The Vodka Vixens

Apparently the office suffered a power outage over the weekend. I suspect some sort of kitchen-appliance blunder, but as yet have no proof. In apology for the lack of content, I felt that I might contribute something.

As I have mentioned before, after the War, I made my wages as a writer of novels for men and certain jaunty ladies who crave adventure. My recent forays onto this internet have shown me that my works are out of print and rarely spoken-of. Forgive the ego of an aging man who wishes once more to share the stories he found inside his brain. From time to time I'll share excerpts from my older novels; truly, going back and having my loyal manservant type them up has reawakened the love of the craft. I have begun taking notes on a new work, my first in many years. As for now, I hope you enjoy this selection from The Vodka Vixens, the sequel to my 1965 book, The Vodka Killers.

Charles checked the .44 like he did every morning when he woke up. It was a routine that almost comforted him. There were no complications. There were no expectations. There was no anger, no sadness, no emotion at all. Ever since that fateful day in '56, uncomplicated times were seldom indeed.

But that was a long time ago and far away from his current location. Getting into Cuba had been easier than he had anticipated. The agency had set him up with a rubber raft after he disembarked from the so-called "fishing ship" the Orca. It had seemed legit, but civilians rarely are used in such a capacity as this Quint. Charles also knew that in this line of work, it was sometimes beneficial for the right hand to be kept in the dark about the left hand's activities, lest they find themselves handcuffed together.

After his other routines and calisthenics Charles put on the sort of linen shirt popular in the area as an attempt to blend in. There were fewer Anglos doing business here than in Batista's days, and fewer still vacationing since the embargo. But there were enough, and the dark, swarthy features Charles inherited from his Apache grandfather would help him look more like the local Spaniards than most Agency men.

He winked at the girl at the front desk as he left the hotel and her tan skin blushed even further. He walked the streets a bit, turning here and there, in an elaborate pattern established to discern the presence of tails. Finding none, he went to his meet-up destination, a bar hidden away on a side street.

It was dingy, sparsely-populated, and hot. Charles immediately felt at home. The bartender's hair was tight and curly, but Charles couldn't draw his eyes off her lips. Thick like soft pillows inviting him to come rest on them for a night or two. Perspiration caused her white linen shirt to cling to her in ways that Charles' never would.

"Hola, Senor," she said with a voice somehow both thick with sensuality and lilting with promise. "What'll you have?"

It took Charles a moment to notice she'd spoken to him in English. Nerves ajangle and ready for death-causing action. "You speak English . . .very well," he said, testingly. He wondered if his meeting place for his contact had been compromised.

"I was born in New York, actually," she replied. "I welcome the chance to speak the way I grew up."

"New York, eh? What brings you here?" Charles' hand slid subtly down towards where he kept his sidearm hidden.

"And I'll have a bourbon, neat."

"No bourbons here . . .have to go somewhere that can get past the embargo. Let me make you a local drink." She began mashing a mint into a glass, mixed it with cane surgar syrup, carbonated water, and rum. Charles was intrigued.

"You never answered me why you're here," he asked, watching her top it with a lime.

"Here in this bar or here in Cuba? I'm here in Cuba because I had family here. I'm here in this bar to meet you, Charles."

In less than a second Charles' .44 was leveled straight at her, but her smile nor the sparkle in her eye remained unperturbed.

"Canary Jackanape Soluble," she said.

"Moist Familial Arbitrary," Charles returned.

"I've never known a man with seven heads," she continued.

"Babe Ruth was a fat bastard," Charles continued, knowing he was a phrase away from success.

"Kitty kitty meow meow smell the HELLO," she said.

"Abraham Lincoln was a homosexual," he finished and put the gun down. "They should have told me my contact was . . ."

"A woman? Oh, Charles, I'd heard you were at least a bit more open-minded than that."
He took a long swig from the drink she'd made. "No. That my contact was so . . .intoxicating. What is this drink?"

Smile and eye still unperturbed, yet eyebrow arched, she replied, "A mojito. The sin here almost makes the rest of it worthwhile. Cigars, rum, love . . .but I get the feeling the Reds won't stand for it too much longer."

"Well, I always say 'Enjoy it while you can.' Besides, we'll kick this bearded Marxist out soon enough. Now what say we get down to business?" Charles said, downing the rest of his drink.

Her finger traced her collarbone and her smile widened. "Business before pleasure?"

Charles smiled, but before he could decide they were interrupted.

"Oh, Charles, it pains me to see you drinking this filth," one deeply accented voice said.

"With this filth," an almost identical one replied. Before even turning, Charles recognized it. Olga and Natasha, the Rasputin twins. Two of the Kremlin's deadliest and most beautiful agents. And he had a feeling this time he wasn't going to get off so easily. Read more...

The Brown Derby Tasting

One of our more enjoyable tasks at the HCAR offices is cocktail tasting and testing. Recently, to bring a new life to the exploration we were sent a tattered copy of Patrick Gavin Duffy's The Standard Bartender's Guide by our sponsor and superior, Colonel J.R. Harmon. The drinks within hearken back to days when Galliano flowed the streets like gold, and requesting a Wild Turkey Mist with a Twist, would not yank forth looks of disdain from your bartender.

This week’s tasting was a small affair, and we decided to venture towards an area of drinking that not many of us were familiar with: Rum.

The Brown Derby.


