July 2013

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Uncle Jack and Castle Leslie

Monday, July 15, 2013 in Glaslough, Ireland | 2 comments

Sir John Leslie

Sir John Leslie. Photo by David Lansing.

The owner of Castle Leslie, Sir John Leslie—or Uncle Jack as everyone calls him—is an odd bird. How could he not be? Born in 1916, he’s a walking, talking, breathing living history museum. His friends and relatives included Winston Churchill (and his mother), Ray Bolger (the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz), and Alice Longworth (the daughter of President Teddy Roosevelt). All long gone.

I don’t believe there’s a single soul alive with whom Uncle Jack could have a conversation that began, “Remember when we….” What must it be like to live in a world where you can’t have a conversation with a peer? Where you can’t share memories? Everyone he knew has passed on. Only Uncle Jack survives.

Anyway, Uncle Jack gave us a tour of his family home. He seemed equal parts thrilled and exasperated, largely because we didn’t follow along quickly enough. We’d hang back after he’d left a room to spend an extra moment or two looking at some magnificent piece of art his grandparents bought more than a century ago or an odd piano stool whose legs were bronze Victorian boots. He’d fiddle with his beret and say, “Do keep up or you’re going to miss what I’m saying!”

And then, after about 45 minutes of going up stairs and down stairs and showing us such oddities as the loo used by Winston Churchill’s mother, he seemed to lose steam, his palor going more pale than usual and his blue eyes glazing over.

“Jack, would you like me to finish the tour?” whispered one of the young women who help run Castle Leslie.

“That would be lovely,” he said weakly. Then he excused himself, saying he thought it was time, perhaps, for a nap. “But I’ll join you for dinner, if I’m able.”

He turned his back and slowly shuffled off, throwing a weak wave over his shoulder at us. A ghost going back to his room.

The hearth at Castle Leslie. Photo by David Lansing.

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Gary Regan’s Dubliner Cocktail

Friday, July 12, 2013 in cocktails, Derry, Ireland

Redbreast whiskey

The Irish whiskey selection at Castle Leslie. The 12-year-old Redbreast single-pot whiskey is perfect for a Dubliner. Photo by David Lansing.

My go-to cocktail is a Perfect Manhattan. Not “perfect” because I make the best in the world (although I pretty much do) but because it’s made with half sweet vermouth and half dry vermouth. I like it because it’s not as sweet as a regular Manhattan.

Still, I always feel guilty in the summer when I order a Perfect Manhattan. I mean, I should probably order a G + T, or a Tom Collins or a margarita. And I will. On occasion. Just not very often.

But in Ireland I never feel bad ordering a Manhattan in summer. Mostly because there is no summer in Ireland. What they call summer we’d call a nasty winter day in California. But the thing is, it’s hard to get a good Manhattan in Ireland. Mostly because they don’t know what bourbon is (not to mention rye). You have to ask the bartender how he makes them because usually it will be with Scotch. I even had a guy in a very nice bar in Dublin thinking he was doing me a favor by making me a Manhattan with Jack Daniels. Gross.

But I’ve found a solution. And that’s to order a Dubliner. The Dubliner cocktail was created by Gary Regan back in 1999 to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in NYC. Gary is a character. He’s written a number of books, most notably The Joy of Mixology, and founded the Zen-sounding Institute for Mindful Bartending. I like that. It’s the sort of shit I would do: Zen bartending.

Anyway, Gary (who, for reasons only he would know, now goes by the name gaz regan—yes, it’s lowercase) is a big bourbon guy (he’s got at least three books out about bourbon, including The Book of Bourbon and Other Fine American Whiskeys) so it’s not too surprising that the Dubliner is basically just his rif on a Manhattan. To whit, it’s made with 2 shots Irish whiskey, 1/2 shot sweet vermouth, 1/2 shot Grand Marnier, and a dash of his very own Regan’s Orange Bitters No. 6. Shake over ice and strain in to a chilled cocktail glass.

I think the original recipe called for using Jameson, which makes sense for St. Patrick’s Day, but I generally ask the bartender to make it with my favorite Irish whiskey, 12 year old Redbreast. Try it. It’s lovely. By the way, gaz also invented the James Joyce Cocktail, which I also quite like. We’ll talk about that on another day.

A Dubliner cocktail.

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Dropping in on Uncle Jack at Castle Leslie

Thursday, July 11, 2013 in Derry, Ireland

Castle Leslie, Ireland

The view of Castle Leslie on our arrival. Photo by David Lansing.

We’ve just arrived at Castle Leslie, situated on the banks of Glaslough, County Monaghan, which is where Paul McCartney married that dreadful woman Heather “Take-The-Money-and-Run” Mills almost a decade ago. But that’s not why we’re here. The daughter of some friends of ours was married here not too long ago and when they heard we would be traveling around Ireland they said we really should stay a night at Castle Leslie. So we are.

