Cocktail of the Week: Satan’s Whiskers/Satan’s Soul Patch

Greetings, boys and ghouls. I thought it would be a scream on this Samhain-chanted evening to exorcize your tonsils with – yeah, OK, I’m putting a stop to that nonsense right there.

This week’s entry comes a day early, because there’s no point in highlighting a drink called Satan’s Whiskers after Halloween. As well as having a suitably seasonal name, it’s a natural follow up to last week’s gin-and-orange adventure.

Satan’s Whiskers first appeared in the Savoy Cocktail Book, and how many times have I written that sentence? Its claim to fame is that it can be served in two styles depending on the orange liqueur used, either straight (Grand Marnier) or curled (curaçao). My Whiskers have a kink to them for one reason: I don’t have any Grand Marnier.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the stuff. On its own it can be marvelous. But in mixed drinks Grand Marnier, like Bull Durham’s ‘Nuke’ LaLoosh, likes to announce its presence with authority. It tends to bully the other flavors around.

Straight Whiskers have long been the default choice because of the absence of a good curaçao. The secret to the liqueur is the use of Laraha orange peels. Larahas are the descendants of European Valencia oranges that didn’t take to the drier climate of the New World and became small and bitter. (For a demonstration of this process, have a relative move to Florida and then check on them in five years. Hiyo!) Larahas are largely inedible but that didn’t stop desperate sailors from forcing them down to stave off scurvy, to the extent that Amy Stewart, in her book The Drunken Botanist: The Plants That Create The World’s Great Drinks, speculates that the name of the island where the fruit grows comes from the Portuguese word for “cured.” This desperation led to the discovery that Laraha peels are uncommonly, almost seductively aromatic, and soon they were the source of a liqueur.

Curaçao has been bastardized over the years; hell, most people think it’s supposed to be blue. Then in 2012 cocktail authority David Wondrich joined forced with France’s Cognac Ferrand to create Pierre Ferrand Dry Curaçao. Based on 19th century formulae, their variation of this classic combines Curaçao orange peels and other spices with unaged brandy and Ferrand cognac. The resulting spirit, tinted a light amber and priced to move, has a nuanced taste, the brandy assertive but not overwhelming. It occupies a point on the spectrum where it could readily be substituted for Grand Marnier on one end and Cointreau or other triple secs on the other.

And, of course, it’s right at home in traditional curaçao cocktails like the curled Satan’s Whiskers. Which, I have to say, does not taste particularly diabolical. In fact, demonic monicker aside it’s scarcely a Halloween drink. Its orange flavor is so pronounced that it’s almost sprightly. I’d go so far as to call Satan’s Whiskers too much of a good thing. The standard recipe calls for orange bitters, but I’d opt for Angostura to provide a countervailing note to the abundance of citrus.

Or you could go one step further and make a Satan’s Soul Patch (or Satan’s Mouche, if one wants to sound Continental), a more substantial offering anchored by bourbon instead of gin. Especially if you plan on fixing one this evening. What better time to commune with dark spirits than Halloween?

Satan’s Whiskers (Curled)

½ oz. gin
½ oz. dry vermouth
½ oz. sweet vermouth
½ oz. fresh orange juice
¼ oz. orange curaçao
dash of Angostura bitters

Shake. Strain. Garnish with an orange twist. Make the “straight” version with Grand Marnier in place of curaçao. Make a Satan’s Soul Patch with bourbon in place of gin. Note that reading this post in its entirety means that your immortal soul is now the property of Keenan’s Kocktails, LLC.

Want more Cocktail of the Week? The first fifty-two essays are available in the Kindle bestseller DOWN THE HATCH: ONE MAN’S ONE YEAR ODYSSEY THROUGH CLASSIC COCKTAIL RECIPES AND LORE. Buy it now at Amazon.com.

Miscellaneous: Happy Birthday, Edith Head!

Nothing beats Google stealing your thunder. If you’ve seen today’s doodle –

– then you already know that Edith Head was born 116 years ago. And if you’re a regular reader, you already know why Hollywood’s best-known costume designer is so significant here at Chez K. Rosemarie and I have assembled quite the bounty of material on Edie’s life and work, including her original design notes for the character played by actress Pat Crowley in the Martin & Lewis film Hollywood or Bust. Faded fabric swatches are still attached to the pages.

The gorgeous doodle by Sophie Diao spotlighting half a dozen Edith costumes (among them Kim Novak’s iconic suit from Vertigo) is generating plenty of interest in Edith’s work. Turner Classic Movies is running a day-long salute that focuses on her late-career films at Universal. Already this morning I’ve been at a Google hangout featuring Ms. Diao and Susan Claassen, who performs a one-woman show about Edith.

Edith’s greatest costume was the one she created for herself, the public persona of “Edith Head” that afforded her visibility and career longevity. What better way to celebrate her trailblazing legacy than by seeing her in action? Here she is with Groucho Marx on an episode of You Bet Your Life.

So raise a glass to Edith Head, a one of a kind personality who in no way was off the rack. Maybe something with Fernet Branca; as Edith herself said, it’s “guaranteed to save your life on the day you want to kill yourself.” Happy birthday, Edith!

Cocktail of the Week: The Maiden’s Prayer

A few months ago, I took a mighty leap forward in my quest to see every film directed by Alfred Hitchcock when all nine of his surviving silent films, fully restored by the British Film Institute, screened in Seattle. What struck me about these early efforts, aside from his precocious talent, was the characters’ regular indulgence in cocktails. The movies were made in the late 1920s when Prohibition held sway over the Colonies, so perhaps rubbing it in is another example of Hitch’s mordant wit.

Rosemarie's favorite title card from CHAMPAGNE

Imbibing factors most prominently in 1928’s fittingly titled Champagne. The heroine of this screwball comedy, which survives only in a back-up print consisting of alternate takes, is literally a runaway heiress; the movie opens with her blowing a chunk of her father’s fortune to charter a seaplane so she can catch up to an ocean liner. As evidenced by a title card that quickly became Rosemarie’s motto, Betty is a dedicated student of mixed drinks and a devotee of the good life. She’s so profligate with her pop’s resources that he pretends he’s destitute in order to teach her a lesson. But Betty discovers heretofore unknown reserves of pluck and lands a position in a restaurant. On her first night, when nothing goes as planned, she takes a moment to watch in wonder as a bartender builds a complex cocktail. She asks what it’s called and is told a Maiden’s Prayer.

