FLAME ON

Inside leaf hearald: This Book is Dedicated to You. In pencil, paternal grandfather's station, initials, Anno Domini: Harvard College; HSV; 1933. Beginning of the end for Prohibition. Suppose Pap and brethren popped proverbial cork and took flight on yards of dead stiff drink in the dark day's death throes. His Savoy Cocktail Book now mine, actually been in possession since late high school when heads were scratched clear of hairs at mentions of eau de vie or bitters other than angostura.

Concocted lots of cocktails from ol' Savoy. Learned of Zombie, Blue Devil, Bronx Cheer, Corpse Reviver, various 'n' sundry slips, fizzes, cups, punches. Still make many of them. But the Blue Blazer, whose prep held prominent artist rendering on page 2 (see said illustration below), was mountain to climb, conquer, claim. While other college freshmen were shotgunning Keystone Light, we were mixing egg whites, brandies, bourbons, bitters. A civilized barbarism, where a game of Stratego or Spades was bookended with sherbet colored drinks pleading for parasol. We predated the "retro" imbibers by a decade or so and were better for it - even if I did nearly burn down a friend's home in the process of pulling the Blue Blazer together.

Tintin's wildly successful TRAD blog (thetrad.blogspot.com), which the NYT apparently pilfers from on slow - and fast - work weeks, brought this drink back to the forefront of the mind. Had I actually made it? Did I drink it? Were people injured?

Silver tankards, check. Scotch, check. Boiling water, check. Fire, check. Interested in assembly? Start hurling a comet of ignited whisky from tankard to tankard, lights low, Robert Mitchum killing Calypso in background, as the prospect of myriad liberties taken with ladies are fleeting at best...

What I remember is something akin to applause. Then shock, terror, a mob scene simulacra of post-Thanksgiving sales. Bodies pile upon each other in drunken confusion. Spilled liquid glowing blue, orange, yellow. Mitchum no longer playing. Hands going into a sink of ice and water and salt and a morning spent nursing V-8 and beer while watching Holtz helmed Notre Dame kick the living shit out of Miami. Life is ephemeral, true, and I'll wager at least half the people present that magical evening recall the attempted assemblage mostly better than I. Charmed life, folks. Charmed.