“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 21 Notes:
The story of two worlds merging. One of death and disease. The other of progress. While the two worlds existing at the same time, seems unlikely, it’s true. And makes for one heck of a tale. Follow the story of Fran, as he cuts and slices his way into history, alongside his arch nemesis Richard.
Transcript for Podcast Episode
*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.
They came in a stream, dying and begging to be saved. Yet, he could save none of them. Still, he tried. The slicing and cutting seemed like it would never end. Fran looked at the damage done both by him and the plague. It looked ugly. All hope seemed lost. If they didn’t find a cure, everything would be over.
Fran left his patient on the table and exited into the waiting room, where the expectant gazes of those looking on immediately saw the failure in his face. He shook his head, confirming this.
“There was…nothing to be done.”
Then he pushed past them and headed outside for some fresh air. Fran had studied medicine most of his adult life, but even this seemed too much. The plague that was sweeping through Europe right now had devastating effects.
They’d tried all the usual things. Burning the lifeless, diseased, remnants. Isolation. There was simply nothing to be done.
How could this be happening at a time when so much good also seemed to be occurring? As if to echo this point, his eyes went to the metal skeleton rising out of the ground in a cautious point that jabbed the sky. Men climbed the growing structure and large hunks of steels were rising little by little like metal fingers. Scaffolding rose like tooth picks from the ground below.
“Still no luck?”
The familiar voice of Richard caught Fran by surprise. He hadn’t expected him, but Richard always had a way of showing up at the worst time.
“Not yet.” He grunted, never taking his eyes off the rising structure.
“They say it’ll be the most incredible World’s Fair yet.” Richard pointed. “And why shouldn’t it be with a tower like that serving as the entrance way.
“But, will they finish it in time?” Fran’ voice came out rough. Much rougher than he wanted it to, but the continued spreading of the plague concerned him. And his continued failure to contain it, was unnerving.
Richard huffed. “Gustave Eiffel has guaranteed it.”
Neither man spoke for a long time. Then Richard broke the silence. “Well, I must get getting. Good luck and all that. There is to be an art show today featuring an artist Vincent something or other that’s supposed to be quite good. Although his art looks like splotches on a page and I’ve never been quite fond of it. But, it’s the dancing I’m looking forward to after. Liane will be performing tonight at The Moulin Rouge.”
Fran inhaled sharply and caught himself. Liane de Pougy was a beautiful woman. He’d seen her dance at a cabaret once and it was almost other worldly the way she moved her body and told a story.
Francies smiled and grunted again. “La Belle Epoque.” He said and trailed off.
“La Belle Epoque.” Richard’s voice was no more than a whisper and he inclined his head slightly as he spoke.
Richard and Fran were nothing like each other. Sure, they were both in their twenties, young and strapping men with the world before them. But, one had studied medicine and was determined to make the world a better place. The other, was the son of a rich merchant and cared more for business than people.
And Fran, well he was no businessman. He had noble ambitions. And his heart broke at the current climate, the plague ravaging through Europe, even as the other areas of culture and technology exploded.
Why, just the other day he’d heard about another French man who was creating a black, spongy substance that was soft enough to hold some malleability, but stiff enough to hold its shape. There was talk of, get this, using the substance to replace the wooden wheels of the traditional bicycle.
“It is an exciting time to be alive, despite…” Fran couldn’t finish the sentence.
Richard put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, my friend. This plague…when will it end. It’s causing so many problems.”
But, there was an odd glint in Richard’s eye, an emotion that Fran couldn’t name. He wasn’t entirely sure that Richard wanted the plague to end. After all, he was benefiting marvelously from it. Yet, only a cruel, uncultured human could wish for such tragedy for the sake of profits.
Richard donned his hat once more and took his leave, and Fran went back to his work. He had to find a solution. Many lives were counting on him. He frowned and his immaculate mustache dipped in chorus. Richard had looked so smug too. He wondered how he could even think about profiting off such a disaster. It was so beneath a Frenchman to do something like that.
If the Franco-Prussian War from a decade ago had taught them anything, it was that showing pride and dominance wasn’t always the right course of action. For the French, a people that were steeped in the little man syndrome of Napolean, this was a lesson most didn’t heed.
At the time of the War of 1870, Fran had been a teenager and his parents had scurried him away from the conflict that spilled over to a four month siege of Paris, before the city fell. He’d left the country to study medicine elsewhere and returned only when those two fools, curse them both, had returned from America bringing the plague with them.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get the destruction out of his mind. The withered, dying limbs. Life slowly suffocated out of them until there was no turning back. The smell of all the burnings. The looks of devastation and loss on the faces of so many innocent people from the utter, unavoidable ruin.
Before all of this was over, Fran, in his heart, knew that not a single living thing would remain. He didn’t see how they could. The plague spread too fast, feeding on the life of one to transmit through to another. It was… unstoppable.
Still, he had to find a way to slow it down. He had to save Europe and its traditions that had endured for so many years. This desire to find a way, to save others, drove Fran back into his surgery room, where he picked up the lance once again and went to work again on a new subject, slicing and trimming.
Working off the old and dead in a technique he’d learned in University years ago. He didn’t know if it would work, but he had to try. Fran carefully wrapped the incision point and moved the patient to the recovery ward. The next forty-eight hours were critical. If the patient didn’t start showing signs of healing, then death would be imminent.