It was only a matter of time before I whipped one up myself and toasted Hitch with it.

The name came first, bestowed upon a genteel piece of piano music by Polish composer Tekla Bądarzewska-Baranowska in 1856. The ditty turns up in Kurt Weill’s satirical opera The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny, but its most lasting impact would come courtesy of Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. Wills heard the melody on a fiddle and knew it lent itself to western swing. His new arrangement and lyrics made the song a country staple. Here’s a rendition recorded by the Baron of Bakersfield, Buck Owens.

Another title card from CHAMPAGNE

No one’s sure which wiseacre decided to christen a drink after it. The earliest Maiden’s Prayer on record, according to cocktail historian David Wondrich, is one made with rum and champagne that appears in Frank Newman’s unsung 1907 book American Bar. Gin is the base spirit in the version enshrined in the Savoy Cocktail Book, with another variation adding Calvados and Kina Lillet. Adding to the giggly confusion is the similar Maiden’s Blush, made without orange juice and with grenadine. However you poured it the intent of the Maiden’s Prayer was the same, and here’s where the wiseacre part comes in. Esquire’s Handbook for Hosts (1949) suggested that the drink be “served on the edge of the couch,” intimating that the concoction was engineered for the overcoming of inhibitions. While it’s not a particularly potent libation, it’s easy to see how the combination of fruit juices and “just a little gin” could be made appealing to an unsuspecting member of the fairer sex.

Guess which one has egg white

When I prepared the drink, I followed gaz regan’s advice to add Angostura bitters. The note of spice they brought kept the drink from floating away on a cloud of citrus. A fellow Hitchcock fan and cocktail aficionado known only as El Benjamino, similarly inspired after the Champagne screening, ordered a Maiden’s Prayer at the Zig Zag Café and was asked by bartender Ricardo if he wanted it with egg white. This ingredient, which nudges the drink toward Ramos Gin Fizz territory, didn’t turn up in any recipe I’d seen. Intrigued, I made versions with and without, because my thoroughness is unparalleled.

Which did I prefer? I can say that in addition to the silken texture always brought by egg white, its presence smoothes out what is quite a tart cocktail. Which will you prefer? You’ll have to fix a novena of Maiden’s Prayers and decide for yourself. Suspense perhaps not worthy of Hitchcock, but the best I can do.

The Maiden’s Prayer

1 ½ oz. gin
½ oz. Cointreau
½ oz. lemon juice
½ oz. orange juice
dash of Angostura bitters
egg white (optional)

Shake. Strain. Garnish with an orange twist. If using an egg white, combine all the ingredients and shake first without ice, then with.

Want more Cocktail of the Week? The first fifty-two essays are available in the Kindle bestseller DOWN THE HATCH: ONE MAN’S ONE YEAR ODYSSEY THROUGH CLASSIC COCKTAIL RECIPES AND LORE. Buy it now at Amazon.com.

Cocktail of the Week: The Newark

It’s no surprise October is National Applejack Month. No other American spirit is so associated with autumn, each crisp sip redolent of harvest time. Applejack, the name borne of the colonial practice of concentrating cider through freeze distillation (i.e., leaving it out in the cold) or “jacking,” has been available commercially in the United States almost since the United States opened for business.

What is a surprise is my newfound ability to acquire the good stuff. In my local supermarket yet.

Laird & Company have long been America’s preeminent producer of applejack, which is apple brandy blended with neutral spirits. The country’s oldest licensed distillery also makes a 100 proof bottled in bond apple brandy. The uncut version has a brilliant flavor, not on par with Calvados – the French apple brandy that is the finest liquid known to man – but close. For years it was only available on the East Coast. Here’s how it good it is: it’s worth checking a suitcase for. I was once asked by the bartenders at New York’s Death + Company to courier several bottles as a gift to the team at the Zig Zag Café here in Seattle. I did so without keeping one for myself. Lousy Catholic school education.

I was on my ritual pass through the liquor section of my neighborhood store when I glimpsed a distinctive label. I stood rooted to the spot until Rosemarie happened past to confirm that I was not experiencing some miraculous visitation. The premier variety of Laird’s Apple Brandy is now for sale on the West Coast, without any of the fanfare such an announcement deserves.

The Jack Rose is the best-known applejack cocktail. I wanted to inaugurate this bottle with something different. The Newark is the brainchild of Jim Meehan and John Deragon of New York’s PDT. It’s another spin on the Brooklyn, this one not named after a neighborhood in that borough but the largest city in the state Laird’s calls home.

The cocktail uses applejack for a base instead of rye while keeping the Brooklyn’s maraschino. In place of Amer Picon – another bottle that led to a trip to baggage claim – is Fernet Branca. The Newark has a complex, almost rolling flavor, yielding different notes as it settles. The unmistakable presence of Fernet frequently predominates, held in place by the maraschino. The taste of apple, even with the high-octane Laird’s, is always present but forever distant, like a memory. A fitting profile for a fall cocktail non pareil.

The Newark

Jim Meehan and John Deragon, PDT, New York

2 oz. applejack, ideally Laird’s Bonded Apple Brandy
1 oz. sweet vermouth
¼ oz. maraschino
¼ oz. Fernet Branca

Stir. Strain. No garnish.

Want more Cocktail of the Week? The first fifty-two essays are available in the Kindle bestseller DOWN THE HATCH: ONE MAN’S ONE YEAR ODYSSEY THROUGH CLASSIC COCKTAIL RECIPES AND LORE. Buy it now at Amazon.com.

Miscellaneous: Housekeeping

Right. Thank you all for coming. Does everyone have his or her agenda? A short one today, so let’s get to it ...

1. I have been remiss in not pointing out that applications are now being accepted for the 2014 William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant for Unpublished Writers. The prize is given by the organizers of the Malice Domestic conference to aspiring authors of the traditional mystery novel. Rosemarie and I were honored to be 2013 recipients for our book Design for Dying: An Edith Head Mystery. Winning the grant, which includes a $1,500 cash award for conferences or workshops and complimentary registration and board at Malice, has opened countless doors for us. We can’t speak highly enough of this program. You have until November 15 to throw your deerstalker into the ring.

2. After careful consideration, or at least a weekend’s thought, I have decided to turn off comments on the blog.

Why? Because they’re getting in the way of the science, obviously; no legitimate funding agencies will bankroll my research. But I’ll show them! I’LL SHOW THEM ALL!

