I attended a cocktail-making class on Saturday. The class took place in the upstairs area of a distillery showroom, a fitting location though perhaps less fitting than a chic bar would have been. It was early afternoon, though, so I’m not sure there was a perfect venue. The host’s appearance was itself remarkable, what with hair dyed a bright lime green at the front, yellow contacts, a tattoo making his entire neck black, and a suit vest with what appeared to be voodoo symbols adorning it. I only saw these details in stages, each time looking at him seeing something new. In many ways, this was the perfect introduction to his vision of how making and drinking a cocktail should unfold.

The host is in training to become a member of the International Bartenders’ Association, a small group I’d never heard of previously but one that is very serious about the art and science of making cocktails. A few tidbits from the session included finding out what James Bond is communicating when he orders his martini shaken and not stirred and why a Margarita is called a Margarita. The real highlight of the event, though, was the Old Fashioned. This was the finest one I have ever had, the sort of experience that stands as a measuring stick and diminishes subsequent ones. He poured  a high-proof bourbon. He gave a dissertation on the reasons why filthy cherries were used and not some other preparation. The simple syrup was custom-made to match the bourbon and infused with three different herbs (sage, thyme, and rosemary). Then to finish it off he used three different kinds of bitters (angostura, orange, and cacao) and maximized the squeeze from the orange peel that garnished the drink. He then implored us not to stir the drink anymore but to just drink it and allow that motion to mix the concoction together, a “mistake” I have made many times. It was an excellent drink.

The level of detail was the most impressive part of the short seminar. Every aspect of every drink mattered, had been planned, and then was executed. Well, the execution may not have been perfect since that part was done by us the customers, but it’s the little imperfections in assembly that can be most endearing about IKEA furniture you put together yourself also. The event was a presentation by a craftsman, someone who studied what he was doing and to whom everything mattered. It seems to be an increasing rarity to find someone so immersed in doing his work and doing it well, but seeing it planted a stake in my mind. I’m not yet sure what to do with that stake, how to process it, what action to take based on its presence, but it is there now and I have thought about it several times over the intervening days.