His work wasn’t cheap either. He worried about the mounting costs, that seemed as steep as all those lost and dead. Since the plague had come to Europe as an invasive species from North America, he had to import the cure from North America too.
This was an expensive endeavor that meant long travel times with precarious, living cargo that was sensitive to conditions like temperature, light, and moisture. If, by some miracle, he was able to find a cure that worked, there were also the long term effects to consider.
But, he couldn’t think about those things now. Surely, life over death was of greater importance. Yet, the cost of the cure, had to be considered. What was survival worth? He’d seen a great presentation by a man named Louis, who was exploring such questions with bacteria and germs. They were moral questions never considered before. At a time in history when so much was changing they were essential to consider, but perhaps not so essential that they needed considering over finding the cure itself.
Fran looked in at the recovery ward and the beds of patients healing. He knew the world would be a worse place, a sadder place, if they were only left with Richard and what he brought to the table. While, it was perfect for some, and represented the epitome of the height of culture in Europe, it was a far cry from the beauty and life that was being killed off right now.
Richard had been lucky. That was all. His great grandfather had purchased a drink recipe that was created by a doctor. It was also luck, that elevated that dying drink to a spot of respect and appreciation once more. Fran thought about the taste and it made him gag. He’d never been a fan of that flavor.
But, the tastes of Earth and the effect of temperature that brought out the robust, complex flavors he appreciated so much, were just different. Sure, Richard used plants like Chamomile, spinach and coriander in his drink, but there was nothing that came to match the flavors in a good glass of wine.
All that was in jeopardy now, even while Richard’s business was booming. In fact, his business had grown so much that nineteen competitors popped up within a twenty year span to also capitalize on the movement.
They were profiteers.
And he, well he was trying to do good.
Fran Baco’s heart suddenly stopped and he rushed into the room. It couldn’t be… could it. Had he…had he done it. His hands trembled as he stretched out his fingers and took the delicate, tiny green bud of new growth into his fingers.
“Yes!” He exclaimed in joy. He’d done it. He’d found a way to save all the old world grapes of Europe from the devastating Phylloxera Plague that had arrived on plants imported from North America by a few well meaning biologists.
Phylloxera
All of the slicing, trimming and fitting had been for this. The graft, between a North American vine rootstock, with greater resiliency to that pesky Phylloxera bug which was decimating whole vineyards through Europe, and a European vine was successful.
Fran Baco, a leading biologist in Europe, would end up creating at least six new grape plants that were a result of grafting a European grape to a North American rootstock. The result, when properly grafted, would be a little nodule, a knuckle, at the base of every vine from this point forward in Europe that signified the grafting process.
While Richard would continue his massive expansion of a drink that radiated luxury for the next twenty years, before leveling out in popularity, Wine would slowly start to emerge once again.
The process would be slow, and the plants that had once lived for decades and had been wiped out by the plague, would need to be started again.
And eventually, due to the curiosities and ambitions of humans, a pre-phylloxera wine would never be able to be drank again, for a true European grape could never exist without the grafting of a North American grape.
Even as a new era was turning, complete with painters like Vincent Van Gogh, pasteurization and germ work from men like Louis Pasteur, and dancing and artistry from people like Liane de Pougy, the world had lost something it could never get back in the form of wine.
Michelin might have invented rubber for bicycle tires, and eventually cars too. The Eiffel Tower would rise in time for the World Fair of 1900. But, wine would change forever.
It’s temporary demise would also give way to a new drink, a drink that had been around for decades before this point but had never garnered huge success or acclaim until this point.
Pernod.
The Gift of Phylloxera
Capitalizing on the unfortunate circumstances of the Phylloxera plague, Richard Pernod, who was the distillery owner of an absinthe company that produced a drink made from wormwood, spinach, fennel, coriander, chamomile, and a few other ingredients too.
With the decreased supply of wine, people turned to Absinthe to quench their thirsts, and, as the great era of science, art, and technology between 1870 and 1914 rolled on, Pernod would become the drink of choice and a sign of sophistication.
This was the La Belle Epoque. The Beautiful Era, the height of dominance by European through the world.
Francois Baco would go on to plant thousands of phylloxera resistant grapes throughout Europe.
Richard Pernod would die and pass along the family company to his offspring, who would built it generations later into an empire with the acquisitions of other brands.
And Pernod, a anise flavored absinthe, would be the first of its kind and usher in many similar drinks and many variations in the last one hundred years. While it would never fully replace wine, and the tides would swing back toward wine once more when new vineyards were established, it would carve out a place in history, during a time of history, that gave us so much of the modern progress and innovation we appreciate still today.
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 20 Show Notes:
In this segment we’re expanding on the last episode and going interview style with the CEO, Kevin Webber, and Director of Winemaking, Tyzok Wharton, for Carboy Winery.
Overview of Carboy Winery:
Colorado based, Carboy Winery is the largest in the state. Our conversation covered a whole array of unique wines you must try, growing in places where wine typically isn’t grown, and what it’s like to make wine in a state known for its beer.
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 19 Notes:
It took one very brave person, in this mountainous Italian town, to rise up and do what others could not. Listen to the incredible, mostly true story, of an epic battle between a monster and a hero. The result was a legend and a plant that lives on today.
This podcast is done in conjunction with our friends at Carboy Winery.
Listen Now:
Transcript of Podcast:
*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.
