This past weekend, I took a road trip to a lovely little place called Lou-ah-ville to attend my very first Kentucky Derby! A subculture of Kentucky in its own right, you haven’t experienced Louisville if you haven’t seen the “Derby Life.” Honestly, the Kentucky Derby might as well be its own holiday there because it’s treated like such. And the beverage of choice: The Mint Julep.

Yes, every first weekend in May, the Kentucky Churchill Downs prepares to host over 180,000 Derby enthusiasts who come from both near and far. At multiple mint juleps per person, that’s almost 1 million Mint Juleps served in a day!

But they wouldn’t have it any other way. Everyone has their own recipe, but the official sweet little drink is made with mint syrup, Kentucky whisky, crushed ice, and crushed mint, served in a souvenir Derby glass of course.

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A friend once told me, “Smylie, you could be eating anything, doesn’t matter what it is, and you’d be happy.”

She didn’t mean it as a compliment.

Still, there is some truth to that. SOME. I’ll quantify it this way: The act of eating–more specifically, the act of eating with others–is one of those things I cherish, one of those things that makes this crazy mixed-up ol’ world worth living in. Aside from my ability to spot deliciousness on the most questionable menu (the burgers at 24 Hour Diner, though thin, positively melt with flavor in your mouth–much like these sliders on the site), aside from the curious improving effects alcohol and sleeplessness have on virtually any cuisine (”Hey, that place is called 24 Hour Diner! That sounds classy!“), there is something you can find at these greasy spoons you cannot find at, say, The French Laundry.

And that something is solidarity.

We were all united in varying degrees of inebriation, together in hunger, one in our eventual satiety. And when Freebird came on the radio, everyone–from the nerdy kid with the unkempt facial hair to the sweating frat behemoth with a Bears jersey to the bleach-blonde chick in faux-Gucci–swayed their burgers, cups, fries, and sang.

Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but anywhere you can virtually guarantee the patrons will eventually burst into song is my kind of place.

-Jim would still kill for a res at The French Laundry, though, seriously.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

It’s no secret that I’m a big huge geek about hard apple cider. What can I say? I just like it better than beer. But this week I realized I’ve never made my own.

That’s gonna change.

Behold: How to Make Your Own Cider!

As soon as I can, I’m gonna get started on some homemade scrumpy. And three months after I start, I will drink it. And it will be glorious. I advise anyone else with a taste for apples and some spare time to do the same.

Have a good weekend, everybody!

-Jim is already envisioning the first glass

So I saw something today that was too cool to pass up. Apparently if you take a look at blog aggregator site BuzzFeed, you’ll notice one food blog trend that’s particularly of note. Something once maligned looks like it’s about to be en vogue. What could it be? Is foie gras making a comeback? How about cider? Maybe bacon is good for you?

None of those things, unfortunately, but boxed wine is apparently on the up-and-up!

Apparently, the butt of jokes everywhere from Seinfeld to college costume parties (only three people can do that “Box of Wine” costume before the idea is tapped out, you guys) is getting a makeover. Companies like Black Box Wine are attempting to resell box wine as a classy, convenient, and just-as-good alternative to bottled wines.

I’d be more excited, except they’re apparently selling for the same price as some bottled varieties. Dude…no. Box wines are cheap. It’s a rule. I read it somewhere on the internet, it must be true. And as Sarah has already proven, cheap in cost does not mean cheap in flavor.

If my occasional references to pigging out on Oberweis or my desire for an ice cream maker weren’t clues, I’ll spell it out: I’m, uh, rather enthusiastic about ice cream. And within that realm, I am incredibly enthusiastic about milkshakes. I imagine one of the reasons I’ve got such a soft belly right now is because of all those burgers and shakes I devoured in high school.

So when a couple college friends introduced me to the concept of an alcoholic milkshake, I was thrilled. Two great tastes that taste great together!

The drink: The Grasshopper.

The booze: Creme de Menthe. And possibly chocolate liqueur, if you’ve ever wanted a mint chocolate chip milkshake that’ll get ya crunked.

My friend’s description: “It tastes like Christmas!”

Use bargain-store tipple and ice cream like we did and you’ll get a boozy Shamrock Shake; use top-shelf stuff and some Haagen-Dazs and you’ll get a frozen cocktail better than anything the fanciest restaurant will sell you.

Sure, they don’t exactly pack a punch, and you can’t really drink multiple rounds. But these are outstanding dessert drinks, and everyone should give ‘em a try before it gets too cold to justify enjoying a big, frosty glass of blended ice cream.

Have a good weekend, everybody!

-Jim will be 24 when he returns!

Okay, I can defend my love of cider, and I can defend my get-ya-drunk fruity drinks, but this…this…

I’m gonna drink a German Chocolate Martini this weekend, and I am ashamed. I think I have to re-apply for my masculinity. Fortunately, I keep an extra license under the bed.

