Chris Walker Vs. The Ivy

Bars are like cultural or historical landmarks. For me, at least. While some want to travel to New York to see Coney Island, I want to drink at Pegu. Some visit London to see, I don’t know, whatever you go to see in London. I want to go to Shochu Lounge. While in Sydney, Australia, where I am now, it became apparent that, just as much as I had to see the Opera House, I had to visit a place called Ivy. Cultures have been founded on alcohol and refined by the craft of drinking, I see it as my duty to partake in these time-honored traditions.

Tucked away at the back of an alley on George Street, amidst chaos and construction lies… an epic stairway. An epic stairway that leads to… the equally epic Ivy. More of an open-air shopping mall for alcoholics than it is a club or bar, Ivy is an adult’s playground, boasting five bars throughout two floors, each catering to a different level of taste, as well as several distinct restaurants. And this is just the beginning. More floors are being built as you read this, to include more bars, more restaurants, and even a swimming pool. I was unaware of the plethora of choices on my initial visit so I bellied up to the first bar I saw and asked to see the cocktail menu. “We don’t have a cocktail menu at this bar,” said the bartender. “We just do the basics here. If you want a more traditional cocktail go to the bar across the way.” Off I went.

The next bar had a very basic menu so I decided it was time to make The Last Word — yet another Gary Regan creation — correctly. The Last Word calls for three-fourths of the following: dry gin, maraschino liqueur, Chartreuse, and lime juice. Mistakenly, I’ve been using Cointreau instead of lime juice. While the result is not horrible, it’s not as it should be. The bartender was happy to make it for me, the problem was she didn’t know what to charge. I’ve noticed this is a problem when trying to get a decent cocktail. Often times, the bartender’s employer has stocked the bar with the right components for creative cocktail making but given no direction on how to charge a patron who knows what to do with it. After a moment of deliberation, the bartender decided she had to charge me for each individual shot, totaling $28 AUD. While ridiculous and overpriced, I still had her make it. Standard price for a cocktail at Ivy is $19 AUD. If anything, it would make for a decent story and back home we could start calling my Cointreau version the “Thirty Dollar Cocktail.” A couple sips my Last Word, the bartender told me what lied up the spiral staircase at my back: a second level, with three more bars, offering an even more extensive cocktail list. I promptly traveled upward.

While the first level of Ivy is primarily white, ivory decor, the second level is something else entirely. There are gardens and relaxing patios. There is a room reminiscent of a country club lounge I should never be allowed inside of (see the picture above). Beyond that is a teppanyaki restaurant, Asian in ambiance, of course, and beyond that is a grandiose room, entitled “The Den,” that must be seen to be believed. Each bar has its own specialties. I chose to post up in the aesthetically old-school country club lounge where I was treated to a “Nectarine Mule.” The Nectarine Mule is one of the greatest drinks I’ve ever tasted. A mixture of Maker’s Mark bourbon, Apricot brandy, Creme de Peche, macerated nectarines and lemons, topped with ginger beer, and garnished with grated ginger, it’s one of those cocktail experiences that ruins drinking because you know you will never taste anything as exceptional unless you go back. I haven’t felt that way since I was at the Velvet Tango Room in Cleveland, Ohio.

I should inform you, Ivy is somewhat frowned upon by local snobs because it’s owned by a guy named Justin Hemmes (who, further research shows, owns many of Sydney’s better establishments with his Merivale group, including one called Establishment) but I don’t put much stock in that. The only negative thing I can say about the guy is his favorite drink is a vodka martini. That being said, I was confronted by Justin Tynan, General Manager and Licencee of Ivy, after I snapped a photo (the one at the top of this post). He asked me if I worked for a magazine and told me “the owner” doesn’t like people taking pictures due to contractual agreements, or something, but he was pleasant and probably just being cautious since the place is still being built.

If you’re ever in Sydney, Ivy is a must. Is it a place you’d go every night? Of course not. But on vacation or an occasional Saturday? Without question. As often the case, show up early if you want the “full experience” as I’ve been told Ivy turns into a madhouse late at night and on the weekends. I can only imagine it getting more out of control once they open the pool.

The Ivy [MySpace]

Merivale [Official]

Chris Walker Vs. The Irish Car Bomb

St. Patrick’s Day. Some say it has to do with an Irish saint and the Catholic religion. They are mistaken and that’s why, even though the Pope changed the date of St. Patrick’s Day to last Saturday, I’m still celebrating it today. In fact, it’s been my dream to make St. Patrick’s Day a week-long celebration. Sadly, my employer frowns upon missing five days of work for the sake of an epic drinking binge. I can’t imagine why.

St. Patrick’s Day is one of my favorite holidays of the year, second only to Mexican Independence Day. It is a day in which we celebrate the fine art of drinking: the universal language, the ultimate past-time. A day meant to embrace our Irish heritage, whether Irish or not, and get savagely drunk off pints of Guinness and shots of Irish whiskey, causing unruly mayhem and mischief. All holidays should aspire to be this wonderful.

