Are ye looking to wet your whistle with some of the finest grog in the seven seas, but have no vessel?  You’re in luck, because just ’round the corner is a bar that’ll tickle your fancy! So hoist the mizzenmast, raise the gangplank, don’t forget your pieces ‘o eight  and set sail for blissful intoxication with Boneta’s ode to the wit of Winston Churchill, the Galleon.

Much like every cocktail created at Boneta, the Galleon is put together with attention to the finer details. Strained over “bricks” of ice (love the proper huge ice cubes; none of this cheap bar ice),the presentation is kept simple: while the original British sailors drinking Goslings rum back in the 1860s were required to bring their own glass, Boneta has kindly provided you with one of their own: an old-fashioned glass, garnished with an orange zest (for scurvy prevention, naturally), which is squeezed for its mist.

Yet, the unassuming appearance of this drink masks a surprisingly complex combination of flavours: the sweet, caramel taste of the rum is complimented by the fig syrup, while notes of Amaro Montenegro (an Italian Bitter made with herbs and spices,  comparable in taste to the more mainstream Jagermeister) give the whole thing a spicy kick that takes the edge off of what could have been a sickly sweetness (not to mention, it certainly clears the sinuses). The bitters augment the dryness given off by the zest, and also play a role in the seasoning of the cocktail, adding to the Galleon’s already delightful picante profile.

Rum-based drinks have been in existence since at least the 17th century, when rum itself was first distilled from molasses by plantation slaves in the Caribbean. And the association between rum and the high seas goes back nearly as far, as sailors in the British Royal Navy were given a daily ration of the spirit until the early 1970s. In fact, so infamous is the connection between rum and the navy, that there is a long-standing tale of, after the Battle of Trafalgar, British sailors tapping the coffin of Admiral Horatio Nelson, to drink the rum that was intended to preserve his body (truth unverified, but in the process coining the term “Tapping the Admiral”). Goslings Rum is Bermuda’s oldest surviving company, and the distinctive taste of the this 80-proof alcohol, originally intended for climates far warmer than our paltry 22 degrees, is a perfect compliment to rising summer temperatures.

All in all, this drink be the finest to navigate the treacherous waters of Gastown. So, if you, like Churchill, are desperately in the mood for “rum, sodomy, and the lash”, do yourself a favour and voyage on down to one of Vancouver’s cocktail Meccas, don’t forget to shiver your timbers, and draw anchor!

‘Til next time, drink up, Vancouver!

Cheers!

Logo by Kar Sanders

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/drunk-in-vancouver/drink-of-the-week-the-galleon/feed/ 1 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/drunk-in-vancouver/drink-week-archangel/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/drunk-in-vancouver/drink-week-archangel/#comments Fri, 29 Apr 2011 19:00:13 +0000 Caley Donaldson http://thedependent.ca/?p=2011 Testify, my children!

Eager to worship at the altar of the weekend, but unable to tell your Chambord from your communion wine? Well, praise the Porcelain Gods and prepare yourself for a Revelation, because the Archangel, courtesy of Gastown’s Chill Winston, is about to provide you with a little taste of heaven.

The Archangel has a simple presentation: just an Old Fashioned glass, ice, booze and an orange zest speared to the bottom with a garnish pick – a look akin to such classic favourites as the almighty Negroni, and, of course, the ever-popular Old Fashioned. The first sip of this cocktail tastes melon-like, and potentially confusing start for the taste buds, but fear not, my flock!  The aperitif effects of the Pineau des Charentes will stimulate your palate. The most prominent flavour in the blood and body of the Archangel is a bold shot of Chambord (anybody else wanting to banish the new bottle to hell?), a Cognac-based liqueur that tastes mainly of black raspberries (with a hint of hazelnut and vanilla). This is well complimented by the cognac and grape flavours in the fortified wine (fortified wine being wine that has had its alcohol content boosted by the addition of a spirit; originally used for preservation purposes, but since opening the door to drinks like sherry or port).  A supporting role is played by the Tres Generaciones, a super premium tequila, (for those of you who have snubbed this spirit because of vomit-inducing horrors of Jose Cuervo… give it another chance).  Tequila notes are evident in the background throughout the whole tasting, but predominantly on the ever-so-smooth finish.  Finally, the orange zest wraps it all up with a bitter, almost lip-smacking tartness to cap off this sinfully decadent drink, Hallelujah! Using wine or champagne in a cocktail can be risky at times, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work miracles as part of the Archangel’s Holy Trinity, which nets this drink a serious amount of respect.