Also, the ratio of spam comments to real ones has swollen out of proportion. Even moderating them has become several steps too many.

I may revisit the decision. At present my only option for disabling comments regrettably means hiding all previously published ones. I’m trying to find a workaround. In the meantime, if you have any questions or complaints there’s always email or you can yell at me on Twitter.

3. My book is still for sale at Amazon. Two weeks in and Down the Hatch: One Man’s One Year Odyssey Through Classic Cocktail Recipes and Lore is holding its own on the Kindle bestseller list. Buy yourself a copy before you have to start planning those holiday parties.

Cocktail of the Week: The Cin Cyn

Picking up that bottle of Cynar, the artichoke ambrosia, from where we left it last week. Don’t be surprised if I hoist it again in the next few entries. It’s a big bottle.

The spelling of Cin Cyn – or is it Cyn Cin? – is a nod to two of its ingredients, red vermouth (Cinzano being a popular brand) and Cynar. In some circles it’s known as a Gin-Cin-Cyn, a la Rin Tin Tin, to include the base spirit.

By now the cleverboots among you have made a pair of deductions. The drink is a variation on the classic Negroni, and its name is pronounced “Chin-Chin.” Dubbing the cocktail after the informal Italian toast “Cin Cin” is a way of honoring the national origin of its elements. The phrase is said to be an onomatopoetic rendition of the sound of clinking glasses, which is a lovely thought.

Too bad it’s untrue. The toast isn’t Italian, either. (If I’m going to burst bubbles, I might as well burst as many as possible). Its usage comes from eighteenth century British and Portuguese traders who misheard the Chinese expression “qing-qing,” or “please-please,” a response to offers of food and drink.

The Cinzano plug in the name aside, any sweet vermouth will work here. I opted to keep the Italian theme but ratchet up the flavor by using Punt e Mes, with its robust bitterness. That, in turn, demanded a staunch gin that could keep pace, like Tanqueray. Angostura or Peychaud’s bitters are typically included, but I followed the lead of Jason Wilson and went with the orange variety. They make a fine complement to the orange peel, a length about an inch or so wide, used as a garnish instead of a narrow twist. After the oils have been expressed, of course.

And what does that mean, exactly, expressing the oils? I had it illustrated beautifully to me a few weeks ago during the Bartending 101 course I bought myself as a birthday present. It was taught by Anu Apte, owner of Seattle cocktail haven Rob Roy, through her Swig Well Academy. Anu prefers wider swaths of peels as garnish because they offer more essential oils and thus more complexity. She demonstrated by holding some orange peel up and squeezing it. A visible cloud erupted from it, a spray of concentrated flavor. Hold the garnish with the peel facing down over your glass and do likewise, and that intense burst of citrus goes directly into your drink, augmenting what’s already there.

The Negroni is one of the most adaptable cocktails in the canon, with the Cyn Cin – sorry, Cin Cyn – a notably effective innovation. It’s not as bitter as a standard Negroni with Campari, even when made with Punt e Mes. The taste is both deeper and more mellow, especially with the additional orange notes. This spin on a spin of a staple earned the Chez K seal of approval in record time. It’s one of the best drinks in the Cocktail of the Week run so far. It’s sensational. How sensational? Worth buying a huge bottle of Cynar sensational.

The Cin Cyn

1 oz. gin
1 oz. Cynar
1 oz. Punt e Mes
dash of orange bitters

Stir. Strain. Garnish with a length of orange peel after expressing the oils.

Want more Cocktail of the Week? The first fifty-two essays are available in the Kindle bestseller DOWN THE HATCH: ONE MAN’S ONE YEAR ODYSSEY THROUGH CLASSIC COCKTAIL RECIPES AND LORE. Buy it now at Amazon.com.

Book: Professor Cocktail’s Zombie Horde, by David J. Montgomery

The Zombie is the foundation on which the mighty temple of Tiki stands. Yet much of its history is shrouded in mystery. We know it was first poured by the legendary Don the Beachcomber in 1934. But what exactly was Don pouring? And how close to or wide of the mark were his many, many imitators?

Wonder no longer, because David J. Montgomery (in his guise as Professor Cocktail) is here to serve as your personal Indiana Jones and unearth Tiki’s greatest treasure. In an exhaustive yet entertaining work of scholarship, Montgomery scours available sources to compile every Zombie known to man, living, dead and undead.

Montgomery starts with the master, featuring not one but several recipes attributed to Don the Beachcomber including the one recognized as the original. He surveys variations from Trader Vic’s, other joints famed and forgotten, and renowned bartenders of history. Montgomery offers savvy, honest criticism of each, like advice about which ones to avoid and spirit suggestions. Want whiskey and rum versions? They're here, too. Professor Cocktail’s Zombie Horde also boasts several never-before-published riffs on the classic from noted contemporary mixologists like Jim Meehan of New York’s PDT.

Written with senses of both history and humor, Professor Cocktail’s Zombie Horde finally gives one of the greatest and most misunderstood of mixed drinks the treatment it deserves. Once you're done reading, a bottle of rum won't be enough. You'll require several. Buy it now at Amazon.

Cocktail of the Week: The Little Italy

You’ve got your list of foodstuffs of which you are not particularly fond. I’ve got mine. On it is the humble artichoke, not so much because of taste as appearance. I don’t like to baffled by what I’m eating. Artichokes, with their puzzle of petals and strangely fleshy hearts, seem more the product of a video game designer’s imagination than nature.

Little wonder, though, that artichokes would factor in a liqueur. As Amy Stewart observes in her book The Drunken Botanist: The Plants That Create the World’s Great Drinks they have long been viewed a digestive aid, a reputation borne out by contemporary research: “they may stimulate bile production, protect the liver, and lower cholesterol levels.”

The surprise is that Cynar (pronounced CHEE-nar and named after Cynara, the plant’s genus) is of fairly recent vintage, having been launched in 1952. It has over a dozen botanicals in play but has staked a claim to that oh-so-lucrative artichoke market. “At last, that weird plant your mother made you eat – in liquid form!” The resilient thistle is pictured right on the bottle, defiantly defining the brand. For decades Cynar has been popular in Europe as an aperitif, served on the rocks with soda and a twist of orange. But of late it’s become a miracle ingredient in craft cocktail bars, a must-have additive the way elderflower liqueur was a few years back. Understandably so, because Cynar is an unusually versatile amaro, one with sufficient bite to substitute for Campari but with a light herbaceousness that mixes incredibly well. Credit perhaps is due to the artichoke’s prankster qualities – as Stewart points out, it can fool the taste buds, temporarily blocking certain receptors so whatever they process next will taste excessively sweet – but Cynar can seemingly be added to any cocktail with delightful results.

