Tag Archives: rye

Among the traditions associated (for some) with Thanksgiving, the one that annoys me the most is the notion of forcing each of those seated around a well-provisioned table to recount a single thing for which a person is thankful. It’s not that being grateful or demonstrating appreciation are offensive sentiments. But to my mind, being goaded into a sappy public display is, no matter the intent, irritating, boring, and dare I say contrived.

So in lieu of that particular custom, I shall instead confess to the public some of the things for which I am thankful in the most privately publicm, egomaniacal fashion of them all — a blog post.

This year, my wife and I set sail — or more accurately, boarded a flight — bound for Baltimore in order to visit family. The day before Thanksgiving, we were to meet up with our good friends who live near DC, my brother, and his fiancée for dinner and drinks. After doing some research and consulting the natives, we elected to dine at Masa 14, an inexpensive Latin+Japanese fusion place that serves small plates, and to drink at The Gibson, a speakeasy-style joint down the block which nearly always requires reservations to get past the doorman.

Dinner was wonderful — I particularly enjoyed the yucca fries, the pork belly “tacos,” some mussels, and some of their flatbreads — but this is a drinks blog, and we’re more than mere casual drinkers, so let’s focus our attention on The Gibson, shall we?

During Prohibition, I’m sure it would have taken quite a bit to gain entrance to The Gibson. Knowing the proprietor, perhaps. Knowing a codeword, probably. But today, we have Google. Following the recent trend of modeling sophisticated watering holes after the speakeasys of yesteryear, this establishment is virtually invisible from 14th Street NW. Only a single light bulb, a single doorknob, and a single door buzzer sandwiched between two other businesses alert you that there might be life inside the otherwise decrepit-looking building. But after perusing reviews on Yelp, we were on the phone to The Gibson, making reservations.

Once we were done with dinner and wandered up the street to that barely lit entrance, we headed in, initially greeted by a young potbellied man dressed in all black, his face adorned with mutton chops that threatened to engulf his face. He led us through a second door to a dimly lit, beautifully decorated room. Standing isn’t allowed — the bar has 48 chairs, and if you’re not in one of them, you’re not in the bar — and half the tables are set aside for those who call in advance to make reservations.

We took our seats, looked over the menus, and ordered some damn fine drinks.

Among our more memorable drinks were a Blue Blood (Laphroaig 10-Year Single Malt, Leopold Bros Tart Cherry Liqueur, Grand Marnier, and Dolin Dry Vermouth), a Bittered Rye Sling (Old Overholt Rye, bitters, lime, Dolin sweet vermouth, and Fever Tree ginger ale), and a Brunswick Sour (Appleton white rum and lime juice with merlot floated on top).

My brother’s fiancee described the Blue Blood as “feet wrapped in bacon.” Sounds ideal to me, and indeed it is: The smoky flavor from the scotch certainly dominates the drink, but it’s made balanced by the tart cherry and orange. My personal favorite, though, was the Bittered Rye Sling I ordered. Tart, drinkable, and surprisingly aromatic, it was served in a Collins glass and garnished with a cherry and a lemon twist.

The waitstaff was pleasant and felt comfortable questioning odd orders, hoping to save both him and us from having to deal with a drink that didn’t match up to our party’s tastes. The Brunswick Sour and a few others were recommendations of his throughout the evening, and he did well. And of course, the drinks were absolutely delicious.

Atmosphere is a focal point for The Gibson: Beautifully stained wood is accented with regal reds and golds on cieling inlays, and red velvet covers the back of the bench seating. Orange peel garnishes were brought to the table and, when squeezed, lit on fire for every drink. Showmanship is fun, but on more than one occasion, we sat waiting awkwardly for a minute while our waiter tried to flame the peel. And truth be told, our second round came a bit late in the evening because of the slow pace of service.

Nonetheless, The Gibson was a great drink experience. It would be easy to over-consume there: The bartenders are the real asset at this establishment as the drinks were universally well-made. Even the strongest, booziest cocktails were eminantly drinkable. And prices were fair and reasonable. If driving 50 minutes back to Baltimore hadn’t been a concern, I would have been joyfully slurring and stumbling my way out of The Gibson as my mutton-chopped doorman friend booted my ass to the curb at closing time. If you’re in DC, you owe yourself a trip.