I’m not trying on purpose to make this blog exclusively about cocktails, but I suppose I’ve been doing more drinking lately than cooking (pass the Advil), and, god, this is the city for it.

We went to an art opening and performance Saturday night in Hayes Valley, and the idea was to walk from our place and stop for a cocktail on the way. The place we stopped was Elixir, on 16^th and Guerrero, a bar I’d never been to, but knew was on the long list, at least, for interesting drink. We both selected drinks off the cocktail menu, and I was pretty ready for The Shirazerac, which purported to complicate the Sazerac (until later that night my favorite drink) with Shiraz. But there was a wrinkle. The bartender explained that the owner “hid” the ingredients, and that he didn’t know a) how to make the drink and b) where the ingredients for the drink were. (Cue sound of deflating balloon). Luckily, he could make Alli’s drink, a vodka/cucumber/kumquat thing that was nice and refreshing. But I decided, out of a strong desire to not make our bartender’s shift any more unpleasant, to try the house-aged tequila straight up. It was great, actually, and I found myself saying to Alli that I wanted to start trying to do this more often: when visiting terrific drink establishments (Alembic, Nopa, etc), I would try to expand my knowledge of spirits by trying them straight (bourbon, rye, tequila) or simply chilled (gin).

I was going to eat those words within the hour.

The walk from Elixir to Hayes Valley took way less time than I predicted, and we found ourselves with half an hour to kill. In Hayes Valley. Ugh. Sorry, Hayes Valleyans and fans. I worked for many years at a café/bar establishment there and while some of that experience (and the people involved) spark nostalgic good-feeling, mostly when I think of Hayes Valley my chest tightens and my mood plummets into my espresso-grimed shoes. Not interested in shopping for four hundred dollar shirts, I proposed having a beer at Suppenkuche, somewhat of an oasis. But it was horrendously packed, even at the early hour. So with 29 minutes left to kill, we decided to check out Absinthe.

We ran into friends there, and luckily it was not as congested, and the night was mild, so we were able to all sit outside. We shared the charcuterie plate (hurrah for the charcuterie plate and the best mortadella I’ve ever had (including in Italy—though the disclaimer for that is I didn’t eat too much of it there. It’s hard for me to pick mortadella over, uh, say, wild boar and fennel salami)) and instead of walking the walk and expanding my spirit-palate, I ordered the Bob-Tailed Nag at our server’s recommendation.

OMG.

Best. Cocktail. Ever.

Or not really, right? Like anything else, it’s wholly subjective. Really what I should say is, drinking at these places serves to teach me what I like, because I actually don’t know. Cooking, of course, teaches you the same thing. But not having access to the really overwhelming array of spirits and tinctures and bitters that are available, it takes time and effort, at least for me, to get a good grasp on which of those spirits and tinctures and bitters, and in what combinations with fruits, and vegetables, and herbs are most pleasing to me.

So it’s more correct to say that the Bob-Tailed Nag at Absinthe is exactly what I like, at least on a mild Saturday evening in May of 2008. I reserve the right to have my mind blown elsewhere. The BTN sort of alludes to two classic whiskey cocktails, the Manhattan and the Derby. It’s made from Michter’s Single Barrel Straight Rye, mint bitters, a lemon twist, and the surprise: Cocchi Barolo Chinato, an herbaceous Italian spirit that just moved to no. 1 on the must-have-around list. (This list, of course, now perfectly conforms to the recipe for the Bob-Tailed Nag.) Like any great cocktail, each of the ingredients lets its presence be known, and yet the sum is far greater than any of its parts. I’m sure Michter’s is fabulous in a glass with nothing else but air, and after I run out to buy mint bitters on my lunch break, I’m sure I can tell you that a chilled whiskey with vermouth is improved by the bitters. But in combination, this is an achievement.

I’ll remember this next time I do find myself in one of these places, these great places to drink. A spontaneous walk, a little luck, and these freaking genius half-scientist, half-artist people with aprons and shakers: they really can make life better than the sum of its parts.