And the best part is, you don’t have to be remotely religious to enjoy this devilishly delicious concoction at any time on the brand-new sabbath: Friday.

‘Till next time, drink up Vancouver!

Cheers!

(Logo by Kar Sanders)

Spring is in the air, restaurant patios are opening, and the sun shows itself at least twice a week. It’s a magical time indeed, and if you’re searching for something to get you in the mood for all the heavy patio-drinking that’s just around the corner, then the sours-inspired “Kiss From a Rose”, at Yaletown’s Goldfish Pacific Kitchen, is the perfect springtime concoction to get things started.

Now, I’m not going to lie: ordering a cocktail with a name like that isn’t the manliest feeling. It also doesn’t help that when it arrives, it’s pink-hued, with three cucumbers strategically garnishing the rim (to give it the appearance, we’re told, of a blooming flower), but trust me: Sounds emasculating. Tastes awesome.

The cocktail is essentially a Gin Sour, but, while a traditional sours recipe calls for three parts spirit, two parts citrus, and one part sugar (usually in the form of a simple sugar-syrup), this recipe called for only one part of each. In this case, the sugar-syrup itself had been infused with rose, which sweetened and augmented the botanical flavours of the Hendricks gin (which happen to be rose and cucumber, among others), and nicely balanced out the freshly-squeezed lime that gives that special back-of-the-throat tickle that any good Sour should contain. (Can we have a quick cheer for the lime, everyone? They really are the bartender’s best friend) All of these robust flavours were then seasoned by a dash of peach bitters (bitters are commonly found in all kinds of drinks, and usually comprised of genitian root, cascarilla, herbal extracts, and flavours). Although subtle, the peachy tang was definitely evident and gave a zesty spin to this sour recipe.

In short, it’s a perfect springtime drink: pleasant, floral scent, robust, slightly sour, yet refreshing taste, subtle peach undertones. Pleasant presentation. Extremely fitting name. It’s a great complement to the days of rising temperatures, blooming flowers, and the start of Grind Season.

Now, if only I could shake this feeling of emasculation…

Drink up, Vancouver!
Cheers.

(Additional Graphics by Carwyn Sanders)

Abstract

It is widely speculated that the hipster is one of the fastest growing mammalian species in Metro Vancouver (Haddow, 2008; Henley, 2005), but to date these statements have amounted to little more than conjecture.

Efforts to obtain a reliable hipster count through conventional human population surveys have been confounded by physical appearance, grouping habits and migration patterns.

Capture-recapture techniques are commonly used to estimate the size of elusive subject groups. Here we apply a simple capture-recapture method to hipsters in Vancouver.

Introduction

Traditional methods of population estimation have proven ineffective when applied to hipsters.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

One of the main factors preventing a regular count of the hipster is its physical appearance. Plaid and stripes break up body outlines, and a group of hipsters standing close together is often indistinguishable from a single individual. Black skinny jeans or leggings serve a similar purpose, confusing the eyes of predators, and rendering counts through direct observation unreliable.

Further complicating the task is the elusive nature of the hipster. By definition, a hipster hangout is a place you’ve never heard of, and once outsiders identify a culturally-significant location, it is quickly abandoned in favour of a new, unknown venue.

To overcome these difficulties, we have employed a simple two-capture formula commonly used in marine ecology. This method is based on the probability of encountering the same hipster following two subsequent sampling sessions.

Expressed as a formula:

where
N = Total hipster population
R = Total hipsters captured in Sample 1
P= Total hipsters captured in Sample 2
X = Count of hipsters captured in Sample 1 and Sample 2

Subjects were isolated from the group at random for capture then marked for future identification. To avoid unnecessary injury or distress individuals were marked by sleeve tattoos. The employment of this identification method was preferred, as it seemed to have no effect on the subject’s subsequent survival or reintegration back into its cohort.

Before release individuals were measured for beard length, pant cuff tension, and general distaste for all things the examiner liked using the Pearson-Polanowski test.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

Data and Findings

Sample 1 was taken at a Red Cedar / Yukon Blonde CD Release Party, where 413 unique individuals were cataloged entering the premises. Sample 2, taken at the ASTORIA ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY PARTY!!! realized a count of 370 individuals, 2 of which had been observed in Sample 1.

