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If misanthropy is contagious, Dawn Powell is the pathogen. Before their humanity is allowed to ooze, her characters are presented at their most contemptible. The reader thus slips directly from abhorrence to pity without ever being allowed the indulgence of compassion. But pitched against this darkness stands the other coast, Hammett’s characters lost in San Francisco’s fog, and the bleak heroism of solitude and renunciation.

But we who have abandoned main characters are not ensorcelled by this cruel Circe. Nor by embracing bit characters are we relegated to Dickens, whose Our Mutual Friend could well be the blueprint for Powell’s vitriol. No, we who find relief in the detail seek refuge in Wodehouse, and chuckle at what the G&T in the corner might have opined on these literary minds.

But if those who hate could be made to love, and find happiness in the frivolity they denigrate, and if these same could be placed within RubberLeg Square, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, hand to flask, and mouths opened wide, they would be quaffing this drink.

The RubberLeg, or The Four Companions

1 oz Allspice Dram
1 oz blanco tequila
1 oz Laphroaig (cask strength)
1 oz freshly squeezed white grapefruit juice

Shake furiously with ice until Aphrodite herself emerges from the foam. The drink should have the color of spun honey. Matching spirit to author is left as an exercise for the drinker.

Pure spirit. Or at least transubstantiation. Without the base admixture of the pressed flesh of fruit, we hope to loose the tether that binds us to this low, wordly corruption. Yet if Plato is to be believed, and each pleasure is a nail fastening the soul to the body, then this drink should not be drunk. What we have here, then, is a contradiction in a glass. Sip carefully lest you slip.

Catullus 27
3/4 oz. allspice dram
1/2 oz. absinthe
2 oz. rye
2 dashes Fee’s bitters

Or, as Catullus brokenly said:
“at uos quo lubet hinc abite, lymphae
uini pernicies, et ad seueros
migrate. hic merus est Thyonianus.”

This concoction began as a non-alcoholic beverage. To lavish attention on mixology only when the practice involves spirits is a time-honored tradition, but one that does not comport well with hospitality when one is forced to entertain teetotalers. That said, what is good when lacking spirits is almost always improved with their addition – just ask the ponderable mass of clay that became Adam.

Originally called The Francis (as he was the one the drink was for), the drink was later knighted for services rendered to Her Majesty on Her sugarcane plantations (from whence comes all that delicious rum):

The Sir Francis
1 oz. freshly squeezed orange juice
1 oz. pomegranate juice
3/4 oz. cinnamon syrup*
2 oz. high-proof rum (like Scarlet Ibis)
2-3 dashes Fee’s orange bitters

Dump everything into cocktail shaker, shake vigorously for about half a minute, and pour into a chilled martini glass. Flaming an orange rind adds a nice touch.

*To prepare the cinnamon syrup: Boil 1 cup water, add 2 cups sugar, and at least six sticks of cinnamon. Lower heat to medium and stir until the sugar dissolves. Add an ounce of vodka, bottle in clear glass, and put in the sun for a month (yes, a month).

Notes on execution: If the pomegranate juice is cold, don’t add it to the shaker – put it in the glass after you’ve shaken and poured the other ingredients. Patience and a steady hand will cause the red juice to drift down to the bottom rewarding you with a lovely gradient (just like a Tequila Sunrise, yes).