CHRIS WALKER VS. THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH

The Velvet Tango Room.

It might be the best bar in the world. A bold claim. I put that claim to the test, stopping through Cleveland, home of the VTR, on my return trip from South America. After two visits – one before dinner for an aperitif and another for a night cap – that claim may be true.

I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins Airport mid afternoon on a Saturday. Reunited with Pockets, we made our way to the hotel, quickly changed, and caught a taxi.

“We’re going to the Velvet Tango Room.” I told the driver.

“You mean the Velvet Dog?”

“No, the Velvet Tango Room, on 2095 Columbus Road.”

“Never heard of it.”

That’s part of the VTR appeal. While it may seem like everyone knows about it, no one really does. Only a small neon sign indicates what waits inside the old brick house, looking nondescript on the outskirts of Tremont. It’s essentially a modern day speakeasy. In fact, it was a speakeasy at one point, a barbershop prior to that, and a condemned building before owner Paulius Nasvytis transformed it into the VTR over a decade ago. Now Paulius and his partner, Orva Fuston, maintain the “boutique lounge” as a place where cocktails, service, ambiance, and entertainment are of the highest quality conceivable.

Little things matter most at the VTR. Ice cubes (and they are, in fact, “cubes”) are made from triple-filtered water and frozen into 1 ¼ inch blocks of perfection. They create their own root beer, ginger ale, and cola from customized formulas, using a high-end carbonation system. Natural sugar is used instead corn syrup. They make their own syrups and reductions and ensure whatever products aren’t made in-house are still top-notch, such as the Vya Vermouth. The drinks – an array of classics and VTR specialties – are crafted with precision. And while they may take a little while to make, the wait is always worth it. I ordered a Negroni and it was an absolute pleasure to watch bartender Carol Grabowski create my cocktail. She measured the alcohol, took her time mixing it. Easily the best tasting Negroni I’ve ever had.

Perhaps even more fun to watch was the preparation of a Ramos Gin Fizz, which requires a lot of shaking and egg whites. Yes, you read correctly: egg whites. Then, of course, there was the Dark and Stormy which I can only describe as “spicy” and “awe inspiring.” One of the few times I’ve drank through a straw and enjoyed it. Pockets had an astoundingly delicious Lady in White and an after dinner Alexander. I also had the “life-altering” Manhattan and it completely lived up to it’s reputation.

Basically, if you hadn’t gathered, there isn’t a bad drink to be had at the VTR.

As I alluded to earlier, service at the VTR is impeccable. The bartenders are beyond friendly, attentive, and take great satisfaction in making you the best drinks of your life. Paulius, dressed in ascot and blazer the night we attended, cordially greets every guest at the door, welcoming you to the VTR, whether friend or stranger, exuding immense pleasure in your arrival. He even makes desserts such as Bananas Foster “tableside” for his patrons.

Being inside the VTR is like being in a dream you don’t want to wake up from. It is total escape. The bar is warm mahogany, the lights are dimmed to make the atmosphere cozy and romantic. A large piano sits in the back of the bar awaiting the jazz musicians who come to play every night. Old movie posters adorn the walls and the TVs display everything in black and white. Intentionally, I presume. Then, there is the “private back room” which boasts a second grand piano, luxurious couches, a fireplace, and a quaint back patio. Putting green included. Pockets and I sipped cocktails in the back after dinner and it felt heavenly. Some call Disney Land the happiest place on Earth. I disagree. I think the VTR is the happiest place on Earth. As I told Paulius on our way out, “More than a bar, it’s almost as if you get to host this fabulous cocktail party every night of the week.” I never wanted to leave.

The VTR exceeded any and every expectation I had. Is it worth traveling all the way to Cleveland for? Absolutely (I recommend eating at Lola, too). This recap, if you want to call it that, does not do proper justice to the wonderful time I had there or accurately capture the charming atmosphere, delightful character, and class of the people. You really ought to experience it for yourself however; you should be warned: drinking at the VTR may ruin you forever. It may cause you to blurt out wild statements like “I wish I lived in Cleveland.” You will presumably never experience a cocktail with the same degree of quality and craftsmanship as you did at the VTR.

That is unless you make a return visit, of course.