Later this afternoon we’re going to get a tour of the castle by the owner himself, Sir John Leslie (who everyone around here calls Uncle Jack). I’ve heard he’s quite the character. For one thing he’s damn near a hundred years old. Must be rather sprite to be giving tours of his castle at that age.

They’ve left a copy of his memoir in our room, “Never a Dull Moment,” which I fully intend to read. Just not right now. Here’s what the flyplate says: “Sir John Leslie, born a New Yorker in 1916, came to Ireland at the tender age of three. This is the story of his adventures across two continents.”

What adventures might those be? Well for one, he was a captain of the Irish Guards during WWII and spent five years in a German P.O.W. camp. That should be interesting reading. And then his bio says this: “At the ripe young age of 78 he returned to Ireland to live year-round in his family home, Castle Leslie…Where, just to keep things interesting, he took up night clubbing, to ‘shake up his liver,’ even going to Ibiza for his 85th birthday.”

A man after my own heart. I can’t wait to meet him.

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Lunch with Joan Crawford at Glenveagh Castle

Wednesday, July 10, 2013 in Donegal, Ireland

Joan Crawford at Glenveagh Castle

The fabulous Joan Crawford in the gardens of Glenveagh Castle, Ireland. Photos by David Lansing.

Ireland is always a surprise. Yesterday I got to hear Dean Martin play “Danny Boy” on the church organ at St. Columb’s Cathedral in Derry. Today I had lunch with Joan Crawford. And I must say, she looks great.

Now, just as it probably surprised you to learn that Dean Martin now plays the church organ at a cathedral in Northern Ireland, I’m sure it will come as a shock to discover that Joan Crawford was, for a couple of years anyway, a flight attendant with Aer Lingus.

I told her I was sure we’d flown together.

She smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Anyway, Joan and I were having lunch at Glenveagh Castle, built in the 19th century by an Irishman, John George Adair, who made his fortune in Texas of all places.

There aren’t many who have a good word to say about Adair who was known for his hard drinking and fiery Irish temper. A story Joan Crawford told me was that one day Adair went hunting on land around the castle that he’d rented to tenants, which violated his rental agreements. The locals objected and Adair got pissed off. A year later, he evicted 47 families. More than 150 screaming children and their parents were ordered off the property, most with no idea where to go.

So, not a good man.

But here’s the postscript: He died in 1885 and the night before he was buried, a dead dog was thrown into his open grave by disgruntled locals. At Glenveagh, his wife had the face of a large rock inscribed with his name and the inscription “Brave, Just and Generous.” Which was too much even for god to swallow. Shortly thereafter, lightning in a thunderstorm broke the rock into many pieces which fell into the lake beside the castle.  And two years after his death, his country mansion in Belgrove, County Laois, mysteriously burnt to the ground. It was never rebuilt and the ruins, called “The Burnt House” by the locals, are just as they were.

Glenveagh Castle, Donegal.

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Dean Martin plays Danny Boy on the organ

Tuesday, July 9, 2013 in Derry, Ireland | 4 comments

Dean Morton, St. Columb's Cathedral

The good reverend Dean Morton at St. Columb’s Cathedral, Derry. Photo by David Lansing.

“Before we have lunch, would ya like to meet Dean Martin?” asked another Martin, this one a guide in Derry named Martin McCrossan. “He might even play the organ for us.”

Well who wouldn’t want to meet Dean Martin? Especially if he was going to play the organ. Who even knew Dean Martin played the organ? Or that he was still alive?

So in a cold hard rain we traipsed up the hill to St. Columb’s Cathedral to meet Dean Martin. Who is a lovely man, really. And still very good looking. Though when did he become a priest?

Actually, that’s the problem, you see. There are no priests at St. Columb’s which is, actually, the mother church for the Church of Ireland and not a Catholic cathedral at all. And Dean Martin is actually the good Reverend William Morton (but in the Irish tongue it comes out sounding like Martin) who is referred to as “Dean” Morton since he’s the Dean of Derry and Rector of Templemore, whatever the hell all that means.

It’s not important. What’s important is that Dean Martin—or Morton—is a lovely man and he loves to play the cathedral’s organ, which is located just to the right and atop the vestibule which the good Dean entered by climbing a  rather rickety spiral metal staircase. I sat down in one of the front pews. A few minutes later, Dean Martin began a rather slow dirge that, after a few notes, I recognized as “Danny Boy.”

Of course. What else would Dean Martin play on the church organ in St. Columb’s Cathedral but “Danny Boy.” But then the Dean slowly livened the beat—the way the Stones do in their classic gospel-tinged “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” In fact, it seemed that Dean Martin was much inspired by that song as he switched cadences completely and suddenly “Danny Boy” went from a dirge to a rollicking rock ‘n’ roll number. It was the most amazing version of the song I’d ever heard. And the most unique. I only wish Dean Martin had had a gospel choir singing back-up. That would have been something, wouldn’t it? But you know what? You can’t always get what you want.

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