BrightestYoungThings: Orr Shtuhl Drink Diary

photos by Dakota Fine, brief words by Svetlana

While most people know Orr Shtuhl as City Paper's Beerspotter, one cannot possibly undermine his prolific love of cocktails as well. In fact, I first met Orr during "SPICE" a crazy popular cocktail night he organized at the "soon-to-be" Passenger where he made delicious wintry drinks for everyone who asked, which, in that case was A LOT OF people. After that, he dead-seriously said that "he'll just stick to beer" but fast-forward to 2011 and he and Elizabeth Graeber (one of DC's finest illustrators, if we say so ourselves) joined forces to bring you the very delightful "AN ILLUSTRATED GUIDE TO COCKTAILS" which comes out TOMORROW (with a bar book tour to boot). On that occasion we invited ourselves over to Orr's home, his grocery store and his favorite bars for a little peek into a week's worth of quality beer, liquor, coffee and drink consumption. Hope you're ready to be thirsty...

Details on the book can be found here (buy online @ ETSY here) and on the DC Bar Cocktail Book tour here

Sunday

God, why? Why did I pick today to start this diary? Yesterday was my birthday, which we celebrated at vitaminwater uncapped where BYT brought over from NYC Jonathan Toubin's Soul Clap Dance Contest, perhaps my favorite dance party outside my cousin's bar mitzvah. My muscles ache at the joints, and while I like to think I got a booty-shaking workout last night, it probably has more to do with the sugary bottled drinks served up by this venue's fine sponsor. Lesson: less electrolytes, more beer.

I start off with black tea at home, then realize that's not going to cut it. My brother's in town, so I take him to the new Peregrine Espresso on 14th Street for an Americano, half the water (me) and an espresso (him). I drink half of his.

By noon, I've texted 14 friends, and only on the last attempt do I convince one of them that beer and barbecue qualifies as a legitimate brunch. For the third week in a row, we go to Standard. My usual is a Weihenstephaner hefeweizen and pork, but seeing as they've recently switched from Spaten lager to Hofbrau, I decide to celebrate the improvement with a half-liter and a brisket. My second mug of Hofbrau confirms that the keg is pouring consistently.

Somehow, a liter of beer and a beef sandwich turns into a long nap. I have a long week ahead of schmoozing bartenders in advance of the new cocktail book, so I take it easy with a Vietnamese-style salty limeade (with homemade preserved limes). Forget Gatorade, salty limeade is the all-knowing healer.

Monday

I more or less kick coffee for the winter, but by June the long days have me back in action. French press at the office with Indonesian beans from Qualia Coffee.

Now, here I must explain something: Neither beer nor cocktail writing is my full-time gig. I have a good ol' fashioned day job that serves to both make my parents proud and keep my bar flush. That said, my partners in 9-to-5 and I have made sport of the fairer beverages, stocking our desks with all manners of coffee and tea paraphernalia. French press and a pour-over filter are mandatory, as is the loose-leaf infuser. With help from Teaism, I'm learning about the wildly different varieties of oolong tea, which range from the zingy, pollen-colored bao zhong, which gives you a buzz like mild electrocution (in a good way), to bai hao, which tastes like a fruit-and-nut granola bar that's been buried in soil for a month (also in a good way).

This afternoon, it's too hot for a loose-leaf pick-me-up, so we cold-brew a mason jar full of barley tea. It's just ground-up barley, so it tastes like, well, barley. Very thin and refreshing, and completely savory -- I like it. On the way home I swing by The Passenger to square up some details for the book tour. Julia is working, and for the first time in ages I decline my usual, which is her invention of a Pimms Cup with a shot of Fernet Branca. It puts other summer drinks to shame.

When I get home, my roommate and her friend are having a conversation about elderflowers. I soon see that this was prompted by what she's holding: giant bottles of gin and St. Germain elderflower liqueur. I get the ice.

Tuesday

Today's a beer day. After work, it's Pizzeria Paradiso in Dupont for the best happy hour in D.C. Absurdly good beer list, half-price til 7. I drink a brimming goblet of Alvinne Kerasus Bourgogne, a sippable, oak-aged sour beer brewed with cherries -- somehow, this costs $5. Before I even cool down from the outdoor heat, I head over to Clarendon for dinner at Lyon Hall, where, after a teary reunion with a Fullers ESB, I switch to good ol' Lagunitas IPA to balance out my spicy lamb sausage.

Buzzed is the best way to grocery shop, so on the way home I stop at Whole Foods and tromp around the beer aisle.

