Beer prepared by leaving out two ounces of lowest grade beer at hand (Corona) to go flat for an hour, metallic taste aided by the addition of four pennies (which hopefully also contributed the kind of gunk that doubtless clings to every inch of Pat's Tavern). Ice added first, grenadine glopped on top, which immediately sunk to bottom. Lime was initially halved, then carved into with dollar sign, then squeezed to completion (juice discarded), finally put in an toaster oven for a few minutes. Nothing was stirred.

The nose reeked of potcheen's weird melon-like funk. The first sip stung with sour and intense potcheen kick, evoking spoiled dairy and antiseptic, mellowed with the stale beer's texture of a stagnant creek. It's the kind of drink a Pat's Cavern patron would love, the punishing sort of drink that makes you feel that you *earned* your insobriety, and keeps you safe from the troubling notion that you may for a moment ever enjoy your life. The grenadine only comes into play late in the drink. At this point, all you have is the remainder of the ice, an overlarge lime rind, and the grenadine you never wanted in the first place. You indifferently try to sip it for a while, but eventually dump it out.

From rusty pipes come terrible drinks. Potcheen should not be in anything. The Uncle Pat is bad.

For the record, it is *not* possible to slice atomic fireball candy.

In capturing the airy lustrousness of the gray Manhattan interview rooms, Stoli was selected, which seemed to be adequately '80s glitzy. As someone who does not like vodka cocktails and does not like apple juice, it's uncanny how *good* this is―almost certainly the best drink of its kind. Both the apple juice and pernod swim faintly against the big nothingness of vodka and seltzer; strong flavors in small quantities, it gives you the impression of a noisy street-level hubbub wafting 30 floors up, at the threshold of audibility. (The apple in particular gives the drink a certain honest bulkiness.) As you make you way through, the outer layer of the atomic fireball dissolves, lending an unsubtle satire of the cutthroat business world: stick around long enough and you're ankle-deep in blood.

I don't like vodka cocktails much but this one was OK. More subtle than expected. For best results let it sit a day until the Atomic Fireball fully dissolves.

In designing the perfect TGI Fridays-style cocktail, it's important to balance two necessary subcomponents: the actual cocktail itself (comprising the essential substance of the drink) and the corporate-mandated elements (comprising gimmick, spectacle, and profit). Let's quickly dispense with the former concern: the Ding-A-Ling is a solid cocktail. The hazy licorice smell initially pervades, eventually subsiding into soft cream, then souring subtly into shades of harsh coffee and sweet. Essentially a White Russian with tuned-down base spirit and tuned-up cacao and anise, the Ding-A-Ling is a can't miss sort of concoction that we knocked out of the park. Soft and spicy, rich and mysterious, I can recommend it without reservation.

Technically, the drink is something of a mess, for several reasons. Sprinkles: the sort of can't-miss gimmick that one would see everywhere in the T.G.I.sphere if they worked. They do not. For each sprinkle that successfully rests atop the cream, ten or twenty sink immediately. Sprinkles do not demonstrably add to the presentation of the drink, and they do not demonstrably add to the flavor. The gimmick with the vodka-soaked Twizzler is not worth the awkward process of the soak, and Twizzler-balancing within the cocktail glass without it buckling and collapsing into the center was an impossibility. Finally, the cherry sank like a stone, not to be seen again; simply wasted. A fair amount of work was done trying to balance the cherry against the Twizzler, but it's not doable in a reasonable amount of time, certainly not the amount of time available to a harried Friday's bartender. Upon finishing the drink, the customer is left with an unappetizing layer of gunk.

With a proper R&D budget, TGI Fridays may be able to design a proper glass to allow the ambitious vision of the Ding-A-Ling to function as intended.

At first, cream. Fluffy, creamy coffee cream. Then a brutal awakening — the violent intrusion of licorice brought by an unfortunate quantity of Ouzo.

It's fair to say there's balance here.