****
This episode is dedicated to Miles. He loved adventure and would have loved today’s drink of choice. So, here’s to you and your restless, wandering soul.
****
The count watched his four year old son play in front of the mirror, which was leaning against the brick wall in his bedroom.
“What’s all this noise?” He said playfully. The count put his hands on his hips and screwed his face into a smile.
The boy giggled and stuck out his tongue, watching the mirror mimic the same motion. “It’s funny, daddy.” He laughed and looked at his dad in the mirror.
“You’re such a silly boy!” The count exclaimed. He finished dressing and pulled a long cape over his shoulders. “Have fun and I’ll be back soon.”
The Count took his leave and exited his castle, looking out at the flowing fields before him. It was summer and his cows were mooing and grazing in the tall grass. His brow furrowed as he thought about how many he’d lost this year already and his eyes instinctively flicked to the pale castle positioned high above him in the ridge of the cliff. It might be a hard winter if things don’t change.
The, castle above him was built into a crack in the mountain behind the city. It was beautiful and in an excellent defensible position because of how difficult it was to get there. The strenuous effort it took to climb the landscape and ascend up to the location was also the reason it had been abandoned hundreds of years ago when this new castle had been built by the Mez family, who had once ruled this area before his family arrived. His grandfather had abandoned the castle because it was too exhausting to get to. It worked too well as a remote, secure position. At the time it was a smart decision. It still is. But, doing so also raised the anger of the entire village.
A long wall, curved near the middle, ran straight out and then turned at a ninety degree angle. Behind the middle of it was a two story tall tower. The wall and the tower were filled with perfect, rectangle windows big enough to throw rocks out of. Or, to shoot arrows from if invaders happened to be so bold…and stupid, enough to try breaching the castle.
There was a defense outpost too. Its own water source. And a church, because during medieval times like these, you, needed a church. And the entrance had a fresco, shaped like a shield, painted red, outlined in white. It had three symbols on it. A golden crown took the spot at the top of the shield, stretching the length of it. It rose and fell in sharp points and the gold band was inlay with beautiful, precious jewels. Antlers, wide and heavily pointed, were on the right, attached to a velvet, blue patch of hair. On the left was a dragon, a basilisk, a winged serpent, coiled and a hideous yellow with its mouth red and filled with rows of sharp teeth. Collectively, these three symbols, on the shield, represented the coat of arms.
The castle had been beautiful once. A long time ago. But, not anymore. Now the walls were crumbled and broken, ruined under immense pressure and force. The walls were blackened and covered in soot by streaks of fire. What once was a place of comfort and strength for the town was now a haven filled with terror. Something should be done about that. Someone should do something about it.
The mooing of cows brought him back to the present and his eyes went skyward, searching. Finding only blue skies in return, he sighed in relief. His cows were just settling in. He saw his servants in the field too. One of them was tugging on the udders of one particularly large heifer and shooting milk into a tin pail. He heard the ting, ting, ting from here as the first shots hit the cold metal.
The Count’s mood sullied further as he thought of that fresco and looked at his spotted cows. He thought of things that hunted these fields, killing off his cows and sheep little by little, snatching up villagers and reigning terror across the land.
Someone, needed to do something about that.
It had been here for as long as his family had called Mezzocorona, Italy home. But, unlike now, back then it lived in the mountains further from town. It took to grazing for food less frequently.
Mezzocorona was a beautiful place too. Swampy, green marshland raced outward in two directions until it climbed steadily and rose to meet the wooded mountains. The land was rich and fertile, allowing for the easy and fast grown of plants. But, you also had the easy draining, gravel landscape too of the mountains. It made many different types of plant life sustainable here.
They in the Northern Part of Italy and sat at the base of a steep, rocky mountain wall that protects it from the harsh, Northern winds that like to rip through this part of the country. The much larger city of Trento was close by and located less than 10 miles South of here.
The abandoned castle in the cliffs was also a perfect home, which is why it moved from the mountains to the castle ruins. Plus, it had easier access to all those tasty snacks that it so loved…like sheep. Cows. And humans.
Someone, needed to do something about that.
Wait, he thought, why don’t I be that someone.
But, how would he do it…if he had to do it?
How do you…take on such a creature.
He knew it was cunning and powerful. It moved faster than he could ever hope to move and, when it took to the air, there was no chance of him equaling it.
He, had to be smarter.
While he walked the field, occasionally glancing up at the crack in the cliff, and the crumbling castle, the inklings of a plan started to form.
He flushed at the idea at first. Out of embarrassment. It was silly. It would never work. Surely, it would not be fooled by such simple traps. Yet, the longer he thought about it, the more confident he felt that it would work.
So, he went to bed that night determined to save the village, and ensure his own son could live a life without fear.
He work early the next morning with sleep still in his eyes and the castle radiating cold through the brick. He’d slept restless, nervous about the day and what he was going to do.
In the dim, morning light, for the sun had not fully risen yet, he slid into the heavy metal armor that covered his legs, arms, and chest. The armor weighed on him and already he was warming up. By the time he got to the castle ruins he knew he’d be sweating.
He kissed his son on the forehead and paused for a moment to look into his face, etching every line of his brown hair and sweet, soft, round face into his memory.
“I love you.” He whispered.
Then he took up his sword, strapped his shield to his back and took the mirror that was leaning against the wall in his bedroom. Finally, he stopped at the entrance of his castle and grabbed a bucket.
