaven.

If heaven exists and you arrive at the Pearly Gates, what would you like to hear God say?

“Bourdain says you’re on dish.”

So, when I met Rachel Bindel, new chef at Cielo Rojo (the former chef has taken on a second restaurant, so she is chef de cuisine by a hair’s breadth), I absolutely fell apart inside.

I asked her where she went to culinary school and she said simply, “Hyde Park,” and then she forgot who she was talking to. My jaw was on the floor at “heytch.” She went to CIA.

The first thing I asked her was “have you been to the Bourdain and Ripert wing?” I thought, “you better get this woman’s phone number rightthefucknow.” If you’re in The Six, you’ll know why it’s important. We are now entering a new phase of research for my novel, which is a clue, but of course you know that if I write it, it’s going to have something to do with CIA.

So, anyway, she’s a lot younger than me and just tapped my phone and gave me all her details. For as excited as I was to meet her, she looked as excited to meet me…. After I started talking. I hesitate to ask if I can meet the chef, and I don’t know why, because I always put them at ease immediately by being inside the wire. It’s different going to a table full of lay people. You absolutely have NO FUCKING CLUE what to say.

In my case, sometimes this works beautifully. In some cases, it does not. Self select as to which applies to you, and “you’re welcome” or “I’m so, so sorry” as applicable.

So, I hope I’ve made a new friend because both our heavens, at this moment, are red.

Oh, and Zac was there, too. 😉

We just had the funniest conversation where I said, “it’s okay that I’m writing about this, right? That we did this?” He said, “sure, and I appreciate that you asked. I said, “but you don’t care that I mention you, right?” (Insecure after a year and two months…. Eyeroll.) He said, “of course I don’t care if you *mention* me. I said, “ohhhh, you’ll barely rate as more than a mention in this one, too.” We weren’t in the same room, but I hope his response would have been flipping me the bird.

He knows how I feel about him, that he’s the most stand up, stable guy I know and I am blessed beyond all measure in the amount of attention he pays to details. He remembers things I don’t, and it just adds to our institutional memory. I like that we’re creating memories together so that I have him to write *about.* I’m glad to write about anything and everything, but I often write the best about the people I love because I’m so moved by them. Good writing doesn’t come from shallow emotions, and neither do good jokes.

If you’ve been following me for a long time, you know I needed to meet Rachel like I needed air, because I needed to replace some bad memories with good ones. The like cook who sexually harassed me also went to CIA, and I needed to replace a bad CIA memory with a good one to really move on and forget.

Now, I can say I know people who have been to both CIAs.

Zac doesn’t just get a mention. Last night was magic that he created himself.

So, just once, you get to see the wizard.

The Little Things

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ 10 Comments

What do you enjoy most about writing?

The first draft of everything is shit. -Ernest Hemingway

I knew I was a writer long before my dad got me a button for my bag that says this. However, the button told me that my dad did indeed see the real me. I hope he knows that he picked the one writer that actually does represent *all* of my demons except that Hemingway was clearly an alcoholic, the one trap I’ve managed to avoid.

I know my mood and behavior is erratic at the best of times, and I have to control it with medication. Alcohol just takes all the good things my medication is trying to do and replaces it with chaos. I can be a fun drinker, sure. It’s not the drinking part that isn’t helpful. It’s the road to recovery from a hangover, when the dopamine from the alcohol is gone and I’m clawing back up to normal. That takes longer when you’re 45 than it does when you’re 24 (thank you, 24). The entry that I wrote while I was hung over on the train back from Zac’s is the first time I’ve even drunk enough to be hung over in eight years. That’s because Zac drinks all the time and I drink so sparingly I have no tolerance at all. We get together and I try to keep up with him because I could have as a line cook. As a writer, not so much.

Hemingway also said “write drunk, edit sober.”

I’m not that kind of writer. I understand where he’s coming from- that you need a completely different perspective to edit your own work than to write it- but I cannot lose myself to that degree. I mean, I can. There are just things I don’t want to tolerate anymore, and “hung over” is at the top of the list.

As I was telling “Mellow Fellow” (who is actually a woman and yet, she still hasn’t told me her name…. I should look it up…), I like the taste of alcohol, so I find that a little bit in fizzy water is sufficient. Zac buys Italian fizzy water by the case, so I find that choosing something from his varied collection is my favorite thing. Last time, it was whiskey. This is because my favorite shift drink at Biddy McGraw’s (pub where I worked in Portland, now closed) was Tullamore Dew and soda served tall with lemon, and please make sure it is LOADED with ice.

Speaking of which, I’m from Texas, where we drink Ranch Water. Ranch Water is tequila and soda with lime. Less sweet than a margarita and equally delicious. I’d just use a *little* better tequila than I would for a margarita because you’re not adding flavor to it except a tiny bit of lime juice. Fizzy water doesn’t count. 😛

If you don’t know what “served tall” means, it’s a cocktail with more mixer. I like cocktails in a pint glass because my mixer is usually soda water or Coke. Most bars are great about this because they care about the food/bev cost on liquor, but not giving you 10 oz of bubbles instead of six. They also don’t care if you drink it down a bit and ask for a refill on the soda part…. if they’re a good bar and not a bad one.

