For a few summers when I was a kid, I spent nearly every day in my grandmother’s Long Island bar and grill. Local barflies played checkers with me and taught me how to play chess. They’d clock my Spider-Man comics and talk about their own favorite childhood superheroes, pick songs I’d never heard on the juke box and spin long monologues about them, share their war stories—literal and figurative.
It was at that bar, shortly after my grandmother opened the doors in the late morning, that I saw my first bloody mary.
As a kid, even a kid from a family of hard drinkers, the entire world of cocktails seemed totally bizarre to me. My mother and my grandfather would occasionally give me a little sip of something they were drinking just to laugh at the awful faces I made. Why would they drink this stuff when Hawaiian Punch and Capri-Sun were available to them? But I’d never in my life seen something as strange and disturbing as tomato juice, vodka, lemon, spices, hot sauce, and Worcestershire.
Nowadays, scoring a good one—even a virgin one—is a brunch essential.
What changed? Hard to say. It’s not as simple as “I grew up, my tastes—and my tastebuds—changed.” For one thing, that’s been disproven for me too many times. They’ve been breeding the bitterness out of brussels sprouts for decades now. My suddenly enjoying them wasn’t related to my voice changing and my starting to shave. But there is a psychological element to it that probably does come with age and experience.
It could be realizing vegetables don’t actually exist and where you think they and their juices belong is a specific cultural and culinary construct. It could be developing a taste for liquor and badly wanting to convince yourself there’s something the least bit good for you about any cocktail. Maybe it’s just embracing the fact that your particular brand of neuro-spiciness doesn’t just make you obsess over records, books and comics but also the arcane histories of various cocktails and their myriad variations.
A lackluster bloody is so par for the course I barely register my disappointment anymore. A little sigh, a resigned shrug and I move on. The real danger, I find, is hubris. I’ve had bloody marys put before me garnished with a stalk of celery, lemon and lime wheels, three olives, a slice of candied bacon, two jumbo shrimp and a whole crab claw. I don’t complain…but I do start plucking things away until it ceases to be a small salad with tomato and vodka dressing.
Here in Greensboro, we’re lucky to have plenty of places that get it right.
You’re never going to go wrong with the bars at any of the Quaintance-Weaver spots in town – Lucky 32, The Green Valley Grill, Print Works Bistro. You can expect the same quality from classic cocktails like the bloody Mary at any of these places you would from their signature drinks.
You’re always going to score at downtown’s Chez Genèse, where I’m always pleased but never surprised by the attention to detail. Last time I was there, my bloody came with two different olives and a miniature pickle—right in the garnish sweet spot, by my lights—and went down smooth.
The Sage Mule’s bloody game is also very strong. After last month’s Juneteenth history bicycle tour, my wife and I went over on our bikes. A large glass of water and a crisp bloody mary — a little kick, but not too spicy—made me feel human again.
Why I love them matters less these days. Too busy enjoying them.