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The Velvet Tango Room [Official]

Chris Walker Vs. Looking At The Big Picture Through A Peephole

Can someone explain what the hell a vodka “press” is? I’ve had a Zen Press: a mixture of muddled cucumbers, lemongrass syrup, Hendrick’s gin, Sprite, and soda water – which is delicious and makes a lot of sense – but a vodka “press”? From what I can tell, after watching the bartender at the Sierra Tap House make several, a vodka “press” is nothing more than vodka mixed with Sprite and soda water. How boring. Maybe you should add some Berry Fusion Pucker to “bump it up”. Try it out, ladies; you’re the ones ordering these stupid concoctions.

Speaking of sugary nonsense, what is Tuaca and why are people taking shots of it? I did a little investigating and according to the official website Tuaca is “a premium Italian liqueur with a hint of citrus and vanilla.” Well, that doesn’t help much. How is it made, what is it made out of? The website continues, “Like most great legends, the origins of Tuaca are a little unclear.” When the makers of a product can’t even tell you when it originated, how it is made, or what it is made from, you probably shouldn’t let it enter your bloodstream.

Lately, I’ve been enamored over the resurgence of the Negroni. I saw it on so many cocktail menus in South America, in some of the most unassuming places. Ciao, a pizzeria and wine bar in Reno, prominently features it on their cocktail menu, as do a couple other places in town. But I’ve had to realize something: as much as the craft of the cocktail is alive and kicking, I’ve only been looking at the big picture through a peephole. Ignorance and mediocrity reign supreme; the “bartender renaissance” I’ve been documenting is still on a very, very, small scale.

Most people don’t go to a place like Ciao and order a Negroni or a Rob Roy, they order a “Cosmo.” Or, they go to Bully’s and order a “top-shelf” Bloody Mary. That’s right, you sophisticated devils, for a few bucks more you can get a shot or two of Grey Goose to go with whatever’s coming out of that pre-made jug of Bloody Mary mix! My, what discerning taste you have! Even better, just tell your server, “Hi, I’d like to pay more for the taste of tomato juice and Tabasco please, I’m an idiot.” Pretty much the same thing. And just look at a place like Buffalo Wild Wings where they refer to the Martini as “the quintessential vodka drink” and feature Mojitos that don’t even require the muddling of mint leaves. It’s borderline offensive.

Granted, Bully’s is not a place I’d expect to find “well-crafted” cocktails. I drink beer at Tap House and if I ordered a Negroni at Buffalo Wild Wings they’d probably think I’m a racist. It’s just the unabashed dumbing down of alcohol consumption that I hate; the lack of knowledge, the blind acceptance of consumers. If no one is ordering the new “healthy” chicken sandwich at Applebee’s they’ll take it off the menu, would they get rid of Pucker products if no one ordered drinks with that abominable crap in it? Sadly, I don’t have an answer. The dumbing down is not about to stop any time soon, it will presumably get worse. These are just my continuing observations on the sad, sad state of the American consumer’s relationship with cocktails.

CHRIS WALKER VS. WHERE VEGETARIANS DARE NOT VENTURE

Maybe it was because of how unfulfilled I was in Chile; maybe it was the large quantities of meat. Whatever it was, I loved Argentina. No, I didn’t get to drink vodka with penguins. No, I didn’t attend campfires with suspiciously gay seeming Gauchos (a la Bourdain) however; I did eat some of the best meat of my life. I also found quite possibly the best bartender in South America.

Before I continue, though, I have something to admit: I ate at a Hard Rock Café. Only a few weeks ago I was bashing chain restaurants, saying there’s always something better and local around the corner (which is still true) but I just didn’t care. On our last day in Chile two young guys who looked like Flander’s kids from The Simpsons told me about a huge futbol (or soccer) match scheduled on the day we arrived in Argentina. After a week of mediocre food and aggravating meetings I couldn’t think of anything better than drinking cold beer in a bar, watching sports. The match had already started when we landed in Buenos Aires. We passed tourist trap after tourist trap after tourist trap and I eventually got discouraged. Then I saw the Hard Rock Café. It was like a beacon of light at the time; I thought, “They have TVs, they have beer, fuck it, let’s go.” It turned out to be okay and I got to drink a couple beers and watch some sports. No harm, no foul.