That’s because good bars cater to people like me. The difference between a good bar and a bad one is taking care of the people who don’t drink or drink very little and still want to have a good time. For instance, having mocktail specials and a mocktail of the day in addition to the alcoholic drink sales. The difference between a good customer and a bad one is people who think they don’t need to tip as much on nonalcoholic drinks even though the bartender is still making you the most labor-intensive drink on the menu. A mojito is a bitch to make during the pop whether it has alcohol or not. You are tipping them for their time.

Having nonalcoholic drinks in a bar while I’m typing is one of the things I like about writing. I can do the job of writing for this web site anywhere….. but it’s not generally a bar. It’s at Zac’s.

Zac is the consummate host in this arena. Not only does he have a collection of alcoholic spirits, he also has some of the new nonalcoholic stuff coming out that I’ve been jazzed to try. Spirits like Seedlip and Ritual, beers from Athletic (one of the great beer companies of the world even without alcohol… fight me).

I wandered off from writing about writing to writing about cocktails because Hemingway makes a VERY, VERY short connection between the two. 😉 The Hemingway Daquiri is one of the best cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Here’s the recipe, just put it in a martini shaker and serve it up. If you don’t have a daiquiri glass, just use martini (I get martini glasses at Dollar Tree because they are generally so unstable that it comforts me when they cost so little). By “maraschino liqueur,” it means “grenadine.” I shake it until there’s lots of ice chips, but purists strain them out:

Three things. Pineapple juice is an acceptable substitute for grapefruit, you could probably put any liquor into it with this combination of mixers (it just wouldn’t be a daquiri), and I don’t like it watered down with ice, but you can multiply this recipe as much as you want and serve it in a pitcher instead. In terms of other alcohol, I think gin would be perfect (laughs in British).

What I like is that for every Hemingway, there’s a me. Someone who enjoys tea and coffee while they write and doesn’t really have an editor mode. I get other people to do that.

Everyone seems to understand the tortured, alcoholic writer. Fewer people understand that I am just as tortured as he is, I just don’t drink. I would rather use my demons than ignore them. The fact that we’ve made friends is through this blog alone. I sit with my issues every day in the name of not letting them win. I don’t think people realize that I’m sober as a heart attack when I throw down, particularly with people with whom I do not want to be loose-lipped, because I’ve sunk my fair share of ships that way. I’m done with all that, too, unless I’m in a safe space like Zac’s. That’s because I know he’ll just put me to bed with water and ibuprofen and wake me up with a large cup of coffee. No harm, no foul, no interference on the play. This would not be the case with all my friends.

So, when I’m writing this blog, know that I’m more careful than you think I am. Even when I have negative emotions, they are very real. They might be affected by my bipolar disorder or my ADHD, but they are not ever fueled by drink. I don’t write drunk, ever. It’s just adding kindling to a fire, and I’m done. My emotions are large as is, and I have problems enough getting people to roll with them.

Most of what I like about writing is that people understand me. If it’s not my close friends (“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Even Jesus was subject to sick burns from his friends.), I am understood across the world. It informs my faith in writing, this knowledge about Jesus. It makes him more like every other relationship I have in the cloud. It feels like we are basically the same person, that I would have fit in with his crowd back then as easily as he would fit in with mine.

Jesus is also a little bit like Zac, ironic because he’s an Atheist…… Jesus was the consummate host. Like, if I wanted a Hemingway daquiri and I was short on cash, I could just ask him to make me one……………….

If Jesus really is watching over us, here’s what I know he knows.

The creative process is a cruel mistress, but his work has influenced billions of people over the years. I hope he knows he made it big through nothing other than wrestling with his demons……. literally.

What he would like about writing is what I do; we’re making ours the story that sticks.

Tiny Details

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

As I start this entry, it is 0917. I am sitting at my desk with a cup of Lord Bergamot Stash Tea, complete with French Vanilla creamer. If you don’t have either on hand, Starbucks makes something similar called the “London Fog Latte.” I highly recommend them- they’re a bit addictive. Less caffeine to irritate your stomach, and/or the ability to drink far more of them. Both are equally important in my world (does flavored tea count as being “for young people?”). The added bonus is that the mug is keeping my hands warm, as it is 30 degrees Fahrenheit. In DC, the cold is no joke. Apparently, it’s supposed to be the coldest Thanksgiving in 20 years, which sucks, because it’s bright and clear outside. Just freezing with no payoff of beautiful snow.

It’s been perhaps 10 years since the best snow of my life. Dana and I were sitting next to the Christmas tree, and as Luciano Pavarotti started the Schubert Ave Maria, large, fluffy flakes began to fall. My memory may be failing me, but I think it’s the only White Christmas I’ve ever had. It was glistening, pure magic. I wish I could remember the exact date, but I am not so good with that information. I tend to remember tiny details, and not the big picture. For instance, I remember Dana opening one of her presents from me- a t-shirt that said “I’m right 97% of the time, but who cares about the other 4%?” She took the bows off the box and stuck them to her head.

Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking about writing a Modern Love column for years called “Seven Christmases,” all the ones Dana and I shared… but what has stopped me is that for some of them, my memory is excellent, and others, not so much. Different memories come to me at different times, so perhaps I will start it and keep plugging away until they’re all there. We shall see… because I tend to remember tiny details, and not the big picture. It would be easier if I had access to the magnificent “Danabase,” but at this point, that is neither here nor there.

It doesn’t feel natural to not be at work today, but I’ll get over it. The Nassers are cooking everything, and as I always say, after cooking for literally hundreds of people over a week at work, the last thing I want to do when I get home is cook for myself. I tend to run on quick energy, like sandwiches and fast baking Quorn “chicken.” And, of course, today’s meal will be entirely omnivorous, but I am never vegan unless I am making my own thing. I’ve used this quote before, but it rings true every day:

Cooking is hospitality, and if you reject people’s food, you reject them.

-Anthony Bourdain

Besides, I am not going to turn down fried turkey. I’ve never tasted it before.

When I make my own turkey, I massage the hell out of it with butter and olive oil, finishing with Cajun spice. I have some Tony Chachere’s on hand, so I might put it on the table, because it is literally good with everything, especially dressing and mashed potatoes.

I also play against type and do a “Yankee Dressing,” even though I’m from Texas- generally all cornbread, all the time. What can I say? I like white bread and sausage more. It’s harder to dry it out, and I can’t tell you how many years I’ve eaten cornbread dressing with good flavor and the texture of, well, there’s no describing it unless you’ve had it… sand, maybe? The only way you can kind of fix it is adding moisture with gravy. But notice I said “kind of.” If I’m going to eat cornbread dressing, my aunt’s is the only one acceptable. Her son, my cousin Nathan, lives with his wife and kids in Alexandria, so perhaps I can get her to make some for me again at some point, even if it’s July. I don’t care. I will stuff it in my face like it’s going out of style at any time.

Dan has been on a work trip for the last couple weeks, so I’m looking forward to seeing her again. I need a big bear hug, as well as the excitement of “what did you bring me?” My inner eight-year-old shows whenever she comes back from traveling, because it’s always to interesting places. She’s also having a holiday party soon, which reminds me that I need to get a white elephant gift. Not sure how I can top last year- a Funko Pop Bob Ross. I’m on a mission (from God). I am sure I will see her before then, but a party sounds nice. They don’t always, because I’m not a big fan of crowds, but these are all “my people.”

My shoulder continues to hurt like hell, even though I accidentally got really high. You’re going to think I’m lying to you, but I promise I am just that dumb. I took all my psych meds, which includes Klonopin, and then because of my shoulder, I took a Vicodin. I know for sure I am not supposed to mix the two, and I don’t… normally, except that taking my psych meds is second nature every single morning, and taking pain medication is not. I will just chalk it up to a dumbass attack and wait for it to wear off. However, I am not as high as I could be, because the shoulder pain is still cutting through enough to make me swear like a sailor. I’ve also had a lot of caffeine as a counter measure. The only upside is that even though I feel like dogshit, I care less…. so at least I got that goin’ for me.

The flip side is that I hate this feeling, which is loss of control. Brain fuzziness of any kind drives me up the wall. I am literally counting the minutes until I don’t feel this way anymore, as I do after one cocktail as well. I rarely have them, but sometimes I will partake just because I enjoy the taste and smell. One of these days, I really am going to order Kraken rum cologne. I swear that when I have a shot of it, I will literally smell the empty glass until the waitstaff comes to take it away. I’m not even much of a rum fan, but Kraken is extraordinary, what with its chocolate and vanilla notes and crazy viscous legs. Pro tip: do not fuck it up with mixer. Please and thank you. As an aside, I think the company that makes Kraken has one of the best marketing and design teams on the planet. Everything they make just looks as cool as the other side of the pillow, especially the lampshade and the shower curtain.

Back to you, Bob. Let’s go to the phones.

About the only brain fuzziness I can tolerate is real Sudafed, which is its own special hell. It suppresses my appetite, so I have to choose between losing weight I don’t have the luxury to lose and not being able to breathe. Even though I take an antihistamine, it can’t keep up… and I’ve tried Sudafed PE, and all I have to say about that is that the box should say “Warning: Does Not Work.” It leaves me with a still stuffed up and miserable sinus mask with the same appetite suppression as the original. Good times.

Before I close this entry, I want to give thanks for all of you. Having people in my life who think my words matter is invaluable to my self-esteem and therefore, mental health. You are my Thanksgiving, along with my friends and family that support me in real life as well as being “Fanagans.” I learned yesterday that I’ve gained an important one, but you don’t get to know who they are. It’s enough that I do.

Ok, ok. I give. It’s Jesus. I’ve followed Him my whole life, and he finally returned the favor. 😉