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An Ode To The Old Fashioned

By Chris Outcalt

First, an admission: I’m a bandwagon old fashioned drinker. A few years ago, I became hooked on the series Mad Men. The show’s protagonist—Don Draper, a smooth-talking, chain-smoking ad man with a mysterious past—swills old fashioneds like water. Fueled by a gigantic lapse in logic, I began mixing Draper’s drink at home for a semiregular nightcap thinking I’d somehow also inherit a bit of his suaveness. What I got was not a lesson in being cool, but rather an education in what makes a good cocktail.

With three ingredients—bourbon or rye, bitters, and sugar—an old fashioned is, technically speaking, a simple drink. That doesn’t mean, however, it’s easy to execute; with so few ingredients, there’s no room to hide. A killer old fashioned is eminently balanced: The whiskey shouldn’t overrun the cocktail; the bitters shouldn’t bite; the sugar shouldn’t overpower.

In fact, it’s precisely this drink’s basic but delicate equilibrium that makes an old fashioned an excellent measure of a bar. It’s an estimation you can start making before you even take a sip. The drink should be served in a lowball glass—often referred to as an old fashioned glass—with ice. If a bartender unceremoniously plops a pint glass in front of you, as happened to a friend at one Denver bar, he’s made a critical error. An orange (or sometimes a lemon) peel garnish should accentuate the bitters. These days, you might come across what’s called a “new old fashioned.” Generally, this means an establishment has taken it upon itself to mess with the classic, muddling in fruit or other ingredients or even adding soda water. This doesn’t (necessarily) make it a bad drink; it just makes it not an old fashioned.

Several years of drinking old fashioneds—and watching seven seasons of Mad Men—hasn’t made me any smoother. One thing it has taught me, however, is that sipping a particular old-school cocktail is not an effective measure of a good man (turns out Don Draper is kind of a dick). Making a good one, on the other hand—well, that’s something else altogether.

The Makings Of A Good Bar

By Kasey Cordell

Over time, as the editor of four bar feature stories, the one-woman bartender in a Belfast bar, and a solo diner when I moved to Colorado three months before my fiancé arrived, I’ve spent a lot of hours on my own in bars. The upside, though, is that drinking alone gives you the opportunity to appreciate the little things that get lost in the company of others. Like the things that make a good bar. Not a sports bar or a dance club—I’m talking about the kind of spot you turn to for refuge or for celebration. A bar is a funny thing in that it serves dual purposes for drinkers: Some are there for laughter, others for solitude. But if you botch any of the little things, you’ll ruin the experience for both. So let’s get a few ground rules straight.

No more than 10 cocktails on the menu. Period. More than that and I start feeling like I’m ordering a drink from Yelp.

Soft music. I don’t care if it’s Otis Redding or Iron Maiden; it shouldn’t interrupt my thoughts or my conversation. (OK, if it’s Iron Maiden, I mind a little.)

Bar stools should be padded. (Preferably with foot- and backrests, so I don’t end up slumping over my drink like I do my laptop.) This is particularly true here in the nation’s fittest state, where most drinkers haven’t yet acquired adequate backside cushioning to sustain sitting on hard surfaces for more than one round.

Coat hooks. We’re in the Mile High City, people. Even our summer nights require jackets. There’s simply no excuse not to have a place to put them.

Femur room. The bar should be built out from the vertical plane so that my knees aren’t knocking up against it. By my count, that’s at least 18 inches.

Low lighting. Whether patrons are there to celebrate or commiserate, no one wants their pores on display. This is why Edison bulbs or dimmers are awesome.

Bartenders with savvy. This extends beyond drink-making ability. They need to be men and women with the ability to discern when to chat someone up, when to just shut up and pour another, and when to gently but firmly intervene when one saturated patron intrudes on another’s evening.

Wood-burning stove or fire pit: Because this is Colorado. And it smells good. That’s all.

How To Drink Alone

By Geoff Van Dyke

As a younger man, I had the very self-satisfied impression that drinking alone was a retrograde activity, something for drunks and degenerates and the friendless. It didn’t take long for the cruel circumstances of the real world to disabuse me of my pretensions. After a particularly bad day, I did what any 23-year-old with an affinity for drinks would do: I headed to one of midtown Manhattan’s dive bars and got suitably hammered. By myself.

It was a valuable learning experience. After recovering from that monster hangover, I resolved not to drink alone ever again. And then, years later, my longtime girlfriend and I broke up. I moved in with buddies who had strange work schedules, and often I’d find myself wandering to my neighborhood bar, solo, for drinks after I’d punched the clock. Since then, my ex and I reconciled, got married, and started a family. Much has changed. But the bar as a refuge has not, and here are some of the things I’ve learned about drinking alone over the years:

Bring reading material. In the days before smartphones, I always had a magazine or book on hand. This telegraphs to would-be “friends” sitting at the bar that you’re not interested in talking. Also, a good book or story is invariably enhanced by a good drink or two.

Know your booze. Most barkeeps will treat you just fine regardless of whether you order a Coors or a Negroni on the rocks with an orange twist. But they also appreciate drinkers with a bit of knowledge about the bottles on the backbar.

Be prepared. If you don’t want to hole up with this month’s 5280 and are willing to actually talk with another human being, be aware of what you’re getting into. Stay away from politics and religion. Sports can have its pitfalls if you’re talking to a tipsy fanatic. The weather is usually safe. And it can never hurt to have a “fake” occupation at the ready if you don’t want to discuss your real job—“actuary” can be a real conversation killer.

Know your limits. Don’t get sloshed. Getting drunk in a bar by yourself is kinda sad. I can speak from experience.

—Photo credits from top (left to right): Aaron Colussi; Courtesy of Lowry Beer Garden; Courtesy of Hops & Pie; Aaron Colussi; Courtesy of Dada Art Bar; Aaron Colussi (2); Courtesy of Jennifer Olson; Sarah Boyum; Aaron Colussi; Courtesy of Steuben's, Sarah Boyum; Courtesy of Tim Dwenger; iStock, Sarah Boyum; Aaron Colussi; Shutterstock (5); Jeff Nelson (3)