Editor's Note: This drink is not actually in the book I loaned the young folks that staff this blog. I was deep in the midst of a conversation with the charming young Rachel whereupon she mentioned a time in which she drank a Brown Derby. I confirmed with her that it was, indeed, this drink, and it brought me back to another time. This drink was named after the famous Los Angeles location. I spent a few years in that torrid, horrid town doctoring movieplays, consulting with fat producers, and drinking whenever possible in order to rid myself of the awful malaise found everywhere in Hollywood. I was introduced to this drink by a young starlet who decency and history dare me not to name. I have always enjoyed it, and think fondly of her whenever I drink it. Here's to you, my dear, to all our failings and our triumphs. -- Colonel J.R. Harmon, Ret.

Tasting Roster:
The Masked Drinker
Ladyboy
Rachel
Sara
and
Faux-Bee June (your author)

Guests:
The Pet
Fräulein N

It should be noted that there is another cocktail that goes by the name of “The Brown Derby.” This is not that cocktail. This is this cocktail:

Two Ounces Dark Run
One Ounce Lime Juice
One Teaspoon Maple Syrup

As usual, we mixed a small number of cocktails and divvied them up into smaller rocks glasses for the tasting.

For the first time in an HCAR tasting, every single person agreed whole-heartedly that the drink in question was quite enjoyable, and would likely be enjoyed again and again. Among the characteristics that were unanimously agreed on: The smooth finish, and light (not overpowering) rum flavor. Three of (us, myself, the Masked Drinker and Fräulein N) ventured into the tasting with a bit of hesitation about sipping a rum based cocktail. We were all pleasantly surprised that the rum really did not impose itself, nor did it leave the syrupy aftertaste we dreaded, in fact the MD thought the rum added an agreeable “heartiness” .

Rachel noted that the lime and maple syrup complimented each other. Ladyboy agreed that “the maple and lime are alternately dominant.” Sara noted that it was “sweet, but not too sweet.” The Pet and I were equally charmed by the maple syrup aftertaste which was, once again, not too overpowering, and not at all (shockingly) “syrupy.”

We all agreed that the drink was likely to be enjoyed by a wide variety of drinkers, even those not normally given to ordering cocktails. Ladyboy felt that it is not a drink that “requires a particular drinking style or encourages specific associations,” and Sara said that “It’s a cocktail for someone who doesn’t normally order cocktails,” although it was widely accepted that a few would suffice, and the drink might not stand up as the only drink of the night, if one were in it for the long haul.

The tasters mentioned in equal numbers that The Brown Derby could be enjoyed in the summer, on the beach with a funny little umbrella in it, and in the winter, cozied up in front of a nice wood burning fire place with one of those zigzag afghans that your great aunt crotched.

The range of ideas for improvement ran from “my glass would be bigger” (Sara, echoed by the Pet) to the idea of a pork garnish, by the Masked Drinker. (His interest in savory garnishes might not have anything to do with the fact that he recently reported on the Bacon and Bourbon Expo.) I couldn’t come up with a bit more than a sprig of mint for improvement, although Fräulein N’s suggestion of a splash of soda water sounded like it might cut the sweetness just that much more to appease my palate. She also mentioned that she would like to try it with maple sugar instead of maple syrup, which was suggested in the recipe, although the syrup texture pleased her as well. On the maple angle, Rachel admitted that she had previously enjoyed the recipe “kick[ed] up at least 10 notches” with the use of “a special high grade maple syrup that was aged in bourbon barrels” which (while the HCAR offices don’t currently stock it) just might make the shopping list.

Ladyboy was interested in seeing if it would work as a warm cocktail, but we dissolved into round two before testing the hypothesis.

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A veritable box of communication

Welcome all to the happiest place on the internet. I, Colonel J.R. Harmon, was perusing this giant collection of nerds and pornography from my ancestral estate whose location I do not wish to reveal and it occurred to me that there was no real home, no central headquarters for that noblest of lifestyles, that of The Drinker. Sure, you’ll find dozens of oenophilic sites filled with the minutia of the grape. Indeed, dunder-headed youths of once-storied Greek associations might belabor to type rudimentary tales of their “keggers” and vomiting that would cause an actual Ancient to blush. And, yes, there are many sites of note that review various alcohols at varying degrees of competency. All this is true and most evident.

But I found nothing in my many wasted hours of searching on this infernal machine that truly was dedicated to the lifestyle of a real drinker. A gentleman or lady who knows exactly what he or she likes, and enjoys it like a true aficionado or, truly, an artist whose medium is imbibery. I quickly decided to found and fund an organization to rectify this. I don’t wish to sound impolite, but through hard work, good family, and years of penning men’s adventure novels, I have amassed no small amount of wealth. And rather than see it fall into the hands of my cultureless offspring or, worse, my even-more-spoiled grandchildren, I have poured it into the site you are now reading.

I purchased office space in Brooklyn, New York, no stranger to the love of liquor, as I had been advised struggling artists and writers paved the streets there like gold in the land of Oz. Lo, I was truly advised well, as I was flooded with a multitude of so-called talents from every corner of the globe, yet now residing in said borough. The selection process was harrowing; I do believe some lost not only their chance at artistic fulfillment but also their very minds. But in time, I selected a team the likes of which have not been seen since Clark Savage, Jr. and his companions.

In this group you will find experts in every field related to the true liquid of life and love. You have brewers, bartenders, trained palettes, esteemed debauchers, and more, all at the top of their respective games. So I hope you come to enjoy our discussions, articles, artwork, fiction, and whatever else it is you can put on a computer these days. (They have come a long way from helping us crack Kraut codes, so I suppose they deserve their current esteem in a way.) Feel free to electronically mail either myself or any member of our staff with comments, questions, or adoration.

It is already, and will continue to be a privilege to provide you with this tribute to one of life’s few true treasures.

Yours in truth and in time,
Col. J. R. Harmon, Ret.
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