There's no way to happily attend the funeral of Tom Cruise, but at least one can sip the proper cocktail while weeping. This drink shares some similarities to drinking "Remy Martin, neat", with several key departures:

1) There are sprinkles floating in it
2) The glass is very big

The sprinkles, somewhat surprisingly, blossom with great majesty into an inky cloud within seconds. Not only contributing to the atmosphere of mourning, this also adds to the taste of the spicy rich deep bloomy cognac, adding a note of sour. Also, the sprinkles are chewy.

The large glass helps direct everything directly to the nose and face, targeting the mulchy spiciness into the sinuses and also presenting a miniature comfortable world to fall into, as one stares into the bottom of the very large snifter. Other see you as carrying a deep and somber reminder of loss, while you discover a deep and rich world for into escape.

Alas, Finnegan, ye shall be missed. Rémy Martin is enjoyable. Even moreso with spooky sprinkles. The large snifter really impresses upon you the alcoholic aroma of the drink. A modest effort here.

For such a simple cocktail―only two ingredients, no ice, no fuss―everything went awry surprisingly quickly. Without a complete explanation of the subtle chemistry at play, I can only report that a careful pour of the Everclear into the pint glass of Soylent led the the glass to *roar*: weird and deeply angry rolls of geyserlike discontent. It was immediately apparent that drinking the Silicon Valley Dirty Lyle would not be a calming experience.

A problem was immediately visible: thin clear pools gathering upon the surface of the drink showed that the two ingredients had separated (with the pure alcohol atop). As a result, the first sip was maximally intense, yet one could still detect the Soylent within it: crisp pancake against bright pricks of fire. The tongue was tossed about, the alcohol activating the tip while the heavy Soylent dominated the sides and back.

The drinker continued to sip carefully and unenthusiastically, each sip less jaunty than the one before. Before very long, a dullness set in. A morning brightness soon dampened into midday beige, the cocktail uncannily simulates the experience of an alcoholic's whole day. By this time, the experience had become a chore: lukewarm and distinctly unrefreshing, far too much and then far too little.

The chore langoured well after finishing the drink: dead-eyed at the sink, one notes a powdery coat of grime on the glass that resists all scrubbing, while at the same time a slightly nutritious coat clings unpleasantly to the back of the throat.

As it turns out, when you have two liquids of vastly different densities, one of them is prone to rise to the top. This means that the Everclear quickly and persistently rises above the (much less dense) Soylent, effectively resulting in an Everclear float.

An Everclear float is a very bad thing to have in your drink.

Once you get past the float, the rest of the drink is just Soylent. Soylent is fine, but I prefer it colder and with more chocolate.

I cannot recommend the SVDL.

A pretty drink for pretty yuppies; it wows upon first glance with its emerald tones and partially-plastic bouquet. Though one knows that the content will prove false―precisely the point with such a yuppie gimmick―it impresses at first, coming in smooth with clean neon edges. But as per the yuppie lifestyle, as soon as you commit to it, the harshness is upon you. Cough syrup bright, wave after aqua wave of a Sharkleberry Finn immediacy, it's really too much to stand, too ersatz to consume quickly, and quite overbearingly loud. One is quickly convinced to renounce yuppieism and plan the jailbreak. Late, late in the drink, long after reckoning and regret, the actual taste emerges: copper and grain.

This drink is a feast for the eyes, if not always the tongue. It has three phases:

1) An initial rise of tempered sweetness, not unintriguing
2) An overwhelming spike of sickening syrup
3) A mellowing out into a slightly bitter finish

The evolution of it over these phases is interesting and worth experiencing. While phase 2 does undercut the overall appeal of the drink, I found phase 1 and 3 to be pretty palatable. The peach schnapps shines throughout, making the drink a lot more approachable than it would be otherwise.

Visually, the drink is absolutely stunning.

I'm skeptical of foods and drinks that are good when hot, but bad at room temperature, like coffee or McNuggets. That said, hot toddies are always a winner. The Angry Basketball is a spin on the classic winter night's drink, transforming into a drink for summer at noonday, to be downed in sweaty and uncomfortable moods.

