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Grenadine dreams >> Summer's here, so put down your scotch and pick up a Polynesian delight by PHILIP PREVILLE
On the surface, of course, it all seems like a positive step forward. But it has also spawned a disturbing cultural trend: it is no longer possible to enjoy a night on the town, to allow yourself an evening of indulgence in the demon drink, without having to put up with an unbearable amount of pretension. Suddenly, everyone you know, or thought you knew, possesses an overdeveloped and hypersensitive palate. Overnight, they have trained the billions of nerve endings inside their mouths, and now feel the need to expound on the minutiae of every taste sensation. Nod if this sounds familiar: a friend says he prefers the smoky taste of a scotch like Cragganphroailin, but on a hot summer day he enjoys something more "crisp," like Auchenwhinnie. As if a scotch ever quenched a summer thirst. Or: you can't make a martini with just any gin; some deserve mere tonic, while only a select few brands are worthy of the vermouth pinch. Whatever. Or: what fruit do you taste in this beer? I detect a hint of apple... or is it pear?
Hint of cassis, touch of spice, scent of cherry--enough! It's summertime. I don't want to pretend I'm in an oak-panelled room being served by some guy in white gloves and a kilt. I want to pretend I'm in a tropical Polynesian paradise. And I want a taste explosion from my booze. The kind you get from a stick of Juicy Fruit. And I want a lineup of skewered fruity chunks with it: a big slice of orange, a fat, ripe strawberry, a prickly slab of pineapple and a melon ball. And a maraschino cherry. And one of those cute little umbrellas. A visual feast. In fact, that's the other problem with all the erudite chit-chat about martinis and scotches: the talk bears no relation to what the beverages actually look like. The stuff resembles either water or brownish garbage juice. Doesn't anyone enjoy drinking bright, saturated primary colours anymore? Don't we all share the blame for the hundreds of bottles of grenadine syrup whose due dates have expired? Am I the last person on earth who sheds a tear for the dusty bottle of Blue Curaçao sitting on the rear shelf of the bar, full to the neck, unused in years? These are crimes against liquor. The human imagination has developed ways of fermenting every taste sensation on earth, and yet we turn our tastebuds elsewhere. The schnapps-industrial complex has invested millions in research and development, distilling everything from peaches to sasparilla. We owe them a tremendous cultural debt, and it's time we repaid it. Hey, barkeep: earn your tip. Mix me up a tall, stiff Harvey Wallbanger. Or a Planter's Punch, Grasshopper or Piña Colada. Or a Lime Rickey. Anything with at least two different distillery treats, plus a combination of fruit and fizz. Something that hides the very taste of alcohol itself. And make it snappy--the millennium is approaching. No time to waste. It's time for the return of what the Kids in the Hall labelled the "girl-drink drunk." >>> Those little drinky parasols were invented for a purpose: to shelter the ice in your glass from the disintegrating effects of the hot sun. Montreal has no shortage of hot sun. So why won't anyone put a damn parasol in my drink? When it comes to kooky cocktails, Montreal is a virtual desert. Hardly a bartender in town worth the celery salt on the rim of a Caesar. Sure, there are some obvious places to go for the tropical taste sensation. Any Mexican restaurant can mix you up a Margarita or a Daiquiri--lime or strawberry only, mind you. Ask for something truly tropical, like a banana Daiquiri, and you'll be out of luck. Grano on St-Laurent makes a name for itself with its fruit juice combo inventions, a number of which are served up with your choice of spirit. But the most delicious-sounding item on the menu, a concoction made with blue Jell-o, is no longer available. Plus, no parasols. Exotika at Laurier and Hutchison is probably Montreal's last Polynesian oasis. Decorated with palm trees, plastic alligators and ooga-booga masks (though, unfortunately, no terrace), Exotika is probably the place to find Montreal's best grenadine-laden potions. The cocktail list features many original recipes, and the colours are so bright they look radioactive--as well they should. The Zenith is a real thirst quencher, a perky combination of lemon vodka, triple sec (yum!), grenadine and soda. To its credit, Exotika's menu also features a number of mystery liquors--booze with no discernible lineage, such as Galliano, Malibu and Blue Curaçao. The Pacifica Bleu, made from sparkling wine, Curaçao and pineapple juice, is the tastiest glass of windshield-wiper fluid you've ever had. But even this avid Polynesiaphile found the Venus too sticky-sweet. Made with vodka, Goldschläger (cinnamon schnapps, sort of), and apple and cranberry juices, the Venus is a dead ringer for those cinnamon hearts sold at candy counters everywhere on Valentine's Day. Over and above Exotika's list of successes and failures: not enough fruit garnish. And still no parasol. And what about the classics? The Mai Tais? The Alexanders? The Collinses? If you can't find them in the bar of a hotel lobby, you can't find them anywhere. The Queen E's bartender said the bar was no longer equipped to handle Mai Tais, and offered instead a Planter's Punch and a Zombie. The former was fine; the latter was the former, only stronger. Ahem... Hel-looo? The apricot brandy? And, as always, no parasol. Finally, the dearth of sweet delights in this two-bit northern town of ours means that prices are high: all cocktails come at a premium price of $7 to $9. Mind you, that's about the same price as a thimbleful of even the worst 16-ounce single malt.
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In terms of alcohol consumption, we are living in troubled times. Micro-breweries, once upstarts, are now firmly entrenched among the draft choices of bars everywhere. The martini, revived as a retro fad, has now established itself in a somewhat permanent fashion. Scotch, formerly the exclusive drink of country clubs and political backrooms, is growing rapidly in mass appeal.
