Results tagged “Cocktails” from Intelligent Travel Blog

One of a number of popular speakeasy-themed bars sprouting up across the nation, Chicago's The Violet Hour just may be the best. (Don't believe us? just ask these guys.) Toby Maloney--the über-bartender of New York's Milk & Honey fame--has gathered a team of fellow bartenders who see mixing as equal parts science and art.

The elegant bar hides behind an abandoned building exterior; the only piece out of place is a door handle sticking out of the wall, which, once pulled, leads to the Violet Hour's dark waiting room. On my visit, my group and I were initially disappointed at being led to bar seats--we had wanted to sit in the ultra-high-backed chairs grouped around candlelit tables, or better yet, next to the fireplace. But we immediately realized that we had been awarded the best seats in the house. The dimly lit bar gleamed with varieties of booze that I didn't recognize (a bit different from the collection at my local college-town bar). Bottles that looked like they contained potions were lined up as if to say "at your service." I found out later that these were the homemade bitters, syrups, and hand-squeezed juices used in the cocktails.

Grant Martin raises a glass to the charming class of cocktail mixers who don't phone it in on a Monday night.

There isn't much to do on a Monday night in Wellington, New Zealand.

As many travelers know, socializing is an important part of any cross-country trip - meeting new locals, absorbing culture and evolving your itinerary as you learn. Monday is just not a day for merrymaking; bars tend to close early, clubs don't open at all and everyone takes a collective breath from a good long weekend.

And so, at 9 p.m. on a Monday night, the traveler who is all caught up on email, postcards, journal entries and ramen noodles finds himself alone at one of the only open bars in town. In Wellington, you find yourself at Matterhorn.

Here you meet Claire, the Scottish bartender with dark flowing hair tied in a ponytail, wearing an olive drab, short sleeve, button-down shirt and tattoos from her shoulders to her elbows. Only Claire isn't busy like she is on Fridays, bouncing from snifter to dishwasher to customer, pouring Woodford or 42 Below. It's a slow night, and as you watch her patiently clean barware and meticulously line up bottles you know she's got time to talk.

Sidecar. Vodka tonic. Gin and tonic. With careful measure she pours each drink into a mixer, properly chills the concoction and deposits it into a prepared glass. "Where are you headed?" she'll ask you, in a light Scottish accent that's starting to fade into Kiwi.

No plans.

"It's poker night at Havana," she suggests. "Up Cuba Street, down a dark alley. You could walk right by it." She smiles. And so you go.