Of course, I proved my theory that there is always something better, something local, around the corner is true. Welcome to Porte Zuelo: a dark, cozy restaurant on the same block as a McDonald’s and a bunch of pizzerias. Aside from its inviting atmosphere, it had a bar that looked like this:

We stuck around to drink and watch the Argentina v. Scotland rugby match (Argentina won) and I made it a point to go back a couple days later to eat. Easily as good, if not better, than any chain restaurant.

The meat in Argentina is nothing short of amazing and, honestly, would you expect anything less from one of the world’s major producers of beef? It seemed like every restaurant we went to (or passed by) specialized in some sort of braising or slow roasting or grilling. My Mexican Distributor and I were all too happy to reap the benefits of their craft while indulging in Malbec wine, which Argentina is well known for. I tried everything: matambre, luomo, sweetbreads (thank you pancreas of baby calf, you’re delicious!), asado, juicy pink pork that falls off the bone. As I told my friend Fanlo in a text message: “I’ve drank enough booze down here to drown an orphanage and eaten so much meat PETA is waiting to throw paint on me when I cross US customs.”

Sadly, after all the great food in Argentina, my final meal was quite possibly the worst dining experience of my life. Enter shit– excuse me, CHE. I’d seen CHE out on a run and thought the décor looked cool so my Mexican Distributor and I stopped by on our last night in Buenos Aires. I’d eaten just about all the meat I could handle at that point so I ordered a Caesar salad. Romaine lettuce, Caesar dressing, some croutons, pretty harmless and moderately healthy. Not to mention, pretty hard to mess up, right? Wrong. My Caesar was made with soggy lettuce, cold strips of chicken (which I hadn’t ordered), slices of apple, stale provolone cheese, burnt pieces of toast passed off as croutons, and no dressing. It was inedible. I couldn’t believe they served it. The “lasagna” my Mexican Distributor ordered wasn’t much better. We sent both of our meals back, virtually untouched.

What made the dining experience so horrible was the indifference of the waiter. We obviously hated our food. You might expect him to ask, “Did you not enjoy it? Was something wrong? Can I get you something else?” Nothing. The waiter smugly took our plates and walked away. Nothing was taken off the bill. The immense indifference, the complete lack of pride, infuriated me. When you spend most of your time on flights reading about the restaurant industry, gaining respecting for servers and line cooks and so forth, it’s a smack in the face when you realize they’re not always the respectable, hardworking people they’re portrayed as. Sometimes they’re giant assholes. I should have known things would go horribly wrong at CHE when I ordered a Manhattan and the waiter started listing off the gin selection.

Speaking of Manhattans, I found the best bartender in South America, in a district called Palermo Hollywood, in a restaurant called Magno. I had a good feeling about Magno when I looked at the cocktail menu and saw there was no Vodka Martini, no Cosmopolitan, nor an Appletini. Instead, the menu was full of classics: the Negroni, Tom Collins, the Americano, and even the Grasshopper and White Lady (see the menu here). However impressive the drink menu was, the bartender was even more so. He looked like any other shitty bartender who specializes in pouring Jager shots and popping the tops off Bud Lights but he was really a craftsman in disguise. When I ordered a Mint Julep he hand-picked only the best looking mint leaves and lightly muddled them; he measured his alcohol carefully (like you should); when adding soda water he didn’t pour from a bottle, he carbonated the water on the spot with a carbonation device. I was in awe the entire time. The drink was refreshing and delicious. I followed that up with a Manhattan and he crafted it with the same precision and dedication as he had the Mint Julep. If I hadn’t gone to Cleveland I’d still call it the best Manhattan I’ve ever had, but more on that another time.

In the end, I found it comforting to be in a city where meat cooks over giant grills in every window, there are no salad bars in sight, and you can smoke indoors. Not to mention, get great cocktails. I may not have made it to the end of the world and had vodka with penguins. I saw no gauchos, no farmlands, no “great outdoors” however; I spent enough time in Buenos Aires to know it’s an amazing city; I ate enough Argentinean beef to know it’s delicious. And if you hadn’t gathered yet: Argentina isn’t really a place for vegetarians. Or health nuts. I love it for that.

NOTE: If you meet a hot chick at a bar in Buenos Aires you may not be able to find a condom dispenser in the men’s room but at least you can clean your teeth in the morning.