There’s a certain ritual I follow with every cocktail I make. Regardless of style or client preference, I have a subconscious set of pseudo-superstitious steps: nosing the ingredients at every step of preparation, taste testing, stirring at a particular angle, having a select number of ice cubes—the list goes on. Why do I find myself scrutinizing the blend between liquid densities after stirring a glass of cranberry juice and soda? Because I care.
Any bartender who has spent time in the craft has endured the unimaginative onslaught of endless lunchtime chits asking for virgin cocktails and effervescent juice blends—these being the supposed reward for droves of office denizens, happily free of the work world for an abbreviated meal. I must seem like the Cheshire Cat as I lean over the bar suggesting Mint Juleps and Bloody Marys to unsuspecting Alices.
For most Vancouver bartenders of my generation, the eighties were years of discovery in cocktail culture. I can affectionately recall family lunches at Joe Fortes, watching keenly as Manhattans and Screwdrivers were dropped off at tables around us, a cooled bottle of California Chardonnay at ours. To me, drinking and eating are inseparable, no matter the time of day. Steak tastes better with red wine, oysters with ice-cold vodka, and brunch is never complete without champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice. Sharing a proper drink with food and friends can be part of some of life’s most happy moments. Yet even with our city’s recent cocktail culture resurgence, lunchtime must indeed feel unloved.
The swagger of the three-martini lunch has sheepishly surrendered to a fear of booze-breath and judgment from others. But the taboo of daytime drinking will only silently subside when we remember to embrace the journey of the cocktail, rather than focus on the phobia of the final destination; drinking doesn’t have to be about getting drunk. Trust your bartender, take a chance, and perhaps you will discover something wonderful at a time of day when you are least expecting it.
