White Dog and Chicken Little

Growing up in suburban Long Island, I was terrified of dogs – in particular, one white dog named Pom Pom. That’s right. I lived in fear of a white poodle with a really sissy name. Pom Pom was vicious. Her owner would keep her cooped up in the house all day and then look the other way when she escaped through the front door. Pom Pom would run straight for me. It happened over and over again and it was traumatizing. I’ve gotten better, but I’ve never really been comfortable with dogs. You never quite get over these childhood associations.

So, I was just a little apprehensive when my college roommate “Ford McKenzie” suggested that we sample the “white dog” whisky recently profiled by the New York Times. In case you missed the story, white dog is raw whisky, also known as “moonshine.” Produced by craft distilleries, it’s all the range, and it’s darn potent.

Ford shows absolutely no sympathy for my residual childhood demons. Says Ford, “That poodle was a walk in the park compared to what’s going to be in our glasses.”

So we convene at the Modern for a taste of their “Devil in White” cocktail – a violent brew of Death’s Door White Whiskey, Dolin Blanc Vermouth of Chambery and A.B. Smeby Black & White Bitters. Two shimmering, iridescent, huge cocktails are delivered to our table garnished with tart, brandied cherries.

It looks to be the height of sophistication, but is it my imagination, or do I hear growling? I take a sip. It tastes smooth, balanced, brisk and velvety – I’m thinking white cashmere on a chilly day.

Ford tastes the cocktail and lets the effect wash over him. “I guarantee this is gonna bite us,” he says.

I take another small sip. I still taste the luxury, but suddenly there is something bald and feral going on. And, I can no longer remember a thing that happened to me in 1979. Don’t misunderstand me. The Devil in White is yummy, but it’s ferocious.

Ford seems to have a much greater affinity for wild animals. He wants a second. I’m feeling my memories of 1980 slipping away even as we speak. But, I meet him half way and we split the second cocktail. It’s a dog walk on the dark side, but I just manage to escape with my life. We chat briefly with Nancy Schumann, a manager at the Modern and I barely refrain from smothering her with wet doggie kisses. This ain’t no velvet painting of a dog, but a modern work of cocktail art.

Ford has planned out the evening with his usual meticulous sense of adventure. Our next stop is the steak house Patroon, that on Friday night serves a special fried chicken dinner by Chef Charles Gabriel. (I’ve heard of chicken and waffles, but chicken and dog? I don’t get it, Ford.) Turns out, it’s a soothing, clubby environment with a snappy piano and bass jazz duo. And, the three pieces of crispy fried chicken, sweet cornbread and choice of sides like macaroni and cheese, black-eyed peas and yams is enough to calm the still-raw memories of the canine cataclysm.

We eat the chicken with our fingers, and snarf down the entire dinner in record time.

Rumor has it Ford refuses to let sleeping dogs lie, and has made a return visit to the Modern. It's probably just as well that I didn't accompany him.

Maybe I'm just a cat person at heart.

©2010 T.W. Barritt all Rights Reserved