Thusly,

N = 413*370 / 2

N = 76,405

Supplementary Data and Discussion

While hipster numbers appear generally healthy, observations made during Sample 2 at The Astoria support the hypothesis that their numbers are actually on the decline.

Ostensibly, the Hipster is a pack animal, but despite repeated observation, no discernible Alpha Male has been identified. Unlike other pack mammals, both male and female hipsters engage in the act of display,  engaging in rhythmic courtship rituals and presenting their plaid plumage with no apparent preference for selection versus display.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

The creature’s poor eyesight, as evidenced by the proliferation of thick-rimmed glasses, further complicates the selection process, and may explain why of the 413 individuals sampled, only 8 appeared to be active breeding pairs.

The dietary habits of the hipster exert additional negative population pressure. Subjects at The Astoria were observed consuming large amounts of an offensive-tasting fermented beverage. Its low cost of acquisition ($3.75 per serving) appears to encourage an increase in its consumption.

While the variants ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon’, ‘Lucky Lager’, and ‘Pacific Pilsner’ are not consumed by the larger mammals of Granville Street, similar beverages there have had decidedly negative effects on the health of local populations (Eustace, 2009).

Conclusion

The size of the hipster community makes the lack of available data particularly concerning. The downward pressures exerted on the species support the hypothesis that they may actually be on the decline, making growth trending ever more important.

The health of the current population provides science with a tremendous opportunity to collect data on this elusive creature. Mating habits, home ranges and dietary data, in addition to population counts, are critical for future conservation efforts.

Application of the capture-recapture method over multiple time periods is recommended to establish and monitor the ongoing trend, and scientists are encouraged to take up other avenues of data collection, lest we lose this strange and magnificent creature forever.

Drunk In Vancouver is a chronicle of the city and its many subcultures, explored by way of everyone’s favourite social lubricant: BOOZE.

The rules are simple:

1) Pick a drink
2) Pick an appropriate venue
3) Keep an open mind

The Dependent presents:

JAGERBOMBS AT THE ROXY

If you’ve never had one you’re either under 12 or over 40. Take 1 can Red Bull, empty into pint glass. Pour one shot Jagermeister, drop into glass. Hear clink. See foam. Tilt. Enjoy.

The mighty Jagerbomb.

If they’re your drink for the night and you play by the Drunk in Vancouver rules, the mixture of sugary stimulant and syrupy depressant is liable to put you in the hospital.

Which is precisely what it did.

***

Granville Street was buzzing. I was decked out in the finest of urban cowboy and Jimmy was a mess of hair gel and Axe Body Spray and fake Gucci shades. In preparation, he had been watching My New Haircut on repeat for the previous two days.

At Robson, we passed two gorillas in Ed Hardy kicking the shit out of a guy on the ground. The complainant scrambled to his feet, bruised and bloody, and darted into an alley. His attackers paced the strip like caged animals, full of drink and adrenaline and testosterone.

“Think that’s how we’ll end up?” I asked Jimmy.

“Sure hope so,” he said as we stepped into Taf’s for a warm-up.

“Three jagerbombs,” he demanded of the hostess.

“Sorry.  We don’t have Red Bull,” she said, surprised. “Do you still want a table?”

“Jager?” Jimmy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup…”

“Good– two of those, and two empty glasses,” and he jogged out the door.

“Back in a second!” he called over his shoulder.

I was left to ponder the amateur art on the walls until Jimmy returned with two Red Bulls, which he promptly poured.

“Well,” he said raising his Jager shot, “to the first official Drunk in Vancouver. May it be fun and prosperous and enjoyed responsibly,” he said with a wink, and we clinked and dropped and downed the syrupy concoctions.

“”Two more!” he immediately called out, waving his finger in a wide circle above his head and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“I’ma get my pimp on tonight,” he told me, producing a peanut from his jacket pocket.

“What the fuck is that for?”

“You’ll see,” was all he’d say.

Apparently, the Roxy crowd that night included the cast of Starlight Express.

The lineup for the Roxy was a parade of sky-high heels, winter-tanned thighs, thick chains and hair gel.

“This is gonna be fucking awesome,” Jimmy grinned, his breath hot and sour in my ear.

He swaggered up to the bouncer.

“We’re here to see Tonya,” he said, importantly.

The meaty fellow inspected his clipboard, crossed us off, and lifted the nylon rope.

“Wait a minute,” said his counterpart, placing a thick hand on Jimmy’s chest, “let’s see that shirt.”

