T & I have a running joke inspired by our free-spirited mothers. Whenever we are craving something illicit we always preface the request with a nonchalant, “Baby, where’s mamma’s…” In my mom’s case during the disco days from the late 70’s to the early 80’s, the “7&7″ was one of “mamma’s” favorite highballs. Being Latinos, the Cuba Libra was the other “coktel de casa.” I remember mamma asking for both of those more than once.
Two parts Seagram’s whiskey and five parts 7-up (the players’ remix), it’s sweet without being overly syrupy and the whiskey gives it a sharp kick. It’s easy to make, with a simple lime garnish and it isn’t psychotropic like tequila. It’s easy to see why it would be popular on the dance floor, especially with flashy types. It can be mixed quickly, nursed slowly and it mixes well with cocaine. At least that’s what I’ve heard. According to “Mr Drinkies” it trails behind the Martini in on-screen cachet, but it’s not without points and fans. “Mean Streets”, “Saturday Night Fever”, “Goodfellas” and the “Sopranos” all feature antiheros guzzling on the lucky sevens. Not bad for a gimmick concocted by brand managers in the mid-60’s. Almost 50 years on, you can still overhear someone ordering it at the bar. It says, “I take Risk, with Style.” Tonight, at the office party, as coworkers downed cosmos, rum & cokes, mojitos, martinis and things with lychees, I got a wry smile and wee wink from the foxy bar wench when I requested a 7&7. Its reputation as an ice breaker remains intact. “What’s that” my coworker asked on cue. “It was a big disco drink…” I started. I stopped at three 7’s; it seemed like the lucky thing to do. When I walked out, just as everyone was starting to grope each other and sing along to the hits of the 80’s, I was, in my mother’s other dipsomanic words, “feeling good.” Out on the street, the soft tail of a mid-west ice storm whipped down the Bowery and Manhattan shimmered in its Xmas regalia. I pulled my H&M wool hoodie over my head, threw my H&M scarf around my neck and flanked by two of the coolest chicks in the office, stuck my arm out thinking, “Baby, where’s mamma’s cab?”
A few signs of the times. While walking around the East Village with Terre en route to Margaritas and Brunch at Benny’s, we stumbled onto the locked, unstocked Dance Tracks record store. An eviction notice was posted in the window. The farewell note below was posted on their website. They will now be a digital shop. Brick and mortar, no more.
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