It has the lemony nose of a hot toddy when coming in, in the mouth a delicate fabric of light and soft citrus flavors, washing into Kool-Aid, bright and gummy. For within mere seconds, the tidy sharp-edged cube had completely dissolved, becoming a murky layer of ink. This gummy artificiality (nothing in nature looks like this) makes it a chore to work all the way through. Soft and sticky, sublimated anger, but the heat makes it bearable.

The cinnamon stick was not meant to be optional, and we had cinnamon sticks prepared. We just screwed up, and it's too bad, because cinnamon would have fixed many of these problems.

I never tasted the gin for a moment.

If nothing else, let it be said that we utterly succeeded in making a coral-colored drink. Somehow the lemon juice + grenadine + clear liquid combo results in a perfect coral drink.

Beyond the color, there's something fairly special here. As the Jell-O cubes dissolve, the drink goes from rather sour to slightly sweet. Adding extra hot water while drinking both helps this process and improves the overall drinking experience.

I'm not a huge fan of Jell-O, especially the aggressively artificial flavor of grape Jell-O, but it does help to balance this drink and watching it dissolve is quite satisfying.

Overall, this is a drinkable effort with some positive qualities.

On first sip, the carbonated taste of Origina can be strongly sensed. Upon more sips, you sense deeper, grasping, fresh orange flavor: orange after orange wave of orange flavor. Almost creamy, the alcohol content comes in sideways, a spoiled rotten orange. Then back (!) with fresh and perky fresh juice. Not especially syrupy, as expected, it in truth contains the languid viscous waves of fresh juicy waters. On a beach, such an experience seems nearly essential, and I can comprehend why a beach resort would issue a coupon to comp the experience.

BEHIND-THE-SCENES TIDBIT: Alan and I had to split one Kokomo Brochure between the two of us, owing to lack of orange ("orange" orange). Such a raw deal made me feel short-changed, in the same manner of the irate tourist in the movie.

You might think that orange on top of Orangina on top of multiple types of orange liqueur would be too much orange. You would be wrong.

The Brochure tastes and feels (thanks to the shake) a bit like an Orange Julius, which is a very good thing. Maybe it’s the subtle hint of Licor 43. Do they put Licor 43 in Orange Juliuses? Probably not.

It’s remarkable how creamy this tastes, despite not having any cream in it. Is it possible that your mind fills in “creamsicle” when it tastes orange and spices?

Above all else, this drink is pure Kokomo.

Perfect.

This is a perfect cocktail; a historic moment has been realized on-air, easily tantamount to the mythical coupling of gin and vermouth in Martinez, CA. The Tony Scaduto is one of the four or five most important cocktails ever created.

Notes on acquisition: unlike Bonnie's 1980s, it's hard to find carrot juices these days; the large local supermarket only had one in stock. The pineapple preserves had to be bought in bulk (it isn't the easiest ingredient to deal with, a sticky ball of goo, and as a small nit, it leaves a bit of preserve residue at the end.)

The Tony Scaduto opens with a deep carrot nose, bristly and rooty. This begins something of a back-to-the-soil narrative: in the Scaduto, an inverted daquiri of sorts, we see the crisp wistfulness of Havana bars transformed into the rustic, vegetables replacing fruit. The masculine drink of Hemingway's day transformed into the pastel feminine shades of Bonnie's 1980s NYC apartment.

The drink gains width into arena of lime, balanced against brackish rim, furthering widening into earthy carrot and agave, wow. Widening further and further, almost to excess, it's a peaceful lazy river sort of vibe, delicate and with an elegant haiku bliss.

Like all the best cocktails, the Tony Scaduto feels weightless.

Perfect.

This is a good drink. It feels basic and elementary, like it should be a standard staple at every bar in the world. The earthiness of the carrot juice balanced well with the lime and tequila, creating something pleasant and not too sweet. The world may one day come to love the Tony Scaduto.