Angel finalized this one and named it thus. He had Clint on the brain, I suppose. A little grim, but why not? Naming cocktails is tough and although this isn’t something the cowboys would have drunk, I think maybe there could have been some old western bartender who moved out from the big city to Big Whiskey, Wyoming to start a new life. Shit, there’s a movie plot for you. Long ago I wanted to write a western and the whole plot centered around a shady bartender, a drunken sheriff, and a lady of the night (nice way to say prostitute) who is the hidden hero of the story.

Remember now, Jerry Thomas’ (father of modern mixology who worked in New York City) famous tome came out in 1862, the Civil War took place from 1861-1865, and the American West Period is said to have occurred around 1865-1900, so cocktails, although they’re not represented well at all in films taking place during those times, were in more than full swing. It’s an odd thing to mull over, for certain, but also intriguing. I can’t for the life of me think of a movie that took place during that time, in the States, that isn’t a western or Civil War piece.

Looping back to our newest seasonal menu offering, I probably would have called it something stupid anyway, like Raisin’ Hell as we’ve got some raisins in there alongside rhubarb. Also some whey and some rock ‘n’ rye that was sitting high and proud on a shelf for a few months doing nothing. All sorts of cool stuff that we’ll get into.

The idea spawned from rhubarb, perhaps the most annoying ingredient to toy with behind a bar. My good friend Clark’s mother, Rose Johnson, made these ethereal rhubarb raisin pies replete with her secret–a Crisco crust. Yeah, you heard that right. Impossibly flaky. Real good warm with a scoop of vanilla. This cocktail was to be my ode to Rose, a hard but sweet Vermont woman who used to provide me with such zingers as “Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?” and “Finer than frog fur.” We used to use the garage at her place to work on our cars. God, it seems like another lifetime ago than we’d be underneath one of our old shitbox Jettas or jalopy Audis removing the tailpipes, slapping on a new set of brakes, or simply changing the oil. There’d always be some sort of visitor popping by while we were down there covered in grease, a colorful array of characters from the past, such as Poopy Parker and my old buddy Jud. There would also be special appearances from Clark’s step dad, Ronan, one of the most scary, bad ass old guys I’d ever met. A legendary French Canadian redneck who grew up lugging bales of hay at the age of five and had beat the stuffing out of two cops in his late fifties. An older guy way past his prime who had beat cancer several times and looked at me like I was a pile of human ground meat he wanted to stuff into sausage casings with his massive, gnarled hands. He’d come limping down the steep, creaking stairs into the garage awake from a nap like a nightmarish deity and yell at us, “All this shit better be cleaned up! And not like last time, goddamit!” I would turn away from his crazed gaze. A real gem who, even though he was deep into his seventies, looked like he could bend iron bars and chew gravel for fun. A five foot seven force of nature with a giant chin and huge, misshapen head full of windswept iron grey hair. A character right out of a film like Unforgiven.

Ideas have a hard time materializing when you have a mean case of the feces touch. It took Angel to finalize the specs because I floundered so hard in my first few attempts. Anyway, here it is. I moved out of my place yesterday, and my new place is in total turmoil…Boxes of books festooned around the place. Everytime I move, there’s more of them.

Unforgiven

1 oz. Rock ‘n’ Rye

1 oz. White Moonshine Whiskey

1 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice

.25 oz. Rhubarb Raisin Syrup

.25 oz. Orange Wine Syrup

.25 oz. Meletti Amaro

.25 oz. Whey Syrup

Shake, strain over a BFR, top with a couple dashes of Angostura bitters. Tastes like pie and vendettas.