Outside dew was thick on the grass and it wet his armor. With the bucket in hand he made his way to the fields, seeking out the very large heifer. He found her, knelt and worked the udders until he had half a bucket full of milk.
Then he took the bucket, took the mirror, grabbed his sword again, and started to climb the dangerous, difficult trail to the castle ruins in the fading stars of morning. Light was beginning to push across the sky now in a soft flushing of white.
The Count kept his head held high and moved ever onward and upward toward the castle ruins, his stomach twisting in knots and fighting the urge to puke. Sweat poured out of him under his heavy armor and he had to fight hard to not spill the milk out of the bucket
Finally, he reached the castle ruins. He paused for a moment, setting down the milk in the bucket and the mirror. He kept his sword with him, just in case. He fought to steady his racing heart, and his body was already numb with exhaustion from the climb here.
The smell of sulphur and burn brick and cold blood filled the air and hung on the stillness of early morning in a way that terrified the Count. He sat there for a long time with his body pressed against the exterior wall of the castle, trying to will himself to do what he knew he needed to do.
For the villagers. Who deserved to live in peace and not fear the destruction and devastation of such a horrible beast.
And for his son. Oh, his son. He wanted those brown eyes to always shine with laughter and never know an ounce of pain.
This, was the only way.
So, Count Firmian took up his sword, grabbed his mirror, and lifted the bucket of milk then stepped into the entranceway of the castle, beneath the coat of arms in red that was painted above the door.
His heart skipped a beat at the size of the thing. It always looked smaller in the sky, a dark, menacing dot. But, here, it was so big.
It could crush him with a single flick of its tail.
When he entered it stirred so he rushed to lean the mirror against the wall. Then he set the bucket of milk down in front of it and retreated to the entranceway once more.
The animal stirred and let out a throaty groan that shook the crumbling walls and made Count Firmian’s heart race. He clutched his sword a little tighter and drew his shield.
Then the animal was up, uncoiling itself and rising to its full height. Thick, impenetrable, yellow scales covered its body and it towered over him when it rose up. Rows of sharp, white teeth flashed when it chortled and turned to the milk.
Wings whooshed out and closed again and the long talons pressed into the ground as it moved forward.
It sniffed the milk and recoiled, it’s eyes shooting to the sides. The Count recoiled out of sight and pressed himself hard against the wall.
“I can smell you.”
The count’s heart was in his throat now, but still he did not waiver. He kept his ground.
The beast turned back to the pail of milk and sniffed it once more.
“Hmmmm.” It mused.
Then a long, red tongue slipped quickly out from behind rows of teeth and took a sip of the milk.
“Mmmmm…. Deliciousssss.”
It took another drink, then, out of the corner of its eye, it caught the reflection in the mirror, bristled, and retreated.
It let out an ear ringing roar and stared at the monster staring back at it.
When it lowered its head and snarled the creature staring back did the same thing.
The monster swung its tail and the tail of the other monster swung out too.
It turned back to the milk, wanting to take another sip, but also unsure of this new, threatening creature.
The monster looked from the mirror to the milk. Then back to the mirror. And back to the milk. Assessing. Trying to understand.
Seeing his moment, Count Firmian mustered all of the courage he could, thought of his young son, and leapt back into the room, driving his sword up and into the belly of the monster.
A howl tore through the air and the Count pushed upward harder, hearing the squishing and tearing.
Blood gushed out of the monster’s belly, dark red and thick. It covered Count Firmian, staining his armor.
And, as the monster fell to the ground, dead, Count Firmian looked on as the poisonous blood began to change him. He looked down, his hands and arms peeling away. Then he felt the rest of him tear apart too, little by little, molecule by molecule.
And Count Firmian,
After slaying the dragon that terrorized the village of Mezzocorona, turned into a pile of ash.
And on that exact spot where dragon’s blood was spilled and Count Firmian gave his life to protect a village, and his son, a plant sprouted.
It thickened in the stem and turned woody with flaked bark. And the vine stretched upward along the castle walls, clinging to them for support, until small, round pieces of fruit appeared.
They were dark red, ripe, and, when plucked, mashed, and, when fermented and strained, took on a quality that reflected the heart of Count Firmian.
This grape, a well known grape in Northern Italy, and much more rate in the United States,
Is produced in one location in particular by Carboy Winery.
It’s the Teroldego grape.
Teroldego
And the wine produced from the Teroldego grape at Carboy Winery has won multiple awards
For the bright fruit notes and hints of pepper and Earth from the Teroldego,
Speak to the bright, courageous heart of Count Firmian and the fiery, spicy dragon that battle centuries ago
And, in their deaths, gave the world a new grape varietal called Teroldego.
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 18 Notes:
The story of William and the famous clover club filled with people worth knowing. William was a guest in the clover club. William brought something very important to the club, and he also consumed some very important. Something very famous. A drink, that is known around the world.
Transcript of Podcast:
*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.
The thing about the club…is that you can talk about the club…mostly because everyone wants to be in the club, and only a select few can. Yet, it was no surprise that William got an invite to this most elite of clubs. Or, that he found himself where he was now; his Irish butt buried into the plush, brown leather sofa, surround by other distinguished captains, who were all looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.