This yields a six-pack of a the new Victory Summer Love, which I've yet to try, and a 750ml bottle of Dupont Avril, a 3.5% farmhouse ale that, I reason, will hydrate me. Of course, by the time I get home it's too late in the evening for me to think about downing 750ml of anything, so I nurse a Summer Love through a vintage Simpsons episode, read a Jeffrey Steingarten essay on espresso, and call it a day.

Wednesday

Warning: Shit's about to get meta. Naturally, to get the photos for this piece, the illustrious Dakota Fine and I had to have a night on the town. So he comes over with the camera, and I pretend to just be my usual old self, mixing up a new cocktail with some tea- and spice-infused scotch I had lying around, plus milk, sugar, egg white, Cynar, and some "Highland bitters" courtesy of Room 11's Dan Searing. I mean, I did actually have all that lying around -- but this is a bit dramatized from my usual Wednesday routine of making a sandwich and reading my roommate's magazines. Anyway, Dakota turns out to be a very cool dude, so after some geeking out about photography and how The Internet Is Changing Everything, we map out our night.

After dinner and Czechvar at American Ice Company, I insist we go to Churchkey so I can ogle bottles and see if they have any Short's beer left over from some festivities last weekend. We get there, and they do. Thus begins my usual Churchkey routine of scanning the menu, being overwhelmed, and ordering far too many 4 oz. pours. Among them: Sierra Nevada Pro-Am Audition (a spectacular old ale), Short's Mama's Strawberry Milk (strawberries, lactose, brandy barrels - tasted like a beer version of Lucky Charms), Heavy Seas Mutiny Fleet Plank I (another old ale - I want to help out a local brewery, but this tasted like licking trees), New Holland Rye Hatter (I <3 rye), and Rogue Charlie 1981 (standard Rogue - meaning big and hoppy and pretty good). Fortunately we find some friends who are willing to help us with the menagerie of snifters I've summoned, and we make quick work of it. Ready to settle in, Dakota and I get full pints of Rogue Captain Sig's Deadliest Ale and Victory Prima Pils before gazing into each other's eyes and closing out with a romantic bottle of Saison Dupont. Then it's off to...

Passenger for a nightcap. He has some gin thing, and Julia makes me a drink with rye, Fernet Branca, grapefruit juice, and an Italian sweet vermouth I could neither pronounce nor remember. Note to self to get that name. Pleased with a productive night's work, Mr. Fine and I ride around the neighborhood, gabbing about the wonders of night biking, then part ways.

Thursday

Big day at work. Cold press coffee in the morning, then about 10 glasses of water and two seltzers. Yes, I take days off from drinking -- what am I, a bartender?

Friday

Big Bear Cafe's bartenders have a knack for fishing out classic, near-forgotten cocktail recipes that are perfect for the season. Tonight I have a Derby, a lip-smacking, bourbon-based derivative of a Sidecar with a slug of sweet vermouth for silkiness. Then it's nondescript cheap beer at Bella for a rock show. I'm happy to call it a quiet night because tomorrow morning I catch an early train to...

Saturday

Philadelphia. My home grounds, and it's the tail end of Philly Beer Week. At the venerable Monk's Cafe, my buddy and I tear through a panoply of weird saisons and sour beers, a sampling of which includes their house gueuze made by Cantillon, a fantastically funky La Rulles Estivale, and the zesty De la Senne Taras Boulba, which is the perfect light Belgian ale. There were about three other finds in there, but I'll save you from reading through all that French.

What's remarkable about Philly is that even nondescript neighborhood joints carry at least a few fantastic local beers. We stop in a cafe in Old City to find that they have a cask of Yards IPA, a Philly-native, English-style IPA that brims with caramel and toffee. It's 8%, so after two pints of that and a new collaboration beer between Sly Fox and De Proef, my memory starts getting hazy. But rest assured, the night ended with a soft pretzel.

Sunday

Home again this evening, I need to get back in the cocktail mood for the book launch at Gibson on Wednesday, so I cozy on the couch and watch Blood and Sand. It's a 1922 Rudolph Valentino movie that spurred the drink of the same name, an unmoored concoction of scotch, Cherry Heering, sweet vermouth, and OJ. Naturally, I'm drinking Blood and Sands as well. The film's just 80 minutes long, but it takes me almost two hours to get through because it's a silent movie, which means I'll miss the dialogue unless I pause every time I get up to mix a drink.

Thoroughly inspired by the movie, a tale of intrigue about the rise and fall of Spain's most famous bullfighter, I finish the weekend ready for a week of cocktails, Prohibition tales, and turn-of-the-century historical notions. If you've made it this far, thanks for reading. Sleep, hydrate, and get ready for the launch of An Illustrated Guide to Cocktails. RSVP now, why don't you?