PX

Went to the PX with my friend K.R. on Wednesday night. The PX was the DC area’s first entry into the craft cocktail scene that has been picking up steam over the last year or two. In craft mixing, the bartender is a chef, creating unique drink recipes from unusual, frequently purpose-made ingredients that emphasize seasonality. The PX reportedly makes its own bitters (no fewer than four kinds), squeezes its own fresh fruit juices, and even makes its own sweet vermouth, by which I assume they mean infusing it, rather than making the underlying red wine from scratch. Interestingly, this subculture very much favors the term “cocktail” rather than “mixed drink” or simply “drink.” As recently as the martini revival of the 1990s, a cocktail was something your grandparents drank long before they were grandparents. Something they set on top of the Motorola in the corner before they went to get another platter of deviled eggs for the guests. No longer, apparently.

Word had it that the PX’s theme was Prohibition-era speakeasy, and indeed the initial impression was that it was. You apparently had to have a reservation to get in. The place, located on the second floor of a large Old Town Alexandria townhouse, is completely unmarked, and is entered through a nondescript side door that for all the world looks like it leads into someone’s kitchen. A blue light hangs above the door, lit when the place is open for business. Ostensibly, a coat-and-tie for men and no-jeans for women dress code is enforced.

We duly made our reservation (by e-mail), showed up at the appointed 6:15 p.m. and, finding the blue light on, rang the doorbell. A young woman, exceedingly insincere in manner, led us upstairs with the words “I will show you to your table.” We passed the small bar on the way and found ourselves in a room, of residential, rather than business, proportions, looking and feeling like someone’s living room, and decorated in a decidedly non-1920s style. Four faux-modern couches lined the walls. The woman pointed to one of them. There was no table. What initially looked like a coffee table in the middle proved to be a pair of vinyl-upholstered ottomans pushed together. I asked whether it was possible to sit at the bar – we saw at least four empty stools as we walked by. She replied that another party had those seats booked. I made a mental note to ask for bar seats with my next reservation and sat down. K.R. and I were the only people in the room. The music – an off-putting kind of postmodern cabaret – was a little too loud. After a moment’s discussion of whether we would be violating protocol if one of us sat on one of the other couches, I moved, so K.R. and I could face each other and not sit in a perpetual about-face. We opened the white cloth-bound menus to study the concoctions on offer.

Though PX’s rumored speakeasy theme was being rapidly eroded by the room and the music, I was still hoping for extremely high-quality versions of classic cocktails. All I really wanted was a top-notch manhattan, preferably made with rye. Instead, all manner of madness adorned the menu – things made with ginger syrup and pomegranate molasses and topped with milk foam. Miss Fake came back to take our order. Seeing me on the “wrong” couch she paused but said nothing. I asked whether I could order a “regular” cocktail or was restricted to the menu. She said I could have whatever I wanted as long as they had the ingredients in the house. I asked if they had rye. She replied that they didn’t. Not all was lost, however, as the menu did feature a Manhattan, made with Maker’s Mark, the famous house-made vermouth, and house-made cherry bitters. Its name, inexplicably, was “My Wife’s Manhattan.” I ordered it. K.R. went with one of their custom creations that involved, I believe, tobacco leaves (I should have taken notes), and we settled down to chat. A couple of minutes later, Mademoiselle Plastique returned with a group of five besuited young professionals in tow. Seeing me still on my self-selected perch, she glared. “Would you like me to move back over there?” I asked with as disarming a smile I could manage (not my strong point), gesturing at my original spot. “Yes, please,” she replied coolly, arranged the yuppies on the other couches and left. I was starting to feel awkward, sitting as I was in an essentially private room with a bunch of people I didn’t know. K.R., whose supply of relaxed sociability I could not hope to match even on my best days, thought it was kind of cool. I could not possibly agree.

A few minutes later still, our drinks -- excuse me, cocktails – arrived, delivered by the Couch Nazi herself. To our delight, she informed us that the bar party had cancelled and we could have their seats if we were still interested. Damn straight we were interested! Once at the bar, it was as if a cloud had lifted. Though there were people on either side of us, we did not feel intruded upon. Bars are the ultimate setting for public privacy, I realized – with everyone facing either straight ahead or their companion, you do not see other patrons’ faces unless you go out of your way to do so, even though they are a scant few inches away. And the very mental concept of a bar – its meme if I may – is inextricably public. The bartender, whose name unfortunately I did not catch, was a down to earth, friendly fellow, and, to K.R.’s apparent delight, was happy to discuss his craft and the scene. The décor in the main room, too, was much more twenties-appropriate. Dark wood paneling, lots of mirrors, glass chandeliers. None of it was genuinely antique, but the look worked.

More importantly, I finally took a sip of my manhattan. I must say that with all due respect to the bartender’s craft, I was disappointed. It was dark red in color, not as cold as I would have liked, and seriously sweet. I think of the manhattan as a winter drink, so I guess you can make a case for it being less than ice-cold. And I don’t begrudge the PX the desire to showcase their house-made vermouth. And who knows – maybe this is just the new way. But it was not what I was craving. K.R., on the other hand, was delighted with her liquid cigar. I took a sip and had to admit that it was quite good – a nice balance of sweet and sour, and pleasantly smoky, though far less intense than we were led to believe.

A few interesting facts about the place emerged as we chatted with the bartender. They did have rye, it turned out. Sazerac, no less. He gave me a taste of it neat. You do not have to have a reservation. In fact, the bar is where the walk-ins are seated. The bar party was obviously a figment of our rye-averse hostess’s imagination.

Fascinated, we watched the bartender at work. Eventually, it was time for another cocktail. K.R. picked another unheard-of concoction, this one with lots of ginger, while I made a one-eighty and ordered a martini. The bartender offered three choices of gin. I picked Plymouth, which I had never had before, and which he described as an “English gin, not a dry gin.” I thought gin was dry by definition, but what do I know? In the event, the martini it produced was excellent. He used the dreaded technique of the 1990s revival – put the ice cubes in the glass to chill it, pour in the vermouth and let it sit while shaking the gin, then dump it out with the ice, so all you have left are trickles of vermouth on the side of the glass, if that. But those trickles, combined with the not-dry nature of the gin, produced a delicious balance of flavors – it was neither bitter nor sharp, and had a clean, grassy complexity.

We watched the bartender some more. The place had gained quite a few customers by this point, and as his pace and the variety of his output increased, my friend’s curiosity and excitement increased proportionally. Every libation that passed in front of us on its way to the waitress’s tray looked fascinating and beautiful, if sometimes a bit bizarre. The drink that finally convinced us to stay for a third round was something opaque, pink, with white foam on top and garnished with pomegranate molasses. House-made, of course. It was not my territory, though when the bartender offered us a taste of the molasses (he squeezed some right onto our fingertips), I could not resist. It was intensely sour but delicious. And the drink needed it – just about any adjective I could think of would sound pejorative if not downright sexist. It was actually very distinctive in its own way. Just way too sweet and intensely fruity. Pure liquid candy.

My choice was a negroni – quite possibly the most serious cocktail in existence. A drink that demands to be taken on its own terms. A combination of bitter (Campari) and earthy (gin), with a generous dash of sweet vermouth to make it palatable, it is a beverage for contemplation. The PX’s version was spectacular – the sweetness was pronounced (that house-infused vermouth again), but it was more than adequately offset by the generous helping of Campari, for a counterpoint of two distinct but complimentary flavors with a less-than-usual amount of gin tying them together just enough to create a harmonious whole.

We thanked the bartender, paid up and ambled out into the unseasonably warm evening, resolving to bring our friends on the next visit and stick to the bar from the get-go.