What better place to begin, then, than with a classic? That’s what Audrey Saunders of New York’s Pegu Club did when she created the Little Italy. The Manhattan may have spawned the Brooklyn, which in turn gave rise to a host of borough-based offspring, but Saunders’ progeny sticks to the original stomping grounds enough that there’s no need to cross the East River to name it. (Note that her preparation calls for a little syrup from authentic maraschino cherries, but some of that elixir always finds its way into the glass when I’m mixing the drinks.) The Little Italy is a bitter Manhattan with a dense flavor, and consequently I’d take it closer to the source and add a dash of Angostura or aromatic bitters. It’s the perfect introduction to a liqueur that shouldn’t work, yet does beautifully.

The Little Italy

Audrey Saunders, New York

2 oz. rye
½ oz. Cynar
¾ oz. sweet vermouth

Stir. Strain. Garnish with authentic maraschino cherries.

Want more Cocktail of the Week? The first fifty-two essays are available in the Kindle bestseller DOWN THE HATCH: ONE MAN’S ONE YEAR ODYSSEY THROUGH CLASSIC COCKTAIL RECIPES AND LORE. Buy it now at Amazon.com.

Down The Hatch: Publication Day

Could you use a drink? Then have I got the book for you.

Today’s the day, gang. Down the Hatch: One Man’s One Year Odyssey Through Classic Cocktail Recipes and Lore is now available at Amazon. Your very own collection of the first fifty-two Cocktail of the Week posts, revised and updated, along with an all-new introduction, is only a click away. At $2.99 it’s cheaper than a happy hour drink, and made with more love.

You get more than fifty recipes, each one garnished with history and served with enthusiasm. But don’t take my word for it. I’ve already told you what gaz regan had to say about the book. Now here’s the estimable Philip Greene, author of To Have and Have Another – A Hemingway Cocktail Companion and co-founder of the Museum of the American Cocktail:

“In his classic The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks, David Embury noted he was ‘not a distiller, an importer, a bottler, or a merchant of liquors. I am not even a retired bartender. My practical experience with liquors has been entirely as a consumer and as a shaker-upper of drinks for the delectation of my guests.’ Vince has taken much the same approach, and the result is a very fine cocktail book. It brings to mind Ted Haigh’s classic Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails for its depth of research, readability, and in colorfully telling the stories behind the drinks (what we all strive to do). It chronicles a man’s immersion into craft cocktails, with a delicate balance of history, folklore, technique, humor, and the human side of mixology, personal taste. Vince’s book is eminently approachable by geek and novice alike, and offers to the latter a fine introduction to many of the other experts on whose shoulders we all stand, i.e., Craddock, MacElhone, Embury, Baker, Amis, Regan, DeGroff, Wondrich, Felten, Wilson, the aforementioned Haigh, et al. I look forward to including Mr. Keenan’s book alongside these others behind my bar.”

Still not convinced? Here’s David J. Montgomery, Professor Cocktail himself, on my “cocktail memoir.”

No Kindle? No problem! Download a free Kindle app at Amazon and you can read Down the Hatch on any computer, tablet or smartphone. What are you waiting for? Buy a copy and help me support my growing family of bartenders.

Cocktail of the Week: The Monkey Gland

Pity Doctor Serge Voronoff. The Russian-born, French-based surgeon had not only a name but an obsession that pretty much guaranteed they would laugh at him at the Academy. Laugh, do you hear?!? It didn’t help that Dr. Voronoff leaned into the image of mad scientist. Not many medical men would stand before a conference of his colleagues as Dr. Voronoff did in 1927 and publicly state, “I will breed a new race of supermen.” We are fortunate that video of his TED Talk, one of the first, still survives.

Voronoff’s goal was to use naturally occurring hormones to slow, possibly arrest, and who knows, maybe even reverse the aging process. Only the hormones didn’t have to occur naturally in humans. The good doctor’s research into rejuvenation began with self-injection of extract of dog and guinea pig testicles, as these things so often do. A subsequent expansion of the protocol included grafting the testicles of younger animals to older ones, and transplanting the testes of executed criminals into waiting millionaires.

It was while he was juggling balls that Voronoff had his epiphany. There’s never enough fodder for the gallows, but there is always an abundance of monkeys. Hence, his signature treatment: in 1920 he started implanting thin segments of chimpanzee and baboon testicles into the scrotums of wealthy men, an affront to God, man and ape having the intended purpose of combating senility and restoring potency. One of his first patients gleefully told the New York Times that after the operation his wrinkles vanished, his hair grew back, and he fully expected to live 150 years. (There are no additional articles about this patient, so presumably he failed.) The patient was also moved by Voronoff’s willingness to go out of pocket for the monkey; the French government would later provide a line item in Voronoff’s budget for simians, and he would eventually open his own monkey farm on the Italian Riviera. A 1928 Time article on “the tall, deft Parisian surgeon who grafts fresh, invigorating glands into animals or men who seem to need them” described how wealthy benefactors dispatched him to Syria via yacht to determine whether his unique approach would increase the wool yield by native goats.

But by then, his work was already being discredited. It would become controversial again in the 1990s, when some speculated his xenotransplantation efforts were a possible vector for the AIDS virus’ entry into the human population, a claim that has since been refuted. Others scientists are reappraising Voronoff’s work, calling it an extremely primitive version of hormone replacement therapy. There’s no denying that during its brief vogue, Voronoff’s study made quite an impression. It inspired a reference in an e.e. cummings poem, an Irving Berlin tune in a Marx Brothers movie, a Sherlock Holmes story – and, naturally, a cocktail. Because if you’re not going to drink to restored potency, what are you going to drink to?

Given that history the gin-and-juice Monkey Gland is a bright, surprisingly sprightly creation. Reports in 1923 French newspapers indicate it was all the rage in Paris. In Europe the drink was made with absinthe. American bartenders, then denied that particular beverage, substituted Benedictine. Either is acceptable, as is any standard pastis stand-in for absinthe. I used Pernod, and while it can be mixed with the other ingredients I find it more effective as a rinse for the glass.

