Dry January; a Sort-Of Love Letter

It’s January’s sad curse to be the month of personal improvement. Not gluttonous like November, festive like December or mercifully short like February January becomes a sad receptacle for all the stuff we know we should do but would never in a million years and with a straight face claim that we want to. Exercising more, eating vegetables, getting adequate sleep, the perfunctory and the unglamorous, the things which will make our lives infinitely better if only we had that final extra goose of willpower to actually do them.
My views on any sort of self-improvement during the first thirty-one days of the year run parallel to my feelings about filing my taxes or meeting a deadline before the absolute last minute; I know I should do it, that my life would be better for it, yet I always find it unflinchingly easy to not only come nowhere close to accomplishing these goals but to retroactively justify why I was better off not even trying. Which is why I surprised myself a little bit when a friend said he was doing Dry January and then immediately apologized. “You must hate that in your line of work,” he said “all those sober people cutting into your business like that.”
“Actually no,” I replied. “I’m all for it. I think it’s great.”
It’s the truth. I’m all for Sober January. And if you’re a bartender like me, you should be too.
First some numbers: last year The Independent estimated that about 3.1 million of their fellow Brits undertook Sober January. Of those who participated 49% lost weight, 62% reported better sleep and 79% said they saved money. While none of these numbers are particularly earth-shattering (especially that last one: “This Just In, not buying something for a whole month actually saves money!! Cue the CNN Breaking News graphic!”) they shouldn’t be dismissed either. We are, after all, in the business of taking care of people and anything with a purported positive health benefits to our guests deserves our attention. If this is a choice that helps the people who sit at our bar every day — especially if they do it every day — feel better we at least have a professional if not a moral obligation to support it.
Okay, but again this isn’t anything anybody who’s done this for any length of time doesn’t kind of know already. How is it good for us? Well start with what happens when all of those people come back to your bar on February 1. Few and far between are the regulars of mine, the super patrons who see me more than most members of their immediate family, who spent a significant amount of time on the wagon and then came back to pick up right where they left off. The same people who ordered a double Johnny Black on the rocks with no more mental strain than they expend on brushing their teeth suddenly let their eyes roam over my back bar before pulling in their breath and asking what I recommend.
Take enough time away from anything that used to be automatic and it becomes harder to do automatically. That sidestep move you used to execute flawlessly a dozen times a day at your old bar? Not so easy now that you’re back for a guest bartender shift two years later now is it? And we all know the autopilot shift beer, the unthinking shot of Jameson that’s long since morphed from something salutary and fun into a perfunctory numbing exercise at the end of a long day, undertaken without joy or activity in the frontal lobe. To pull that out of the equation is to reintroduce thought into the mix, and unless you’re an automaton serving well whiskey and Bud Lite out of dirty lines thought is always something you want on the other side of the bar. To take time off from the sauce is to make people think again about what they’re putting into their bodies. Break a habit of automatic ordering and your guests will not only be healthier, they’ll be more curious, more adventurous and, if you’re really fucking lucky, more fun.
Your guests shouldn’t be the only ones putting more brain cells into what’s in their glass this time of year either. Mixing mocktails is the bartender equivalent of cooking vegan; you see how good you really are when you have to shake and stir with one hand tied behind your back. And what better tool to deploy in this situation than that most perennially underrated of cocktail ingredients, the humble shrub? I love shrubs, for reasons beyond my weird obsession with vinegar. First created as a way to stretch the previous year’s harvest past what could reasonably be expected by nature these zingy, fruity workhorses combine vinegar, sugar and all manner of produce into a concoction that appeals to everyone with a soft spot for tanginess and/or frugality. Pear and chai is a favorite flavor combination of mine in the winter months, as is basil, grapefruit and Southern Hemisphere hops. But the real beauty of shrubs in January is that they transform into the most delightful zero-proof cocktail with ice, soda and a garnish that’s just a hair on the respectable side of ostentatious.
January is a slow month. Between the lingering hangover of the holidays and the temperatures that range from unpleasant to unbearable and yes, this weird dare-cum-personal-improvement-gauntlet that we’ve developed as a society it makes sense that a lot of people stay home the first few weeks of a new year. Don’t get bitter. They’re gonna come back smarter, more curious and thirstier, just in time for Valentine’s Day.

The History of How We Eat, part two

This is the conclusion of a two-part series. Part one can be found on this blog under August’s posts.

One of the interesting things you notice about the Southern Food and Beverage Museum’s live-in neighbor, the Museum of the American Cocktail, is that it has a very up to the minute collection. Of course there are the required and frankly stunning historical recreations, such as a gilded era saloon complete with sawdust on the floor — always a surefire way to make the arm garter crowd swoon — and La Galerie de l’Absinthe. This, the only one of its kind in America, is a loving and impeccably complete collection of all the various accoutrement deployed in service of the green fairy, and perhaps more than anything else it brings home the close ties that held Paris and the Crescent City together for so long.

Of course, ourselves being ourselves and this blog being this blog, these attractions had been given special purpose during the long, hot and indescribably humid walk over to the museum’s headquarters. They, and other exhibits like them, were The Reason We’re Here. And yet there’s something oddly moving about a contemporary bottle of whiskey like the one you just passed in the liquor store sitting on a museum shelf next to other glass vessels a full half century older. You grasp the notion, looking at them, that history doesn’t stop, and that our everyday and banal will one day be a part of it.

“I think that people who are interested in cocktails can come here and learn something about the history of the cocktail,” Liz says. “Learn about distillation and learn about things that they love. If they love bourbon they can come and learn about how bourbon is made… And from the standpoint of posterity as we collect the things, even contemporaneously with what’s happening today, those things will eventually be historical documents in the future. And it’s better to collect them when they’re available than wait fifty years and say ‘oh, I should’ve kept this.’”

As we later discussed, sitting with Liz in the museum, people get older. They forget. And things get lost. But thanks, at least in part, to the Southern Food and Beverage Museum that’s not what happened to the culinary culture of New Orleans.

File_005 (21)
A collection of absinthe spoons

Looking back on the time when the museum first opened its doors in 2008 on the banks of the Mississippi River there are a number of reasons Liz gives for why the locals first started to come in. The first was probably a garden variety mix of curiosity and boredom. They wanted something to do too, after all. The second was one of the most tried and true crowd-draws from time immemorial. “We often — as a matter of fact almost always — had alcohol at our events,” she pointed out. “And people are willing to come to see something that has alcohol.”

But finally there was this sense that something deeply and truly important was on the brink of being forgotten, and the museum was doing whatever it could to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Because of the hurricane people were interested in making sure that the food wasn’t lost.” she said. “There’s a tremendous amount of identity with the food of the city, and so many people had to leave the city and go someplace else during hurricane Katrina. And they were afraid that when they came back that all of that would be lost and we would be sort of this homogeneous American city instead of still New Orleans.”

Now almost ten years later the Southern Food and Beverage Museum has moved inland, to a building that’s just a little over a century old. Liz, now a two-time author, is getting contacted by people across the country looking for pointers on getting their own collections off the ground. And she’s envisioning a future with a network of museums just like hers.

“People who love art, they go from art museum to art museum. And if you love food you would go from one food museum to another,” she said. “Because not only do you wanna eat well, you wanna understand the history of the food you’re eating, learn something about the people who raised it or the people who established it… Museums give you that opportunity.”

If Liz and her newly rechristened National Food and Beverage Foundation see their mission through, there will be plenty more museums and collections and exhibits all across the country dedicated to the way people ate — the way they really ate — and the way we continue to eat today.