Alexander's Sister Cocktail

There was a time when I was deeply addicted to creamy cocktails. From White Russians to Nuts and Berries, B-52s to Brandy Alexanders, I drank them all; depending on how many I put down, I occasionally licked the glass. Basically, as long as a drink had the flavor and texture of melted ice cream spiked with Everclear, I was happy.

Not quite a girl-drink drunk, but close enough.

The inimitable Julie introduced me to my first grown-up creamy drink. A bar-poured B-52 can be truly beautiful: lovingly-balanced layers of Kahlua, Bailey's Irish Cream, and Grand Marnier line up in a glass, suggesting a smoggy sunset or perhaps the sienna-toned frames of cinematic memory. The color palette is pure Indiana Jones, and the flavor is a rich mix of rich and sweet. Yes indeed, a well-executed B-52 is a work of art.

Admittedly, most of our freshman year B-52s were a lot sloppier; in fact, I remember a couple of nights in which we basically put down glass after glass of a khaki-colored ooze that we surreptitiously poured from a convenient plastic flip-top container. While not quite as aesthetically pleasing as a properly executed B-52, they were easier to hide from the cops, should the need arise.

Maybe I'll learn to make a perfect B-52. Now THAT would be a useful skill.

While the B-52 occupies a special place in my heart, I chalk up my creamy drink love to bad childhood influences. When I was a rugrat, my father often took us out to eat at various military bases, where I soon learned a vital lesson: for all their culinary shortcomings, most Officers' clubs are able to put together a first-rate mint parfait. The layers of vanilla ice cream, interspersed with thick lashings of creme de menthe, were a delicious introduction to the world of booze.

The Alexander's Sister cocktail brings to mind the best aspects of those childhood parfaits. The relatively small amount of light cream translates into a drink that isn't quite as heavy as most creamy cocktails. It also isn't too complex, either. Basically, this is a nice ice-creamy concoction that is lightly minty, a bit more grown up, and extremely refreshing.

As a side note, the little sprinkle of nutmeg on top was nice, but could be easily substituted for chocolate shavings, a sprig of mint, or even a maraschino cherry.

Alexander's Sister Cocktail
(from Mr. Boston Official Bartender Guide

1 ounce dry gin
1 ounce creme de menthe (green)
1 ounce light cream

Shake with ice and strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with fresh-grated nutmeg on top

Palm Beach

During my freshman year of college, the biggest influence on my social development was probably my friend Julie. Possessed of two older siblings, she'd had years of instruction in all the important things, like how to mix a drink, how to befriend a bartender, and generally how to avoid appearing spastic in social situations. Better yet, Julie had lived in Greece, where the drinking age was low and largely unenforced. All in all, she had a wealth of knowledge about alcohol, bar behavior, and general sophistication, much of which she imparted with generosity and flair.

Over my Christmas break, she invited me to a New Year's party at her cousin's house. With vague promises of drinking, debauchery, and unimaginable delights, she convinced me to throw myself into a frenzy of total strangers and awkward interactions.

It would be fair to say that I was the star student of Julie's informal finishing school, and she was almost as nervous as I. In the days leading up to the party, she gave me all sorts of advice and admonitions. I was not only a partygoer; in the context of this event, I would also be a representative of my generation. I was to drink well and regularly, showing that I, like my elders, was capable of consuming liquor with vigor and elan. I asked for -- and received -- advice on dress, behavior, and other key aspects of the vital social graces. By the time the day arrived, I was prepped within an inch of my life.

Julie was no fool: she realized that, while her older cousins and siblings would be providing the booze, she and I would be providing much of the cultural currency. Consequently, we worked out a playlist of cool Indigo Girls, B-52s and Edie Brickell CDs that I should bring. Also, she suggested that offering my hosts a bottle of something or other would be a classy move.

The booze proved problematic. I was eighteen, didn't have a fake ID, and was located far from the grasp of any older relatives who might have been willing to contribute to my growing delinquency. I looked about three years younger than my age, and had neither the confidence nor the grace to pull off the old "Mister, will you buy me a bottle" trick. As the quick days between Christmas and New Years dropped away, it became clear that providing booze was going to be a serious issue.

Finally, with the party drawing nearer and nearer, I worked up my nerve and snagged an old, half-empty bottle of sweet vermouth from my parents' living room liquor cabinet. I wrapped it in an old sweater and smuggled it out to my car.

When the party came, I showed up, CDs and vermouth in hand. The site of the bacchanal -- a tract home in Herndon, Virginia -- turned out to be far less frightening than I had expected. The host's children were sweet and surprisingly polite when their parents whisked them upstairs to bed. All in all, it was oddly reminiscent of the parties that my parents used to throw when I was a little kid.

While my CDs were greeted with enthusiasm and interest, the sweet vermouth inspired a long, uncomfortable pause. Finally, Julie's brother Peter stepped into the breach, proclaiming "Great! Now we can have Manhattans!" I could have hugged him. Later, in fact, I think I did.

Although I didn't know a Manhattan from a Long Island Iced Tea, I appreciated the save and smiled as if Peter had perfectly guessed my intention. I handed over the sweet vermouth and settled into a great party.

The next morning, I woke up in a strange bed with a dry mouth and a grinding headache. Over the next half hour or so, I caught glimpses of my fellow day-after zombies as I drank coffee, tried to joke with the kids, and hustled out the door. On my way to the car, Julie's cousin ran out and handed me a bottle. It was the sweet vermouth, untouched since the previous night. Realizing the difficulty of smuggling it back into the house, I tried to talk her into keeping it. She politely -- yet firmly -- refused.

At any rate, I have since learned that a little sweet vermouth, carefully applied in the right place, can be a bit of heaven. This is one such case: the Palm Beach is a good summer drink, slightly tart, yet balanced with a creamy caramel taste. It is cool, refreshing, and has a nice light tan color.

Palm Beach
(from The Ultimate A-to-Z Bar Guide

1 1/2 ounces gin
1 1/2 ounces sweet vermouth
1 1/2 teaspoons unsweetened grapefruit juice

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into chilled cocktail glass.