In the spirit of Dr. Voronoff I was willing to experiment with the final ingredient, grenadine. I’ve never made my own, because pomegranate season is so short and pomegranate juicing season so messy. I planned on assembling a speed version combining bottled pomegranate juice and superfine sugar. Ultimately, I decided to use pomegranate molasses, which Jim Meehan recommends for this drink in The PDT Cocktail Book. The molasses is more viscous than grenadine and provides a more concentrated jolt of flavor. It also lends the drink a darker, reddish-brown hue. Allow this incarnation of the cocktail a moment or two to settle. The intensity of the pomegranate taste, laced with citrus and hints of anise, is worth the wait.

The Monkey Gland

2 oz. gin
1 oz. orange juice
1 barspoon pomegranate molasses (or grenadine)
several dashes absinthe or Pernod

Shake the first three ingredients with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass rinsed with absinthe or Pernod. No monkeys were harmed in the making of this drink.

Noir City: Portland Exposé!

Anytime Noir City adds a burg to its burgeoning family of festivals, it’s cause for celebration. Rosemarie and I made a weekend jaunt to the Rose City for the debut installment of Noir City Portland at the Hollywood Theater. Alas, the film that gave this post its title wasn’t on the bill. Content yourselves with the trailer.



We weren’t able to make opening night, so we missed seeing the too-long-unheralded Sleep, My Love (1948) on the big screen. We were on hand to revisit a few other favorites, though. A repeat performance of Repeat Performance (1947) underscored how well-crafted this haunting melodrama is. Joan Leslie is an actress who kills her husband on December 31 only to discover once the clock strikes midnight that the old year has begun anew, giving her a chance to change her destiny – and her spouse’s. And any opportunity to watch Alias Nick Beal (1949) must be taken advantage of. This noir retelling of Faust is nothing short of spellbinding, with magnificent atmospherics, Ray Milland’s devil sounding more lobbyist than Lucifer, and a spectacular performance from Audrey Totter. The film remains the crowning accomplishment of director John Farrow’s career. Farrow deserves a book, but so far there’s only the overview of his career in Noir City Annual #2, written by – hey, me!

The film that was new to us was 1956’s The Come-On. You’ve got your classic triangle: gorgeous dame, yearning lover, rich older husband. Only you don’t actually have any of that, because the movie has a few tricks up its sleeve that I don’t want to spoil. Film Noir Foundation impresario and master of ceremonies Eddie Muller introduced the movie as a rare example of “cougar noir” given the casting choices. Anne Baxter, aging out of ingénue roles, plays the dewy damsel in distress with a core of steel. Opposite her is Sterling Hayden, reading every line like a man who left a truck of livestock double-parked in the sun. Even though Hayden was older, their peculiar dynamic makes him seem like the junior partner in the relationship. The high point of the film is Maytag repairman Jesse White as a sleazy private eye blessed with the perfect handle J. J. McGonigle. Both competent and greedy, McGonigle is one of noir’s indispensible shamuses. Trashy fun from start to finish. Strong attendance and a terrific venue. Here’s to next year’s version.

Portland has a thriving cocktail scene which we were also more than happy to investigate. We made multiple stops at Clyde Common, not only for its food but the drinks program overseen by the estimable Jeffrey Morgenthaler. Their brunch cocktail the Bridge Club – Canadian club whiskey, brown sugar, black walnut liqueur, allspice dram, coffee and thickened cream – instantly entered my personal pantheon. Owing to the short length of our trip we only managed one drink each at Teardrop Lounge and Oven & Shaker. Each warrants another visit.

Cocktail of the Week: The Gimlet

From last week’s drink born of spy fiction, we turn to one made famous by a shamus.

The gimlet, a gloss on the gin sour, is enough of a motif in Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye (1953) that it practically qualifies as a character. Philip Marlowe bonds with “lost dog” chum Terry Lennox over several rounds of them at Victor’s. When Lennox goes to the destiny that awaits all lost dogs, the cocktail serves as both memento mori and harbinger, a way for others who knew him to announce their presence. Only fitting, given how picky Terry was about his cocktail of choice. “A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose’s Lime Juice and nothing else,” he declares. “It beats martinis hollow.” To which Marlowe replies, “I was never fussy about drinks.”

I try not to be, either. But it’s about to get all fussy up in here.

The Terry Lennox gimlet

Any discussion of the gimlet begins with Rose’s Lime Juice. Scotsman Lauchlan Rose, charged with provisioning ships, developed a way to preserve lime juice without alcohol in 1867. The catchy version of the story is that a Royal Navy doctor named Thomas Gimlette hit upon the notion of combining this first fruit concentrate with gin as a way of keeping swabbies free of scurvy. It hasn’t been proven, alas, while it is known that the tool used to tap barrels on the bounding main was called a gimlet. Ironically, it was on an ocean liner returning from England that Chandler initially encountered the drink.

Rose’s has been part of the recipe from the beginning. The Savoy Cocktail Book (1930) prescribes it in Terry Lennox’s 50/50 proportions, as does Patrick Gavin Duffy’s Official Mixer’s Manual. Multiple editions of Esquire’s Handbook for Hosts insist that “a true gimlet” must be made with Rose’s Lime Juice.

Here’s where we hit rough seas. In The Gentleman’s Companion, Charles H. Baker, Jr. wrote that a gimlet is to be made with lime cordial, a relatively simple combination of lime zest and sugar. He calls this “a British invention based on a similar essence to Rose’s Lime Juice,” which he deems more pungent and rightly exiled to soda fountains. If earlier iterations of the product, made decades before the brand was owned by a succession of international conglomerates, were wide of the mark, then contemporary variations certainly are. Chief among them the cloying American version with its generous lashings of high fructose corn syrup.

Order a gimlet in a decent cocktail bar and it’s likely it will be prepared with homemade lime cordial or at the very least fresh lime juice and simple syrup. What idiot would make one the Terry Lennox way now?

This idiot. At least to start.

The Jim Meehan gimlet

That meant acquiring Rose’s Lime Juice, which proved harder than I thought. A search of my local liquor stores and supermarkets yielded bupkis. I eventually unearthed a bottle in the neighborhood drug store. Under the fluorescent lights it glowed a “pale greenish” color, just like Marlowe said. I fixed a drink, equal parts gin and Rose’s. Yes, “it was both sweet and sharp at the same time.” Too sweet and too sharp, the gin hopelessly overpowered. It tasted like obligation and regret, or one of those frozen lime bars. Maybe it was because I’d just reread The Long Goodbye, Chandler’s darkest and most personal work, or maybe it’s that Rose’s Lime Juice is an inferior mixer that deserves retirement.

