Dear Jack,
I drink rye old-fashioneds because of Nora Charles.
You remember the scene from The Thin Man—Nick and Nora are throwing a Christmas party in their swanky New York apartment and absolutely everybody has turned up, as Nicky’s fondness for a drink is legendary and surely some of his good booze will overflow into their glasses (Prohibition, incidentally, had ended just the year before). Then in comes Dorothy Wynant, looking for Nick—then come Mimi and Gilbert, looking for Dorothy, and then come the reporters, and then the policemen, and then even Clyde Wynant’s lawyer, until the already-crowded apartment is simply stuffed. What’s worse, everyone’s glasses are empty and their mouths are full of questions, so Nora drags Nick into the kitchen pronto to “thaw out some ice” and start remedying the situation. She, meanwhile, sits down at the telephone table in the kitchen (!) to order some food for all their unexpected guests.
“Is that my drink?” she asks, gesturing with her free arm toward the open icebox.
Nick picks up a highball glass from amid the seltzer bottles and other glassware sitting on top and asks, “What are you drinking?”
“Rye,” she says, still on hold and distracted. Nick reflexively lifts the glass to his lips, downs the contents, and then evaluates.
“Yes, that was yours,” he replies.
When I watched these movies as a kid (on VHS tapes, which we rented from our local video store), I didn’t know exactly what kind of drink “rye” was. I knew it wasn’t bourbon or Scotch, or champagne. I thought it must have something to do with rye grain, but anything beyond that was a mystery. It sounded wild and spicy and exotic—kind of like Nora Charles herself, in this earliest adventure. But it was alcohol, and we didn’t drink.
In the meantime, I grew up and became a journalist. And I read the great journalist G.K. Chesterton’s thoughts on drinking.
In one section of his book Heretics (1905), Chesterton discusses the popular-at-the-time idea that, in order to limit the negative effects of alcohol on society, it should “only be drunk as a medicine.” He says that while he doesn’t necessarily consider it a bad thing to give wine or strong drink to sick people as a restorative and stimulant, he thinks there are much better uses for it:
“The sound rule in the matter would appear to be like many other sound rules — a paradox. Drink because you are happy, but never because you are miserable. Never drink when you are wretched without it, or you will be like the grey-faced gin-drinker in the slum; but drink when you would be happy without it, and you will be like the laughing peasant of Italy. Never drink because you need it, for this is rational drinking, and the way to death and hell. But drink because you do not need it, for this is irrational drinking, and the ancient health of the world.”
Our man Jack Lewis says something similar at one point in Screwtape—though where, I’ve now forgotten; in my mind’s eye I can clearly see Max McLain roaring the line from the stage of the Kaufman Center, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. (If you remember which letter it’s in, do let me know.) The point, however, is that beer, wine, and alcohol of any kind should be used not as a solace to those sick in soul or body, but as a symbol of celebration, a further cheer to those already cheerful amid the blessings of contentment and good company.
All this to say, my views on drinking changed a bit over time. In my twenties, most of my coworkers were men with firm opinions on whiskey (the editor drank Canadian, the copy chief favored Scotch, and the news editor drank bourbon.) Thanks to them (and my own curiosity), I discovered that rye was yet another type, with a spicier, less sweet profile than bourbon; rye whiskey must contain at least fifty-one percent rye grain, whereas bourbon’s fifty-one percent must be corn. Seems the younger me had been on to something, flavor profile–wise.
But whiskey can still feel risky for a girl who has just barely learned to like beer (which took until I was about twenty-seven or so and had real ale in England). My first taste of bourbon was in a bracing cocktail called The Smoking Dun that made me feel like I’d been out fox-hunting all day in the English countryside (wouldn’t that have been nice). I became a bit more daring and tried a bourbon old-fashioned. I didn’t know precisely what an old-fashioned was … but people drank them in the movies, and surely anything with that name had to be good. It was.
We found a table. Nora said: “She’s pretty.”
”If you like them like that.”
She grinned at me. “You got types?”
”Only you, darling—lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.”
— Dashiell Hammett, The Thin Man
Though I was by no means a frequent drinker, old-fashioneds became my favored cocktail when the occasion arose. But, depending on who made them, they could be surprisingly sweet—something I tried to avoid in alcoholic drinks. One cold January evening, when I was a bit early to a meeting of The Cluny Brown Supper Club, I had a thought—why not try a rye old-fashioned? I had heard that some people drank those. The server came to take my order. “Can I get an old-fashioned with rye?” I tentatively enquired. “Sure,” he replied. “What kind of rye would you like?” Seeing as how I knew next to nothing about rye at that point, I had to ask for suggestions—which did lessen my (imagined) aura of sophistication a bit. Whatever they brought me, though, it was good, and a rye old-fashioned has been my preferred cocktail ever since. Sometimes I even sip a bit of Bulleit neat like a hard-boiled private eye.
It should be noted that Nora is not known primarily as a rye drinker. When we first meet her in The Thin Man, she discovers that Nick is on his sixth martini (perfectly chilled, shaken to waltz time), and she asks the waiter to bring her five more, in addition to the one she’s just received, so that she can match him drink for drink. (As we find out in the next scene, that was perhaps not her best idea ever.) In Shadow of the Thin Man, she wins something like twenty-six martinis in a turtle race at that restaurant where the waiter tried to get everyone to order sea bass. Nowadays, there’s even a Nick & Nora Martini, based on the cocktails the Charleses drink in Dashiell Hammett’s book (it’s apparently a very dry martini). There’s a cute little piece of barware called a Nick & Nora glass, too.
I’ve never had a martini; I don’t like olives. Would it still be a martini without the olive? Do I have the requisite audacity to request such a thing? (Could they give me an onion instead?) Stay tuned.
In the meantime, though, I’ll honor Nora’s signature sparkle, wit, and wisecracks with my personal signature drink, a classic rye old-fashioned. Because, after all, I’m a wry old-fashioned girl.
It is worth noting that Lux Radio Theatre aired broadcasts of both The Thin Man and After the Thin Man, with William Powell and Myrna Loy reprising their roles as Nick and Nora. I’m adding it to my queue.
How’s the view from where you are?
Yrs,
Meli
Big fan of rye, never got into martinis. Which is your preferred brand of rye now?
One of my favorite writers. My almost 50-year-old paperbacks were falling apart, so I recently bought the Library of America editions of Hammett's books.