Although this was’t new to William, he was used to being at the front of the room leading others, he wasn’t used to what he knew would come next. The other captains gathered looked screwed too, and they hadn’t earned their spots in this room without being smart. That would make what came next a combination of ruthless honesty veiled in humor. Good humor contains honesty, after all. Yet, William would have to remind himself that this club wasn’t out to get him.
There was, in the entire history of the club, only one individual that hadn’t received the usual roasting at the end of his talk. William understood why. It would have been unbecoming. These were gentleman and no one was silly enough to insult the President of the United States.
This monthly affair, with the captains surrounding him, was a way for them all to let off some steam, and the good natured roasting that was to follow his talk, was a sort of inclusion practice. Plus, you didn’t become a captain without having a thick skin. It was a mark of status really, a symbol of what you had endured in order to be a captain, and one that he didn’t take lightly.
As his hand went to the pink, tart drink his eyes went to the sign hanging above the entranceway of the club.
“Who enters here leaves care behind, leaves sorrow behind, leaves petty envies and jealousies behind.”
He enjoyed the world play of it, the elegance. It was almost…poetic. And no doubt written by one of these highly learned captains in this very room.
William took in the smells of leather, cigars and oak. Some of the faces were familiar but many he didn’t know. It wasn’t crowded. Membership was very limited. Exclusive. The club brought people together though, filled with its secrets and its drinks…one drink, that he was putting back right now. A famous drink, which stood out as ironic during the early 1900’s, considering what sort of club they were in. Or, if you know anything about the roaring 20’s era…maybe not.
And William had come a long way to try this drink, although that wasn’t why he was here. It was a happy coincidence. He’d found his way to America from Ireland, where he was born. He came of age at an…interesting time in Ireland, when the identity of the country was shifting. And William, had been deeply entrenched in that shift if alone for the sole reason that he was aligned with the political and religion group that was rising to power at the time.
They were searching for their identity and, in many ways, William’s upbringing in that environment, raised deep questions that also had him questioning identity. In the But, amidst this great upheaval, William found his way to London, following his family.
William wondered about the Captains around him now. Had they lived similar lives and found their way to the United States just as he had? In some ways, although he had no reason to be, he felt a bit intimidated. There were many distinguished captains around him, and the club had been around since 1880.
There was Moses, the club’s president, who was very influential and had been for many years. He’d taken the club from meager, isolated beginnings and expanded it, stretching it’s reach to many captains all through Philadelphia. And by the 1900’s, before prohibition had arrived, it was a place oozing with power, success and money. And all of this success and money drank a drink, named after the club, and started by the club.
It was a pink drink.
The clover club…
Was an old boy’s club.
Only men were allowed in the club at the time
But, if their pink drink of choice tells you anything about this men to should signal that they were sophisticated captains, embracing a good thing regardless of any sort of level or fear of stigma for choosing a drink that imbued many feminine characteristics.
These were men, confident in who they were as men. In a club, like any other club in Philadelphia at the time.
In the Bellevue Hotel, the 19 story tall building that became a hangout for the rich and powerful. A place for charity balls, club get togethers, politicians and heads of states, businessman, writers, and special meetings. Fifteen presidents had dined and stayed there. Fifteen. Teddy Roosevelt was the first. And Ronald Regan was the last.
In fact, the old boy’s club that William was attending, often brought some of these captains together. There were 35 members in the club and William was not one of them. He was a guest, chosen to give a talk to the group. Just like many others before him. His type of captain was… the original type admitted to this club. But, they’d expanded when they formalized the club with charter documents and changed the name, to the name of the drink they were drinking now.
A drink that had a bit of luck in it, a bit of Irish, that made William feel good. So, he finished his second pink drink of the night, and enjoying the balance of fruitful good health and gin, grabbed his notebook and went to the front of the room, where he looked out at the Captains of Industry before him and read one of his new poems.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
A round of applause rose when he finished and, with a quick bow, he returned to his seat. The poem was titled When You Are Old, and it spoke to his heart.
All of his poems did, and as a Captain of Poetry, he’d mastered the art of putting the words to paper too.
William was a captain of a different type of ship. Many of the captains here were. Lawyers. Politicians. Businessman. Writers. The gamut was wide and the captains verified, but the thing they all had in common was being masters of their craft, being arguably the best at what they did.
That’s how they had gotten in to the club in the first place, the ticket that they punched in the form of exceptionalism, which gave them access to others like them to discuss ideas, socialize and network, while also tipping back a few pink drinks.
And so the pink drink, which started at this men’s club, in Philadelphia was born and consisted of:
1 ½ oz gin
½ oz dry vermouth
½ oz lemon juice
½ oz raspberry syrup or 3 raspberries plus ½ oz simple syrup, or to taste.
½ oz egg white (about ½ an egg white )
If made correctly, it had a frothy, white top from the egg white, and the entire rest of the drink was pink, from the raspberries.
So, William, also know as W. B. Yeats, arguably the greatest poet of the 20th century, tipped back his pink drink, named after the club, he was visiting right now, and settled his Irish butt back into the leather sofa and waited for the roasting to begin.
It wouldn’t be as bad as he thought, not with a drink like this in his hand, which had the nod to his Irish heritage he liked.
The Clover Club.
The clover club…named after the clover club, an exclusive men’s only club started just before 1900 in Philadelphia
That brought together some of the most influential and important minds of the time to socialize… And
Was allegedly the inspiration behind his famous poem A Dialogue of Self and Soul…
Which explored the pleasures of earthly experiences, such things as the Clover Club Pink Drink,
And the souls yearning for hidden wisdom in the universe….