Next I turned to Jim Meehan’s The PDT Cocktail Book. Meehan’s gimlet uses both fresh lime juice and lime cordial. I didn’t have the time (or the dozen limes) to follow his simple recipe for the latter so I opted for the Rose’s again, largely defeating the purpose of the exercise. The pucker factor was initially quite high, but as the drink settled it walked a tightrope between the authentic sourness of the lime and the Rose’s residual sweetness. Still, not a patch on the Last Word.

The Big Sleep

I stumbled onto a third variation. Brandon Herring, co-founder of the website BarNotes, accidentally combined the makings of a martini and a gimlet in the same beaker with gin being the common denominator. The resulting drink, he decided, could only be called The Big Sleep. I found it a touch too sweet with a lot going on in the glass but it’s still a solid spin, the dry vermouth an interesting counterpoint to the lime.

The Bennett

Terry Lennox sits in Victor’s and grouses, “They don’t know how to make them here ... What they call a gimlet is just some lime or lemon juice and gin with a dash of sugar and bitters.” By stage four of my experiment, that was sounding pretty good to me. Even Marlowe, late in The Long Goodbye, requests bitters in his gimlet “just for tonight.”

As it happens, that drink has a name. The Bennett, so called after a Chilean land baron of the 1920s, is easily the belle of this particular ball. It alone achieves a balance of flavors, the lime a constant tart presence held in check by the welcoming leveling influence of Angostura. It’s the only one of these four I’d regularly make, in part because Terry Lennox would hate it. He’s nothing but trouble, that guy. And he doesn’t know a damn thing about drinking.

The Gimlet, Terry Lennox edition

½ gin
½ Rose’s Lime Juice

Stir. Strain. No garnish. No chance.

The Gimlet, Jim Meehan edition

2 oz. gin
¾ oz. lime cordial
¾ oz. fresh lime juice

Shake. Strain. Garnish with a lime wheel.

The Big Sleep

Brandon Herring

2 ¼ oz. gin
¾ oz. dry vermouth
¾ oz. fresh lime juice
½ oz. simple syrup
dash of orange bitters

Shake. Strain. Lemon peel around the rim and discard.

The Bennett

2 oz. gin
1 oz. fresh lime juice
½ oz. simple syrup
2 dashes Angostura bitters

Shake. Strain. No garnish.

Down The Hatch: The Cover

Time at last to draw back the curtains on another of my harebrained schemes. Coming to Kindle on Tuesday, October 1, it’s ... Down The Hatch: One Man’s One Year Odyssey Through Classic Cocktail Recipes And Lore.

Honestly, it was worth the effort just that cover alone, a beauty designed by my friend and Noir City colleague Michael Kronenberg.

Down The Hatch collects the first fifty-two Cocktail of the Week posts, revised and updated. There’s more than fifty-two recipes, though, because I’m just that generous. Also included is an introduction explaining how I came to the cocktail party late in life and refuse to go home.

To whet your appetite, here’s Gaz Regan, author of The Joy of Mixology, on Down The Hatch:

Fancy a good cocktail, and a well-told-tale to read while you sip it? This is the book for you. Vince is obviously passionate when it comes to cocktails, and he does a damned fine job of telling us how everything came together for him in this great compilation of fine drinks.

What, you’re not going to listen to Gaz? I’m giving you two weeks’ notice. Adjust your schedules and plan accordingly.

Cocktail of the Week: The Vesper

It’s not just that Ian Fleming stops Casino Royale dead to provide a drink recipe, but that the recipe is so specific.

“Three measures of Gordon’s, one of Vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel.”

Brand awareness is a Fleming trademark, the author deciding that the labels in the clothes also make the man. Cultural historian Jeet Heer observed that “Fleming’s use of brand names, often dismissed as snobbery, was inseparable from his larger strengths as a storyteller,” while author Larry Beinhart praised the device as “a wonderful and indispensable trick … to create the illusion of verisimilitude.” Fleming pioneered a literary gambit that Bret Easton Ellis took to its excessive conclusion. Daniel Craig reels off the recipe in the 2006 film, even though Kina Lillet changed its name (and its formula) twenty years earlier.

What about the schizophrenic martini that is the Vesper itself? I enter into evidence the fact that once the drink’s namesake meets her fate in the novel, 007 never knocks back another one. The Vesper may not be an original creation, with some speculating Fleming appropriated the recipe from an acquaintance. But novelists are allowed to dissemble. When it comes to cocktails Fleming reminds me of Ernest Hemingway, another famous tippler credited with deep knowledge simply because he had pronounced idiosyncrasies. When Bond orders a martini he requests it in a “deep champagne goblet,” for crying out loud. I never understood the point of mixing gin and vodka, although Fleming deserves credit for being ahead of the curve. He wrote Casino Royale in 1952; six years earlier vodka constituted less than 1 percent of all spirits consumed in the United States. Bartender and Fleming fan Murray Stenson told me, “People always remember ‘shaken, not stirred’ but they don’t realize how rare vodka was at the time Bond asked for it. Ordering vodka was part of what made him an anti-hero.”

I became intrigued by Fleming’s folly anew with the availability of Cocchi Americano, a white moscato aperitif made with an infusion of cinchona bark. It’s a closer approximation of the taste of Kina Lillet than the product’s successor Lillet Blanc, possessing the bitterness that would have been present when Fleming made the drink.

Bartenders will advise you to shake a Vesper, Fleming’s instructions be damned. James Bond prefers shaken cocktails because he wants them very cold. So do I. I shake my martinis. I still stir the Vesper, because I’m perverse that way.

Choice of gin is crucial. The vodka will dilute it so you want a sturdy one that won’t fold under questioning. In the Fleming spirit, I’ll name my spirit: Tanqueray. The Cocchi Americano does make a difference, providing a spiciness and snap Lillet Blanc does not. Given the choice I’ll always take a gin martini over the Vesper, but the addition of an ingredient closer to Fleming’s preference gives his signature cocktail real character.

