Dirty Rum on Fire
Well, actually, the rum itself wasn't on fire. The bar was on fire. The six of us--one bachelorette reluctant to wear her bling-bling blinking tiara and her tipsy raucous escorts--were chasing blue flame around the steel bar counter with spears of tiny marshmallows. The flame was ineffective at its purpose, but when the fire goes out at Zombie Hut on Smith Street in Brooklyn, you have to drink, whether your marshmallows are properly toasted or not.
All six of us plus a few strangers popped the lukewarm, still virgin-white puffs into our mouths, bit into a slice of sugared lemon and downed the shots of rum plus who knows what from ceramic tiki-faced shooters.
We then ordered a round of drinks: two Bahama mamas, one suffering bastard, one frozen zombie and two of something I can't recall. The drinks arrived in plain glassware with festive plastic dragon stir-sticks. One sip and we all grimaced. Bad mixology. The horror!
I had ordered the suffering bastard because I so enjoyed the one I had at Painkiller a few weeks back with VS. (See Poor Suffering Bastard) And, since my fractured foot was achy and making me an impossibly slow bar hopper, it seemed appropriate. I mean really, a bum foot can really cramp the style of a lushtastic digital girl urban gastronomer trying to live it up for her bachelorette friend A.
After that first sip I was suffering indeed. It had to be the worst concoction of cheap liquor and nasty mixers I have ever been served in a bar. I knew the $8 price tag was too low for a quality beverage, but I thought perhaps they pinched on the barware and decor to keep the drink prices down. Most of the girls powered at least part way through their cheap alcohol and sugary fruit juices, but I couldn't do it. I ordered a Maker's on the rocks, which was more expensive than the abomination of a tiki drink I had just been served.
The fire was fun, and perfect for a crazy bachelorette moment, but the overall mixology was horrendous. Go to Zombie Hut for the fire, should the evening call for such festivities, and then head up the street to Clover Club for a true, quality cocktail experience.
Our evening had started well before Zombie Hut with cocktails, dinner and wine at Buttermilk Channel on Court Street. I began with the Bee's Knees, a lovely mix of Beefeater gin, honey and lemon. So simple and summery and delicious! This was followed by glass of white that the waitress had called crisp, but that I would call fruity. It was a nice match for the scallops and rhubarb, though, so it all worked out.
At the Zombie Hut things went wacky with the random rum shot followed by my safe Makers. I skipped the round of tequila shots ordered by a personable fellow for us girls, but even so, my palate was confused and my equilibrium askew by the time we made it to Clover Club.
And, so it was that I found myself telling the waitress I didn't know what to order. She was very polite, and suggested I go with the Bourbon Smash over one of the Juleps.
It was the right thing to do. Muddled lemon and mint with bourbon and the slightest touch of sugar, served on the rocks. Delicious! Refreshing! It made the ride home painless and this morning not so bad.
There you have it, ladies and g's. The best and worst of Smith Street... in one night. More on Clover Club to come, as I'm sure I'll be back in the near future! It will take another trip to appropriately write it up. Unless you'd like to hear about the one-woman butterfly mating performance dance or the palate mix-up between duck fat and truffle oil or the falling asleep of one of our party in the booth.
Nah, you don't want to know about any of that. Stay tuned!
Well, actually, the rum itself wasn't on fire. The bar was on fire. The six of us--one bachelorette reluctant to wear her bling-bling blinking tiara and her tipsy raucous escorts--were chasing blue flame around the steel bar counter with spears of tiny marshmallows. The flame was ineffective at its purpose, but when the fire goes out at Zombie Hut on Smith Street in Brooklyn, you have to drink, whether your marshmallows are properly toasted or not.
All six of us plus a few strangers popped the lukewarm, still virgin-white puffs into our mouths, bit into a slice of sugared lemon and downed the shots of rum plus who knows what from ceramic tiki-faced shooters.
We then ordered a round of drinks: two Bahama mamas, one suffering bastard, one frozen zombie and two of something I can't recall. The drinks arrived in plain glassware with festive plastic dragon stir-sticks. One sip and we all grimaced. Bad mixology. The horror!
I had ordered the suffering bastard because I so enjoyed the one I had at Painkiller a few weeks back with VS. (See Poor Suffering Bastard) And, since my fractured foot was achy and making me an impossibly slow bar hopper, it seemed appropriate. I mean really, a bum foot can really cramp the style of a lushtastic digital girl urban gastronomer trying to live it up for her bachelorette friend A.
After that first sip I was suffering indeed. It had to be the worst concoction of cheap liquor and nasty mixers I have ever been served in a bar. I knew the $8 price tag was too low for a quality beverage, but I thought perhaps they pinched on the barware and decor to keep the drink prices down. Most of the girls powered at least part way through their cheap alcohol and sugary fruit juices, but I couldn't do it. I ordered a Maker's on the rocks, which was more expensive than the abomination of a tiki drink I had just been served.
The fire was fun, and perfect for a crazy bachelorette moment, but the overall mixology was horrendous. Go to Zombie Hut for the fire, should the evening call for such festivities, and then head up the street to Clover Club for a true, quality cocktail experience.
Our evening had started well before Zombie Hut with cocktails, dinner and wine at Buttermilk Channel on Court Street. I began with the Bee's Knees, a lovely mix of Beefeater gin, honey and lemon. So simple and summery and delicious! This was followed by glass of white that the waitress had called crisp, but that I would call fruity. It was a nice match for the scallops and rhubarb, though, so it all worked out.
At the Zombie Hut things went wacky with the random rum shot followed by my safe Makers. I skipped the round of tequila shots ordered by a personable fellow for us girls, but even so, my palate was confused and my equilibrium askew by the time we made it to Clover Club.
And, so it was that I found myself telling the waitress I didn't know what to order. She was very polite, and suggested I go with the Bourbon Smash over one of the Juleps.
It was the right thing to do. Muddled lemon and mint with bourbon and the slightest touch of sugar, served on the rocks. Delicious! Refreshing! It made the ride home painless and this morning not so bad.
There you have it, ladies and g's. The best and worst of Smith Street... in one night. More on Clover Club to come, as I'm sure I'll be back in the near future! It will take another trip to appropriately write it up. Unless you'd like to hear about the one-woman butterfly mating performance dance or the palate mix-up between duck fat and truffle oil or the falling asleep of one of our party in the booth.
Nah, you don't want to know about any of that. Stay tuned!
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