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks (Negroni in this episode) that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 17 Details:
A famous media mogul, after fame and success in the US, finally met his match battling the fiesty Italians. He walked away a brusied and beaten, but with a drink to ease his pain.
Transcript of Podcast:
*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.
It was Black Magic that brought Charles to Italy but not the reason he stayed. The sort of magic practiced by witches, capable of hexing and jinxing. And it was the hexes that Charles fell victim to during his six years here. And while he came for the magic, he stayed for that age old reason, that noblest and most frustrating of reasons. Love.
Charles had made a name for himself in the United States as a media magnate years prior. But, for all of his success and his influence in media, which at this time of the world, around the 1920’s, print was still a dominant form, Charles was an unhappy man. Some even ventured to say that he hadn’t had a happy moment in his life since childhood.
Too much struggle for wealth had become such a centralizing focus that it also made him miserable. It seemed to be a price Charles traded willingly. This was understandable, considering his upbringing. While he had come from money, it didn’t mean life had been devoid of hardship.
Because, money alone doesn’t mean an easy life, and Charles can attest to this. His dad, a very wealthy man, having achieved great success, lost purpose and turned to drinking as an escape.
With his dad’s face, and liver, buried deep in the bottle, Charles’ mother cared for him…teaching him the joys of music and the arts. Charles was forced to split his time, from the age of 4 on, between his father and his mother. Until the age of 9 anyway, which was when his mother passed away.
After that point he lived exclusively with his father, who pulled him out of school and took him on great adventures to the Indies and other places. Upon returning stateside again they settled down once more. But, the stability was not to last, as Charles’ dad drank himself to death. And, at the age of 15, Charles found himself alone and the ward of a family friend.
He’d given up music, even though he was a prodigy, and took to other ambitions. These ambitions brought him great fame and influence early on and by the age of 25 one of his most famous creations was born.
This was in part due to his sensational storytelling, a gift that allowed Charles to excel in his media profession. So it was this media which grew in popularity and, despite a lackluster start, received global recognition and study over the years.
Charles was an innovator, capable of crafting unique narratives that conveyed information and stories in a way never done before.
He also created a technique for telling stories, one still used by media companies today. It seems commonplace now because it’s used all the time, just as I’m using it now, but, back when he rolled it out in 1925, it was unheard of.
Non-linear narrative. It’s the idea that the narrative of a story in media does not progress from point A to Point B and then Point C in a linear manor, but that the final plot point could start the story, as I’ve started this story with talking about Charles in Italy and then backtracked to discuss his career before Italy, and his childhood. Eventually I’ll make my way forward again to Italy. This narrative is non-linear. Common place now. But, novel and unheard of at the time.
So, Charles was a master at his craft. But, that didn’t necessarily help him with the Italians…who can be a… prickly bunch at times. Maybe it’s a point of national pride, an unwillingness to recognize the talents and skills of someone who isn’t Italian.
And Charles was not Italian, although he tried. Especially when he escaped there to run away from his failing relationship in the United States, a relationship that was on its last leg. Plus there was opportunity for Charles in Italy to practice and expand his media empire. It was a worthy challenge.
So, he hopped on a plane and found his way to Italy, and he pursued media with the same passion he had pursued everything else in life. And, along the way, he stumbled across a drink, that he would, coincidentally, make famous in the United States when his adoring followers latched on to it.
This drink originated in Florence, Italy when Count Camillo was feeling just a bit feisty and ordered a well known drink, with liquor instead of soda water.
That was 30 years prior and the drink had not yet spread to the US by 1947 when Charles arrived.
Charles had arrived Post WWII, at a time when Italy, if you remember, was not on the winning side. So, the arrival of a famous American – successful, colorful, boisterous – the embodiment of all the postured victory lap sort of thing that America would do to hammer the point home, did not go well.
Of course, Charles wasn’t there for that, but an individual in his position couldn’t help but end up that way. He was too big a figure. Too large a target. So the Italian press attacked him, and his mounting Italian failures in his media pursuits. Some were due to bad luck and poor timing, others to miscalculations. And, if there is one thing that always holds true, it’s that to those who have found success, they are judged all the harder for their failures.
We love to see big folks fall. It makes the little folks feel vindicated. That it was nothing more than luck. That if he or she was truly good and skilled and better, he or she would succeed every time.
This is probably why these Italian years are the lost years for Charles, the years that are often glossed over in the biographies and histories of Charles.
He fell in love, only to have the relationship end dramatically a year and a half later.
He unveiled multiple media projects, that he thought for sure would be successful, but ended up being met with muted appreciation and harsh Italian criticism.
Charles couldn’t catch a break…aside from that drink, of course, which he drank with great pleasure…the balance of healthful tonics and harmful booze that balanced itself out perfect.
But, it was the early successes that Charles was chasing during this time, trying to find new and novel ways to reinvent his craft and profession after having already achieved so much. He wanted to push the boundaries. Maybe he pushed himself too hard and stunted his creative juices, the same ones that had unlocked such masterful, new techniques that changed the art of storytelling.
Whatever it was, the truth is, that during the six years Charles spent in Italy, he worked on many projects that were never finished. Some ran out of money. Some had production issues. Some just…dried up and became no more. Of course, some he finished. But those, too, were not as successful as his media work in the United States.
