Don’t get them gifts, get them drunk
When I was growing up I was always told that if you made something for someone, it was that little bit more special than if you had bought it. I’m sure this was an attempt to impart the lesson of “it’s the thought that counts” but it didn’t really take root until I was in my mid twenties and bartending full time. I wasn’t particularly artistic in the traditional sense, and for the longest time I felt I had nothing to offer in the way of sincere, thoughtful, personal gifts or gestures for the people I cared about. What followed was a series of uninspired, painfully tacky, asinine gifts from “For Dad” sections that still shame me profoundly. It dawned on me finally, like a stumbling, slurring, divine revelation: we’re Scottish, nothing is appreciated more than a good drink.
I hate to reinforce negative stereotypes and I would never normally advocate getting your family drunk, naturally there are limits and exceptions. They may be the closest people to you in your life but nothing ruins the holidays like a pissed up patriarch who’s taking the term ‘Boxing Day’ a bit too seriously. I do think, however, that once you find a skill, or develop it over time, the fruits of your passion tend to be more greatly appreciated than the ones of your credit card. Last August my sister was getting married, and I was hell-bent on finding a suitable present to express my happiness for her new life; they’re both medical professionals so whatever I thought could be an appropriate gift was beyond me.The news that we were having a party the day after the wedding with just family and close friends was the last minute spark of inspiration I needed. Before I knew it I had designed a small cocktail menu that reflected the newlyweds. You should consider some basic things before you launch into the specifics of what you’re pouring, for example: your audience, your materials, budget, and what your workspace is going to be. I didn’t have cocktail snobs or industry professionals in the room so something approachable, not overly complex, and that could be made simply in my step mum’s kitchen. The most important thing with making cocktails is, as with most things, balance. Does the booze you’ve chosen match the flavours you’re looking at? Is it seasonally appropriate? Is anything on the nose overwhelming whatever you’ve put in the glass? If you’ve got a basic understanding of these, then you should really be focussing on what sets a cocktail apart: storytelling.
In bars and restaurants, having every little detail means something specific is unnecessary. Your guest is likely to spank it in 30 seconds flat before you can talk about why you chose specific glassware (there’s a good chance an espresso martini is ordered right after and your heart sinks). This was more of a cocktail competition approach, something much more intentional and designed for people who want to know every little detail. I started with base spirits that reflected the personality of the two, a boozy horoscope if you will, just much more interesting and much more accurate. Gin for my sister: elegant, gentle, yet profound. Rum for my brother in law: robust, full of character, plenty of quirks and interesting bits you enjoy every time you go back to it. Choosing specific ingredients, or even the style of your drink can be a nice way to add personal touches; serving the drink short as a nod to the insistence that Grieg is 5”9 despite the blindingly obvious proof to the contrary. Try your hardest to come up with a name that balances humour, heartfelt sentiment, and something just cheesy enough to illicit an eyeroll. You should have something like this:
For a brief moment, I felt like I was working a shift in my own house, seasoning drinks with the sweat I was working up, using my older brother to run drinks, running to do check backs with my ‘guests’. It was uncanny how familiar it was: running out of glasses, cursing my own garnishes, and I even had a drunk waiter. Oh good, I am at work. To complete the scene, the cheap bastards didn’t even tip. After the dust settled, I looked out at my rosy cheeked nearest and dearest and realised I might have done well, I might have even impressed. The clan was happy, and so was I. It’s incredibly important to me that I can do my job well, and on a more basic level, it’s more important to me that people feel looked after; this element of hospitality is something ingrained deeply in my family, but also in the Scottish psyche as a whole. I’m frequently surprised that this country doesn’t get more flowers for its high level of service and sheer amount of talent in the bar scene, Glasgow alone holds 100 bartenders far more talented and accommodating than me, must be what’s in the tap water.
There was a brief moment when the well of ideas was so barren for what to do for the wedding, that I considered using my acting qualification for a one-man-show and interpretive dance. The realization I was much better at mixing drinks than I ever was at monologues came swiftly (the show would’ve got a fair 2.5 star review at The Fringe I feel). A good drink is a powerful thing, so just remember the next time you’re not sure how to show someone you love them: It’s the thought that counts but it’s the splitting headache in the morning that makes you remember how good it was.