I like making the Vesper for another reason. It’s fitting that the creator of the most famous espionage series of all time would popularize a cocktail that acts as the perfect stealth operative. Reverse the ratios of the two primary ingredients and you have a concoction that awakens vodka drinkers to the possibilities of gin. The cool spirit they favor predominates with the hint of juniper acting like a sleeper agent, doing its valuable work in the shadows.

The Vesper

Ian Fleming, probably

2 ¼ oz. gin
¾ oz. vodka
½ oz. Cocchi Americano

Stir. Strain. Garnish with a large thin slice of lemon peel. Do not consume in a cane chair with the seat removed.

Cocktail of the Week: The Algonquin

There are drinks you love. There are drinks you like. Then there are drinks you think you should like.

Consider the Algonquin. A rye cocktail named for the New York hotel where Dorothy Parker and her round table round tabled? It should be a staple, yet I’ve never warmed to it.

Maybe I was making it wrong. As the estimable Gaz Regan observed, “This is one of those drinks that call for precision pouring lest the drink get out of balance.” Time to turn to a professional. On a trip to the Zig Zag Café, I ordered one.

Erik leaned on the bar and looked me in the eye. “Do you like that drink?” he asked. “That’s one of those drinks I think I should like. Maybe I’m making it wrong.” Always a joy to find a like-minded brother in the trenches. I ended up having a different rye cocktail, one that I liked without having to think about it.

Frank Case, who owned and managed “The Gonk” during its glory years, wrote that while New York City boasted “other spots of interest and some distinction,” his hotel “is only the heart from which goes out warmth and light sufficient to make these other places possible for human habitation.” (Today he’d be barred from posting such glowing praise of his own establishment on Trip Advisor.) Many a drink was poured at the Algonquin with several laying claim to the hotel’s name, the best known being one made with rum and blackberry brandy. Odds are Dottie, Bob Benchley and the rest of the Vicious Circle never sipped any of these libations; as cocktail historian David Wondrich observed, they were strictly a highball-and-martini crowd.

So where did the rye-and-pineapple concoction popularly known as the Algonquin come from? In 2003’s The Joy of Mixology, Regan noted that he couldn’t find a reference to this iteration of the drink prior to the 1980s. But in 2011’s The PDT Cocktail Book, Jim Meehan cites a spirit-forward recipe from G. Selmer Fougner’s Along The Wine Trail (1935). Fougner was the first wine critic for a New York newspaper. His daily – daily! – column ran during the height of the Depression and typically tipped the scales at around 3,000 words. (He’d write about restaurants, too.) I don’t have Fougner’s book, but a search of its table of contents turned up a drink called “The New Algonquin,” perhaps explaining the confusion.

I made another attempt at the Algonquin for several reasons. First, its pedigree, however clouded, continued to beguile. Second, I had all of Meehan’s recommended ingredients down to the brand names (Rittenhouse bonded rye, Dolin dry vermouth). Third, I now have ready access to fresh pineapple juice. I was convinced that this was the sticking point, even though both Regan and Meehan agree that canned (unsweetened) pineapple juice works perfectly well in mixed drinks. Note that pineapple juice froths when shaken, so you’re advised to stir this cocktail.

Verdict: It ain’t the juice. And I’m still not sold on the Algonquin.

I lay blame for my reservations on the vermouth. As stated earlier, I’m not a fan of perfect Manhattans because dry vermouth tends to blunt whiskey’s flavor. Without sweet vermouth to compensate, the effect is even more pronounced. The Algonquin feels incomplete, waiting for a grace note that never comes. Other recipes suggest the addition of bitters, specifically Peychaud’s or the more exotic Fee Brothers West Indian Orange, and either might well provide the finish this drink sorely lacks.

I’m tempted to try it with bitters and give the Algonquin one final chance to win me over. The fresh pineapple did make a difference, particularly when paired with Rittenhouse’s robustness. The drink may have been unsatisfying, but it was undeniably strong. Unlike Dottie and her martinis, it wouldn’t take three of these to put me under the table.

The Algonquin

2 oz. rye
¾ oz. dry vermouth
¾ oz. pineapple juice

Stir. Strain. No garnish.

Extra, Extra!: Noir City

Be forewarned. The latest issue of Noir City, the magazine of the Film Noir Foundation, is extremely graphic.

That’s because the focus this time out is on comics as a noir medium. Ace designer Michael Kronenberg has pulled out all the stops illustrating this edition, with articles on EC’s “Picto-Fiction” books, the work of urban chronicler supreme Ben Katchor, and a host of other comics-related subjects. There’s also our standard coverage of classic film noir, with Jake Hinkson on the sad career of femme fatale Peggie Castle, a survey of 1960s exploitation fare, and a consideration of the noir roots of Christopher Nolan.

And, of course, another installment of “Keenan’s Korner,” my crime fiction & cocktails column. In this go-round, I take a look at new books from Sara Gran, Urban Waite and Roger Hobbs, and serve up the lowdown on a dark rum favorite for the end of summer.

For your copy, visit the Film Noir Foundation website, make a contribution to the preservation of America’s noir heritage, then clear the decks to devote several hours to the magazine.

Cocktail of the Week: The Last of the Summer Cocktails

Ah, Labor Day. Our final chance to get summer right.

Instead of posting a new cocktail, here’s a medley of seasonal classics and one new favorite, all of them designed to help you beat the heat one more time. With base spirits a’plenty!

The Tom Collins (gin)
The Cuba Libre (rum)
The Moscow Mule (vodka)
The Dark & Stormy (dark rum)
The Harvey Wheelbanger (rye, and no, I don’t want to talk about Matt Harvey yet)
The Paloma (tequila)

And if you’re hosting a farewell to the summer blowout, here’s the can’t-miss, make a batch early, equal parts recipe for the Corpse Reviver #2.

Movie: The Gamers: Hands of Fate (2013)

The main thing I want to convey is that you can watch this movie for free if you act quickly. And you should. But first ...

Full Disclosure #1: I’ve got history with the primary mover and shaker behind it, co-writer/co-director Matt Vancil. We put in time in the videogame salt mines together. So believe me when I say Vancil is one of the funniest people I know. I’m also friends with several members of the cast.

Full Disclosure #2: I backed the movie on Kickstarter, where it was, for a time, the most funded feature film in the website’s history. What wrested the title from it? A stop-motion project written by Academy Award winner Charlie Kaufman and produced by Community creator Dan Harmon. Which, in turn, has been supplanted by Spike Lee, Zach Braff and Veronica Mars. So believe me when I say Vancil and his colleagues at Dead Gentlemen and Zombie Orpheus were crowdfunding when it meant something, dammit.