Perhaps they were as good and the reception of an ice cold Italian audience was the differentiating factor.
Either way, this time in his life, would not be fruitful for Charles in terms of success but it would be a period of great trials and learning. And if there is anything that DOES hold true, it’s that great trials and struggle eventually reap reward, given enough time and persistence.
So, Charles, became Charles, the character that this real individual played in his most popular movie so far. Because, you see, Charles, as portrayed on the big media screen, not the primary form of media at the time, which was print, was an unhappy, but very successful business man.
Charles, the true story depicting the real life man by the name of William Randolf Hearst, a wealthy newspaper tycoon who was once friends with this director and actor,
until they had a falling out,
Which caused this director to produce the movie he did,
That received no recognition at the box office,
In part because Hearst used his media control to blackball the movie from all of his newspapers.
But, the cream always rises to the top and the brilliance and innovation of this movie would eventually receive recognition
And many awards and critical acclaim,
So much so that this movie is still studied in film classes today…
And considered by many critics to be the best movie of all time.
Citizen Kane
Is the name of the movie.
Featuring the protagonist Charles Kane, a wealthy media businessman,
Which Orson Welles directed and acted in
And released at the age of 25
It was six years later that Welles found his way to Italy after his marriage was falling apart with Rita Hayworth
and his career had reached a sort of… temporary plateau
Which is part of the reason he ended up in Italy acting in a movie by the name of Black Magic,
A romance based on a novel by Alexandre Dumas Joseph Balsamo
While there he was introduced to a drink,
The Negroni
Made with 1 oz Campari
1 oz gin
1 oz sweet vermouth
And garnished with an orange peel
He fell in love with this bitter, but delicious, Negroni drink and drank many of them during the trying years he spent in Italy,
Battered by the media,
Loving and losing,
Trying his hand directing several different films that were poorly received,
Such as a rendition of Macbeth.
And after 6 years he left Italy and moved on, but he took his love for the Negroni with him.
The Negroni had risen in popularity in the United States at this time thanks to Welles
And Welles would go on to produce several more sensational movies, which would also garner critical acclaim and success
The lost years of Italy were a stepping stone,
A necessary part of his career develop,
The fall after a great rise
Before another greater rise
And this greater rise would also be accompanied by the drink of his choice,
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks (Suffering Bastard Cocktail in this episode) that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 16 Details:
A famous media mogul, after fame and success in the US, finally met his match battling the fiesty Italians. He walked away a brusied and beaten, but with a drink to ease his pain.
Transcript of Podcast:
*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.
The heat from the bonfire felt nice on Norman’s hands. He piled more fuel on the open flames and watched the fire leapt to life, a long train of smoke drifting peacefully into the sky. January was arguably the coldest month of the year, and while the temps were still warm in comparison to Michigan, where Norman grew up, he’d spent so much of his adult life in other climates, that he’d acclimated to the temperature difference and appreciated the warmth.
It was 50 degrees out. Not so cold that he’d lose limbs from frostbite, or even need to wear anything more than a thick sweater, which is what he had on now. Jeans and a sweater, non-descript in color and style, a comfortable outfit for the setting.
Others joined him around the fire and he gave a nod. No words needed to be said. They were all there for a specific reason. They stared into the burning fire, listening to the crackling and burning, then, seeing that they needed more fuel, walked away to grab some.
Norman stood, looking at the world around him, enamored with the moment. He’d grown up in Bloomfield, Michigan, a town of around 4,000 people. Small in comparison to where he was now. But, Norman always had a bright future. After high school he went to Harvard and, upon graduation in 1941, found himself volunteering for the navy, after the horrors of Pearl Harbor occurred.
After searching the Atlantic Coast in a yacht for Nazi Submarines, and with the war over, he ended up at the Naval War College for more schooling. That schooling took him around the world and opened up doors he never could have imagined.
He walked through door after door, until he came to this one, and, like he’d done every time before, walked through it too. Now, he was living the life. The city sprawling out before him, a fire at his finger tips, newly married and deeply in love…what more could he ask for?
Norman pondered this as he poked at the coals and ashes of the fire, helping them to burn. He hated the way an unattended fire didn’t burn even, leaving unburnt chunks smoldering or clumped and sitting on top of dead ash the next day.
He was particular about his fires, and wanted to make sure he left no trace.
The 6 men that had left now returned, bringing more fuel for the fire. Then they went to the edge of the property and looked out at the people. They were flooding the streets, following behind trucks loaded full with barrels .
They weren’t the only one having a fire today. In fact, on this relatively odd occurrence, there were more people having fires, than not having fires. Alas, given the day, Saturday, and the weather, clear but with a chill in the air, it made sense. Today was a perfect day for a bonfire.
People snaked down the alleyway, cutting between the building across from them owned by his British neighbors, and his place. Norman watched them with fascination then focused once more on his task of stoking the fire.
The flames leapt to life once more and a feeling of satisfaction passed through him. Maybe, he’d go for a drink after this. A reward for cleaning out all of this old junk and burning it to ash. The place was looking tidier already. Clean. Just the way he wanted it.
Although it felt a little early for spring cleaning, he didn’t mind being ahead of the game. And the reward too…Norman’s mouth just about starting salivating at thoughts of that tasty, complicated drink. He struggled to think of anything else in that moment.
