I never touched the equipment in my high school chemistry lab for two reasons. The first was that I grew up watching The Muppets, in which Beaker, the poor schmuck of a lab assistant, inevitably gets tortured in Dr Bunsen Honeydew’s experiments. The second was that one of my classmates spilled acid on his crotch one day and we never saw him again. Needless to say I valued my own equipment far too much to ever get near the school’s.
So when I sit at the bar counter at EDV Apothecary and watch the barman clamp some beakers onto a laboratory retort stand, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t cross my legs.
Located right outside Eau De Vie (in the corridor leading up to it), EDV Apothecary is run by Phil Gandevia (aka Dr Phil), whose encyclopaedic knowledge of cocktail lore is almost as terrifying as the science equipment. However, although the drinks are prepared in vials and beakers, the main emphasis is on using botanicals – even the iced water here is infused with beetroot.
The most unusual cocktail is the What’s Up Doc (see pic below), a concoction that somehow creates beautiful alchemy from mixing pickled carrots, ginger and tequila – and I say this as someone who believes vegetables should have no part in cocktails (I even refuse to have celery in my Bloody Marys). Continue reading
As a pretentious alcoholic snob who (perhaps deludedly) thinks he makes the best cocktails this side of Hades, I rarely order cocktails in bars unless they’re really special.
Unless, for example, someone else is paying for them, or where the combination of ingredients is so batshit crazy that it just might work, or where the ingredients are too hard to prepare, such as bourbon washed with bacon. Hell, I can barely be bothered washing myself, much less my liquor.
However, the Neighbourhood Bar in Bondi Beach is not your average gin joint. Yeah, sure, it has its own radio station (called Bondi Radio) in a tiny booth down the back, but for me it’s the Caramel Corn Old Fashioned that makes it special.
Made with buttered popcorn-washed Bulleit bourbon, Talisker 10-year-old single malt, salted caramel syrup, and a splash of orange bitters, this is the best cocktail I’ve had in months. Easy. Continue reading
To the bitch who spilled half a glass of red wine on me on Sat night:
What the hell is wrong with you?
Don’t get me wrong: I don’t have an issue with accidentally spilling drinks (hey, shit happens when you party drunk) – but at least have the etiquette to apologise afterwards.
You don’t have to say, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I spilled wine on the hottest hunk of mancake (or should that be Dancake?) in this bar. You are a god and I will self flagellate myself for weeks” – although I don’t think that would be going too far. However, I would settle for you at least having the decency to look me in the eye and say, “Oh. Oops. Sorry.”
But no. Not even that. Instead, you nasty cow who drinks cheap sub-standard house red (I could smell it as it soaked into my shirt’s very fibres), you simply looked at me as if it were my fault for getting between your cheap excuse for liquor and the floor before soullessly turning away. To you I unleash the full voodoo curse of Bar Zine: may you never drink anything other than house red again. Continue reading
When I first moved to the north shore after living in the inner west for 17 years, all my friends – without exception – told me I was making a mistake.
“Why?” they kept asking. “Why would you do that?”
I did it out of desperation – my slum building was being torn down and I moved into the first place that would take me and my cat – but instead I told people that the inner west was for suckers and that if you truly wanted darkness and despair then you had to move to the north. After all, as any David Lynch or John Waters fan knows, true debauchery can only survive in the well-heeled burbs. In the inner city it’s mere posturing.
I’m saying all this because when I go to Wilcox, a new small bar that’s opened in Cammeray, I’m desperately hoping to find Dennis Hopper and Isabella Rossellini in a corner, drinking martinis while dancing to 1950s Americana. Instead, however, I find men in sweater vests and boat shoes talking to women who could have stepped out of a Country Road ad. Newtown and Glebe, this is not.
To compensate for the clean cut clientele I order a dirty martini – or, more specifically, Wilcox’s variation on this classic: the Filthy Martini. Continue reading