Last year’s St. Patrick’s Day was pretty intense for me. A rag-tag assortment of friends started the afternoon drinking pints before embarking on a wine-walk. Bored by one-ounce pours of who-the-fuck-cares, we went in search of stronger drink. At Imperial Bar and Lounge, we slammed Irish car-bombs, chasing each one with a pint of Guinness. Four rounds later, I drunkenly stumbled to the men’s bathroom and puked my guts out. When I arrived back to the table I had another car-bomb waiting for me. I valiantly chugged it. Along with several more. All the while, a mildly-attractive crazy girl was falling head-over-heels in love with me, and I couldn’t help but find her increasingly attractive and fascinating with each drunken minute. Crazy Girl ended up going home with me. There, I mercilessly beat her at Wii tennis, despite trying to let her win, and then we made out. After a bit of tonsil hockey, she decided she wasn’t a whore after all and had her cock-blocking friend pick her up. Crazy Girl was pregnant a week later. All I could think was, the lord works in magnificent ways.

This year is a bit different. Where at this time I was two Scotch Ales deep and well on my way to Black Out City, this year I’m still at work. There is no wine walk, either. There will be pints of Guinness at Chapel Tavern, though, and music, and shamrocks, and debauchery later this evening. However, there will be no Irish car-bombs.

I think it’s time to retire the Irish car-bomb. Not the drink itself, but the name. The car-bomb harbors a lot of bad memories for Irish people, not-so-distant memories, of a time when the car-bomb was a preferred method of terror and violence. I think when celebrating the Irish and the magical libations they’ve bestowed upon us, it’s best not to slap them in the face at the same time. I was drinking in an Irish pub not too long ago when a group of amateurs, your stereotypical frat-fucks entered, loud and obnoxious. Stepping up to the bar, one of them asked, “Can you make us some Irish car-bombs?” The bartender, clearly annoyed, replied, “I can, but I don’t want to.” I loved it; I’ve always thought any self-respecting Irish pub ought to refuse serving the drink under that name. Besides, “depth-charge” with no geographical affiliation, is a better term for dropping a shot of Bailey’s and Bushmills into a pint glass full of Guinness. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s the drink’s original name. Anyhow, cheers. Happy Debauchery. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Chris Walker Vs. The Weather Channel, Or Why I Never Want Children

Having spent my formative years in a Catholic environment, I’m very familiar with guilt. So, it should come as no surprise, since posting Chris Walker Vs. Virginity (Is Something You Can’t Get Back) I’ve been asking myself, should I feel guilty for writing about how worthless my Vegas “friends” are? While the answer to that query is absolutely not, I do feel guilty about something else: wanting to have children.

Wanting to have children, in this day and age, is not only unreasonably selfish, it should be an ethical crime. To have a child now is to be confronted eighteen years or so down the road with, “You brought me into this ridiculous world? I hate you.” See, I can do everything to nurture my children, keep them away from gang violence and warn them about the evils of black-tar heroin; I can make sure they’re sufficiently educated and support them, emotionally and financially. But whatever I do, I cannot save them from a world in which the founder of the Weather Channel does not believe in global warming.

I’ll say it again: the founder of the Weather Channel, John Coleman, does not believe in global warming. And we wonder why we can’t get a decent forecast. Somewhere in the Arctic, a polar bear is floating around on a melting block of ice, utterly flabbergasted. Not only does Coleman think global warming is fraudulent, he’s gone so far as to advocate, “suing those who sell carbon credits, which would force global warming alarmists to give a more honest account of the policies they propose.”

In case you’re unfamiliar with carbon credit, the South Dakota Farmers Union website shines a little light on the topic:

“Global warming has been linked in part to release of gases into the atmosphere causing a ‘greenhouse effect’. There are six different greenhouse gases identified and targeted for reduction, one of which is carbon dioxide (CO2). Certain farming practices help take this CO2 out of the atmosphere and store it in the soil. Farmers, using these approved management practices, can earn credits for storing carbon. These credits can then be sold through the Chicago Climate Exchange.”

Coleman also wants you to sue Al Gore. It should be noted, Coleman, age 73, was forced out of the Weather Channel. I can only imagine why.

I know global warming is real because I remember seasons. Like, real, legitimate seasons. Not the way everything just kind of melds together like it does now; like when you could step outside and go, wow, it’s springtime. I can tell strange things are going on with the weather and I’m not even a meteorologist. Speaking of meteorologists, I think we can all agree their’s is not the most credible profession. It’s a step above fortune-telling. How do you even become a meteorologist, anyway? Do you go to an accredited university or do you just “mail it in” for that? I really think meteorology was something created for the not-as-retarded kids, as a way for them to be productive in society without putting too much at risk.

Currently, Coleman is a weatherman in San Diego, for KUSI-TV. A nice, safe place for him. The KUSI News website is more than happy to host Coleman’s views on global warming (links at the end), and it causes me to pose the question: what does anyone in San Diego know about weather? Sunny, not so sunny: that’s San Diego. Of course they’ll let an old dinosaur run around screaming, “Man-made climate change isn’t real! I know, I’ve stood in front of a green screen since the late 50s!” They’re not concerned with global warming in San Diego; they step outside and say, “Ah, a little bit warmer than usual this morning, time to call in sick and go to the beach.” And that’s it.

Senile weatherman telling you to sue Al Gore, women pretending to reclaim their virginity, meat from downer-cows being sold to schools, religious fanatics who believe god is killing soldiers in Iraq because of homosexuality in America, it’s all too much. Save your unborn children from the horrors we currently endure, and don’t have them. Things can only get worse.

LINK CITY:
John Coleman is an old douchebag.

John Coleman’s Views on Global Warming (in PDF format!).

Learn about Carbon Credit.
Learn more about Carbon Credit.

And, just in case you weren’t sure, John Coleman is an old douchebag.