It’s a rare gift for a writer to get the chance to write about a topic at the exact moment of its cultural tipping point, and I feel honored to have helped chronicle the cocktail renaissance in all its glorious craziness. This column has been a work of love; even when I’ve tasted, say, chocolate liqueurs or whipped-cream vodkas, I wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. I hope I’ve conveyed that love to readers.
Of course, as I type all of this teary sappiness, I’m reminded of Lucius Beebe’s foreword to my favorite cocktail guide, “Crosby Gaige’s Cocktail Guide and Ladies’ Companion” (1941). Beebe writes, “It is only fitting that the subject of cocktails should be approached with levity slightly tinctured by contempt.” You don’t want to take cocktails too seriously. I have no illusion that what I’ve written will be anthologized in gilt-edged editions or taught in university writing courses. The Post will probably soon enough hire a young upstart spirits columnist who will just as likely argue against much of what I advocated for.