And of course he had to stop by the place where the drink started. Hopefully Joe himself would be working and he’d get a Joe original. That’d be a real treat. As if by instinct, his eyes wandered away from the fire and looked out, seeing if he could see the hotel with its long bar. It was called the long bar because of the agonizingly long time it took to get a drink there.
Norman gasped. His eyes widened. As it turns out, he could see the hotel from here. This hotel too, was famous. One of the most famous in the world from the time the doors opened until now, and, it was the most popular hotel in the city, by leaps and bounds.
It was just over 100 years old at this point, with a double set of brick stairs leading up to the Porta co-cher, the overhanging entranceway. On top of the overhand was a patio, and not one, not two, but three additional stories including the patio level.
Large flags always snapped crisp and new from the two corners of the Porta co-cher, bearing the logo of the hotel.
Samuel, not to be confused with this Samuel, had started the hotel all those years ago. He’d risen from being a subpar pastry chef, to creating and running this marvel of a hotel. Until he sold it, that is, to Philip, and retired back to England, where he’d originally come from.
Beautiful stained glass windows covered the building. Lavish Persian carpets draped the floors. There were gardens exploding with gorgeous flowers and plants, smelling fresh and delicious. Terraces over looking the streets below. And even giant granite pillars constructed with resemblance to Ancient Egyptian temples.
They were in Egypt, after all, so the tasteful nod to the temples, made perfect sense.
Every night, without fail, US officers would mingle with British and French officers, twirling beautiful women in their flowing night gowns around the dance floor at the extravagant dances that took place there. There was also the drink that originated there as medicine, a hangover cure, that turned into a sensational hit amongst all the military that rolled through here.
The drink and hotel became so famous that they took on a legendary status, with soldiers from the front asking for buckets of the drink to be sent their direction, and even one Nazi General quipping that he would be drinking a champagne in the…Shepaerd Hotel in no time.
Norman hadn’t been to a nightly dance in a while. Now that he was settled down and married that sort of living wasn’t for him. He was a committed man, after all. But, the drink still sounded good. And after the day he’d had, he’d want one.
The problem, of course, was that as he looked at the Shepaerd Hotel and gasped, he was also looking at the hotel engulfed in flames. It had been set a blaze. This iconic landmark, known the world over, was turning to ash before his very eyes, flames leaping high into the sky and sending up billowing plumes of smoke.
Further down the street British soldiers, off duty, had exited the front doors of their club, The Jockey’s Club, since it was on fire too, and, to Norman’s horror, they were forced back inside the burning building to die.
Norman’s heart raced and he looked at his own meager fire. Would he be able to finish in time? He stuffed more fuel in the fire and looked at the walls around his place.
The crowd, the rioters, had moved further down the alley, between the British Embassy and his place. They were scaling the walls now. Norman’s heart was in his throat and he furiously tossed more fuel into the fire. He had to work faster. Leave no trace.
The six men had returned to the roof again, this time drawing the pistols from their hips and aiming at the rioters working to scale the walls of the American Embassy. The six men held their ground. That’s what they were trained to do and they didn’t plan to open fire on anyone until they stepped foot on American soil.
Suddenly people were leaping off of the walls, running at full speed away, disbanding, the trucks carrying containers of gasoline to burn the city to the ground, revving and accelerating away.
Norman craned his head the opposite direction and breathed a massive sigh of relief. It was the military. After hours of the city being left to the rioters, and the rioters marking and burning buildings to the ground, in violent protest against British Forces and the 50 Egyptian soldiers they’d killed two days prior, help had arrived.
That didn’t mean anger had subsided, though. The British had controlled this country for 70 years now, in large part to maintain control over a canal, the Suez Canal, which was an important trade route from the South Atlantic to the South Indian Ocean and cutting 5,500 miles off of a very important route that allowed for European and Asian trade.
The Egyptians, needless to say, were sick of foreign control, especially from the British. They were sick of not receiving any benefit from the canal that went through their country and benefited most the countries that controlled and utilized these waterways.
So, while they may have ran off, high tailing it away from the American Embassy as Egyptian military forces arrived, and leaving 6 armed marines and a foreign officer stationed there named Norman Getsinger to breath a sigh of relief, they were not out of the woods just yet.
Things would get worse before they got better. Which was why Norman continued to incinerate the top-secret documents within the embassy, via the fire he kept roaring on top of the embassy roof.
As Cairo burned around him,
Taking with it 850 buildings, many of them marked for destruction the night prior with a large “X” by rioters.
This was Black Saturday, and not the sort of fire he enjoyed sitting next to.
The famous Cairo riots of 1952
That took with them the legendary Shepheard’s Hotel, named after the founder Samuel Shepheard,
And buried in ash the long bar where bartender Joe Scialom invented his famous drink
A drink that consisted of:
The Suffering Bastard Cocktail
1 ounce of brandy or, if they find it, whiskey
1 ounce of gin
1/2 an ounce of fresh squeezed lime juice
2 dashes of angostura bitters
And topped off with ginger beer
A stiff drink, with a refreshing twist aimed at curing the hangovers of soldiers living it up in Cairo during WWII.
The Suffering Bar Steward. (Suffering Bastard Cocktail)
Which… if you, take out the space in the last two words, and say it fast enough, it sounds like the more common, but inappropriate and…illegitimate…name of the drink