Why haven’t I tried it yet? Well, to be honest, the liquor cabinet at Casa del Jim isn’t too well-stocked in the best of times, and with other things occupying my attention this week I didn’t have time to hit the store and pick up any new and interesting booze. But I promise next week I’ll recommend a drink I know I love, rather than one I think I’ll love.

Have a good weekend, everybody!

-Jim was busy BUYING A NEW CAR, YOU GUYS

Vegas has changed since I was there last, man. I don’t know if I can go back again, everything is so…commercialized now. It’s like they don’t even care how much fun you have, they just want you to spend money.

Seriously, though, I only have three regrets from the weekend:

1) I didn’t bet higher during the best craps games of my entire life. Game one was spent adoring our shooter, a stone-faced Latino who hit point after point while I gleefully stacked up chip after chip. Game two had me as shooter–my favorite cocktail in one hand, dice in the other–nailing the point time and time again. At the height of my run I had money down on virtually every number on the table. When I finally rolled a 7 and ended it all, I was still up a couple hundred dollars.

2) I didn’t stop playing once I sevened out and lost a hundred dollars.

3) I left my plastic Eiffel Tower cup from the Paris in the cab on the way to the airport. A cup like that has sentimental value! At least, I’m fairly sure it does; the details of the evening in which I acquired it get kind of hazy around the tenth pint of Bulmer’s.

I know you all assume that the highlight of my trip was the craps game–or possibly the booze–but there’s a culinary revelation or two lurking in the wings here. One I’ll save for Friday, but one I’ll tell you right now:

Have you guys heard of “hanger steak”? I sampled this amazing cut of meat at the Mon Ami Gabi (yes, I went to the cheap steakhouse when my hotel had a Keller restaurant in it, no, I’m not made of money) and let me tell you, I’ll be keeping a sharp eye for the “butcher’s cut” in grocery stores from now on.

I’ve always been more interested in flavor than texture; it’s why I loved elk steaks so much out in Utah, and why I think “gamey” is a good thing. But this steak, when cooked properly, manages to combine amazing flavor with just the right amount of tenderness. I had it with some rich garlic butter and delightfully thin fries, sipping a fine red and watching Vegas go by through Gabi’s huge windows; that and a trip to the Nine Fine Irishmen pub were the perfect end to an outstanding weekend.

A note for fellow travelers, though: don’t sleepily pay a $50 upgrade fee to get into first class on a flight from Vegas to Phoenix. It’ll be the least satisfying forty minutes of your life.*

-Jim thinks people who bet on Don’t Pass are jerks

*Seriously. They don’t even have champagne.

I’m a proud Chicagoan (okay, okay, former North Shore suburbanite who finds it easier to say Chicagoan), so naturally, this cocktail caught my eye. I’m not usually fan of brandy or bitters, so it’s quite the experiment, but I’ll be giving it a try sometime this weekend. At the very least it gives me an excuse to go to the liquor store.

Chicago Cocktail
Ingredients
2 oz. Brandy
1 dash Bitters
1/4 tsp. Triple Sec
Ice

Directions
Rub a slice of lemon around the rim of a glass and dip it in powdered sugar. Fill the glass half way with ice. Stir ingredients with ice and strain them into the glass.

Enjoy the drink, folks, and enjoy the weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.

-Jim, wishing we had more cocktail recipes on the site, wink wink nudge nudge

Yeah, I said it. And I’ll say it again, in bold letters: CIDER IS BETTER THAN BEER. I’m not saying that beer is bad or anything, but I like hard cider better–and I shouldn’t be mocked for the preference.

Go to a bar with your buddies. Plop down in the stool, get the bartender’s attention. Ask for cider. Even if you’re a 6 foot 5 Hell’s Angel with “LOVE AND HATE” tattooed on your knuckles, bloodstains on your chopper, and a bandoleer across your chest, your pals are going to stare, possibly laugh, and probably ask if you’re sure you don’t want a Smirnoff Ice.

Screw that noise. I was introduced to cider by a 300-pound Irish bus driver who could pound pints of the black stuff for six hours straight and still want whiskey afterwards. That’s pretty damn manly. And what’s this association with Zima and “alcopops?” Cider was what you drank long before beer took hold in this country, with pints pounded down by everyone from hard-bitten frontiersmen to John Quincy Adams. It only lost its popularity when beer breweries arose near urban centers. And like so many other things, that was all the Germans’ fault. Lousy Germans*.

Luckily, cider seems to be making a comeback–in England, anyway. It’s nice to know that if I’m ever in London and I ask for a pint of Magner’s or Scrumpy Jack, I won’t get snickers or funny looks (which is good, because I am emphatically not a bloodthirsty Hell’s Angel).

If you’d like to read a brief history of the drink I love so much, check out my article on the main site. And next time you see a guy asking futilely if the bar stocks Woodchuck, show some sympathy. An American cider-lover’s existence is a torturous one.

*In reality, Jim has nothing against the Germans, nor does he wish they would “go back to Germania.” He just wishes they wouldn’t make such good beer.**
**If any Germans are offended, Jim deeply apologizes, as he knows that Germans are not “all smiles und sunshine.”