What happens in New York, stays in New York

Back in October, Per (my German “work-hubby”) and I spent two weeks going city to city (Toronto, NYC, Berlin), meeting with customers, speaking at events and just hanging out.

So one night we decided to go to this bar in the lower east side, Milk and Honey.  Regaled for its top notch drinks, I was intrigued and before leaving SF made a point of marking it in my moleskin.  After must confusion and misdirection, we finally arrive at the address I’d marked down, only to find ourselves in a sort of dodgy alleyway staring at a nondescript steel door.

We’d come so far to find this bar, only to be confronted with a totally baffling situation.  Was this really the right address?  At my behest, Per went to open the door.  It didn’t budge.  After some rather insistent knocking, we heard the lock click, and a moment later the door opened, and we walked into another world.

Milk and Honey is Manhattan’s equivalent to Bourbon and Branch.  The only difference being that it’s much more low key and much tinier.  We took our seats at the bar and were offered the most delightful libations.

And after a while, the gentleman sitting next to me, nudged me and commanded me to try his drink.  I obeyed.  He was right, it did in fact taste like perfection.

Toby introduced himself and then began to wax poetic on this particular bar, why it was so wonderful and in no uncertain terms, “the best bar in the world”.  I, of course took issue with such a statement, and therein began our discussion.  Toby also liked to make this really loud grunting noise to express a plethora of emotions approximately every  two minutes.  Happy? “UGH” (clenching his fists and thrusting his hips into the air), Mad? “UGH!!”, Enthused? You get the idea.  However, through it all, it was clear Toby had extensive knowledge of the bar cultures in most cities around the world, which led me to believe he was a either:  a raging psychopath, off his mind on cocaine, a high powered world traveling executive or… a raging alcoholic.

Well I was wrong on all accounts.  Toby is actually, Toby Maloney, as I Iater came to find out, one of the most renowned mixologists in the world.  Through the course of the evening, Toby took Per and I to bars in the Lower East Side, having us try particular drinks on each menu, asking us to really challenge our palette to recognize the notes and tone of each drink.

We drank at the best bars in Manhattan and never paid a dime. Toby was like a god and we were the chosen people. Everywhere we went, people knew Toby and refused to charge him, or his friends.

At the end of the evening, I made a deal with Toby, a native of SF.  We agreed that in a month from our meeting, when he would be in town, I’d take him to my favorite bar (he’s never been to Bourbon and Branch).

He’ll be hearing from me, and maybe we’ll go for a drink– assuming Toby remembers any of what happened that evening; when we met him he was already on his 8th or 9th bar of the evening and when we left him he was still going for more.

And that’s New York.