It was tattooed with an elaborate heart and sparrow design. Jimmy lowered his progressively-tinted Gucci knock-offs.

“Problem?” he asked, coldly.

“No Ed Hardy,” the bouncer informed him.

I squeezed myself between them. “We’re here to see Tonya.”

***

Inside, the place was packed: cute, twenty-somethings in tank tops and heels. Wide, white smiles. UB-40 and inoffensive party rock-and-roll. A distinct absence of fistfights. It was a playground for the youngish single crowd, looking for a night on the town or perhaps a stranger’s bed. Jimmy seemed right at home, minus the Ed Hardy.

Tonya led us to the bartender at the back.

“This is Jules. He’s our personality,” she informed us. Jules had dyed blond hair and was wearing an ’05 away ‘Nucks Jersey. Tonya whispered in his ear and he began flipping glasses over his back, Cocktail-style, until the bartop was covered. He balanced shots on the rims between.

A crowd began to form and people fished camera phones from their pockets.

“Right now?” I asked Tonya, completely unprepared. On the phone I had told her we were professionals.

“Right now,” she confirmed.

I gestured desperately to Jimmy who leaped onto the bar and pulled out his camera.

I cupped my hands and yelled into the air, “FREE DRINKS!” to which I received no response. Tonya looked on and finally threw a wedge of lemon and ordained the unholy marriage of Jagermeister and Red Bull.

Cute, red-cheeked girls with big eyelashes, and young men with drunken smiles and ill intentions pushed their eager hands through the crowd, now understanding my offer.

Jimmy’s flash popped as the drinks were hoisted (I myself consuming three in short order) and a moment later he was beside me, Jagerbomb in hand.

“Got some good ones, I think,” and he drained the glass and slammed it on the bar, “now to get laid.”

Night on Jager Mountain.

“You girls wanna see a magic trick?” he asked of the two ladies beside us.

“Sure!”

“All right,” he said, producing a peanut from his pocket, “I take this ordinary peanut … rub off that weird brown skin … and then shove it up my nose!”

Which he promptly did.

The girls gasped.

“I’ve learned that I have a rather interesting digestive talent,” he continued, “and if I place food in my nose it actually comes out,” he paused dramatically, “my BELLYBUTTON!”

And he lifted his shirt and sucked in his stomach and sure enough, a peanut dropped out.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“How’d you do that!?” one of the girls exclaimed.

“I already told you, my dearies: MAGIC! Now who wants to dance?!” and he wandered off into the crowd, one on each arm, only to lose them both to a pack of jumping, screaming, hugging girlfriends.

He turned back to me and shrugged, then shot me a grin as he pulled another peanut from his pocket.

***

“Motherfucker,” someone muttered in the stall behind me as I buried my face in a handful of cold water. My heart was thumping in my chest and pounding at my temples. Drinking Jagerbombs all night was proving very difficult…

In the mirror I saw the stall door open and to my surprise Jimmy emerged, a trickle of blood beneath his left nostril. By now it was 1am, and the last time I had seen him was over an hour ago, performing his infamous trick for yet another group of enthusiastic females.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your nose is bleeding. Did somebody knock ya?”

“Goddamnit… Is it really bleeding?” He craned his neck to look in the mirror and let out a defeated sigh. “I was trying to get the peanuts out.”

“Peanuts?”

“The first one I could deal with, but the second is driving me nuts.”

I wracked my brain seeking punishment for the obvious pun, but my head hurt too much.

“You’re a moron,” was all I could muster, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples, “you really can’t get them out?”

He closed his mouth and blew hard out his nose.

“Nope,” he said bleakly, “and I just tried with my keys.”

The blood glistened on his upper lip.

***

“Both nostrils, eh?” said the doctor, slipping on gloves.

Jimmy nodded.

“Does alcohol have anything to do with this little predicament?” he asked, clearly amused.

Jimmy nodded again as the doc produced a curved instrument with a balloon on the end.

“I’ll need you to sit still,” he said. He squeezed the device’s base, and the balloon expanded and contracted.

Jimmy let out a nasal sigh: “Damn Jagerbombs,” he said.

“Damn Jagerbombs,” I agreed, my head swimming in sugar and caffeine.

“Damn Jagerbombs indeed,” said the good doctor.

Then, he put a gentle hand on Jimmy’s head, and tilted it backwards.

Have a suggestion of where we could get

DRUNK IN VANCOUVER?

email dgee@thedependent.ca!

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