Hands of Fate is a romantic fantasy adventure comedy that takes the Gamers characters from the realm of RPGs (role-playing games) into that of CCGs (collectible card games). Speaking of which, this would be a good time for ...

Full Disclosure #3: I’m not a gamer. At all. I had to look those terms up. I had no inkling of how Dungeons & Dragons even worked until I saw 2008’s The Gamers: Dorkness Rising. After watching these movies, I have zero interest in ever playing games of either the RP or CC variety. But that lack of knowledge didn’t diminish my enjoyment one iota, because what the film has in spades – and what it’s fundamentally about – is passion. Recently, I was sitting in a minor-league ballpark in Tacoma having an intense conversation about how defensive baseball metrics like UZR are unreliable and the now-critical stat Wins Above Replacement (WAR) is dependent on the performance of a non-standardized hypothetical athlete. Everybody’s got their something where (almost) nobody knows what the hell they’re talking about. In my case, I have several. (See: film noir, crime fiction, cocktails, the aforementioned baseball ...)

Bringing me to the first thing I love about the movie: its refusal to water down its content. It’s aimed squarely at the hardcore gaming community, larded with jokes that only the cognoscenti will cognoscent. But Vancil and his cohorts trust that in making the details of their subject specific, the underlying emotions will become universal. Plus there’s the added anthropological benefit of translating the lingo; early on, Rosemarie said, “I feel like I’m watching a movie in Lithuanian.” And she liked it more than me.

I also love its ambition. The Gamers: Hands of Fate develops characters from previous films and unfolds in worlds real and imagined that frequently collide. At times it’s overly ambitious; there are clunky subplots and complicated ideas introduced without sufficient set-up. (An extended edition is in the works.) But for its occasional stumbles the movie brims with enthusiasm for the notions it plays with, and sets up tantalizing possibilities for future installments.

Above all, I love its humor. I said Vancil was funny. At its core, the movie is about a guy who falls for a girl, immerses himself in her favorite thing, and gets more than he bargained for. Including an army of the undead. What’s not to love?

The Gamers: Hands of Fate is streaming in its entirety for free via YouTube through Saturday, August 31, after which it will be available for a pittance. It’s a holiday weekend. You’ve got time.

Cocktail of the Week: The French Intervention

Yes, it’s my second consecutive tequila drink. Once I didn’t even like tequila. I’m expanding my comfort zone, trying new things. Stop inhibiting me!

This cocktail comes courtesy of Amy Stewart’s best-selling The Drunken Botanist: The Plants That Create The World’s Great Drinks. Her book is a fascinating exploration of the biology behind booze that features multiple recipes, including one for a cocktail that Stewart has called “a better tribute to the agave plant than a margarita is.” Both its name and its ingredients stem from a historical incident. I will now change one of those ingredients and wreck that symmetry completely.

The French Intervention refers to Napoleon III’s 1862 invasion of Mexico. Under President Benito Juárez, Mexico opted to stop paying its foreign creditors. Three of them – Spain, England and France – joined forces to make the debtor nation come across. But when the first two countries learned that France, hoping to forge a Catholic hegemony in the New World, had designs on taking all of Mexico, they stopped answering their phones and were all, like, What? Was that this weekend? We were at Jordan’s the whole time.

France eventually installed a Habsburg, Maximilian I, as emperor, because who better to rule Mexico than an Austrian? They’re two countries separated only by an ocean, a few other bodies of water, several mountain ranges, language, temperament, cuisine and culture. Maximilian’s reign lasted three years and ended with him losing Mexico and his head.

This global misadventure inspired numerous cocktails, including the Maximilian Affair and several drinks marching under the French Intervention banner. To honor its namesake, most variations have a base spirit from Mexico (tequila or mezcal) and a modifier from France such as elderflower liqueur. Stewart’s version incorporates Lillet Blanc.

Mine doesn’t. I have of late been substituting Cocchi Americano for Lillet in cocktails, and made no exception here even though it throws the narrative out of whack. Stewart at least prescribes a dash of green chartreuse, which is also French. And Cocchi Americano’s Italian origin also suits the tale, given that Pope Pius IX blessed Maximilian before he left for his ill-fated bid at monarchy. (One of Juárez’s first acts as President was to nationalize church property.) Later, when France was on the verge of abandoning Mexico, Maximilian’s wife Empress Carlota returned to Europe to plead their case and, paranoid, demanded to stay overnight in the Vatican, becoming the first woman to do so. Meaning that if anything, my take on this cocktail is more attuned to the subtleties of 19th century geopolitics.

The French Intervention buttresses Stewart’s belief that agave-based spirits play well in cocktails. The trace of chartreuse accentuates the tequila to salutary effect, with Cocchi Americano’s extra snap of cinchona a welcome addition. I wouldn’t rank it ahead of the margarita, but it’s still a drink both magnifico and formidable.

The French Intervention

Variation on a recipe by Amy Stewart

1 ½ oz. tequila (or mezcal)
¾ oz. Cocchi Americano (originally Lillet Blanc)
dash of green chartreuse

Stir. Strain. Garnish with a grapefruit twist.

Movie: Drug War (U.S. 2013)

The latest film from the hugely talented Johnnie To is the best movie I’ve seen all summer and stands at an impressive 97% rating on Rotten Tomatoes – yet I feel like nobody’s talking about it. So here I am, days late, telling you to go see it while you can.

An epic policier set in mainland China, Drug War opens with Timmy Choi (To regular Louis Koo) fleeing an explosion in his meth factory that kills his wife and several members of his family. He’s not fast enough to escape Captain Zhang and his drug squad, however. Facing the death penalty, Choi agrees to wire Zhang into an already-in-the-works deal that could ultimately bring down the biggest cartel in Asia.

What follows is a taut, fast-moving film as the deal grows, involving more players and layers of deception. Sun Hong-Lei is astonishing as Zhang, a laconic presence with a preternatural flair for role-playing. He’s always on his guard with Choi, though, whose grief masks ruthless calculation. The cops are constantly dealing with transportation issues and lack of sleep, and the script’s random bits of strangeness and low comedy further ground a heightened tale in reality. Find a theater where it’s playing. Thank me later. Here’s the trailer.