Queequeg’s Grill and Tavern
1124 Eastlake Ave, Seattle

I was having a beer at Queequeg’s the other evening, and was lucky enough to find Diana, the day bartender, filling in for one of night crew. After watching her muddle up a trayful of fruity-looking concoctions, we started talking about the capricious tastes of the typical sot in Seattle. She’s been at Queequeg’s for about ten years, and has witnessed the rise and fall of many the cocktail: when she started the Alabama Slammer was still in style; five years ago it was the Bushwhacker.

“So what never goes out of style?” I asked, contemplating a shot of Maker’s. Which is about as fancypants a drink as I can stand to be seen with.

“Martinis and Manhattan’s, of course,” said Diana. “Can’t go wrong with one of those.” She hung out a hitchhiker’s thumb towards one of the patrons to my left, and rolled her eyes. “Or several.”

“What about the foofoo stuff?” I asked, shivering at the thought of a perfectly good whiskey, ruined by Vermouth and—Lord, protect me—a maraschino cherry.

“Wellll … You’ve got your Margharita, of course. And the Kamikaze will never go out of style. What’s great about the Kamikaze is that it’s a winner every time, good at all hours of the day. People will order them as a way of celebrating the end of a working day, or even the middle of one. Hell, I’ve had them with breakfast, after going home with one in a cab the night before!”

“Really?” I asked. “Something with limes seems kind of strange for the morning.”

“It doesn’t have to be limes, actually,” said Diana. “There are variations, like the Lemon Drop.”

“Sugar on the rim?” After returning from the bathroom, a former girlfriend had ordered one in lieu of the shot of whiskey I’d ordered for her.

“Right,” said Diana.

“And then there’s my own invention,” she added. “The Rising Sun.”

“It’s like a Kazi?”

“Mostly. Instead of Vodka, I introduced Shochu. It’s a Japanese drink—”

“Like Sake?” I blustered.

“No, not really. Shochu is distilled, and they’ll make it out of anything: sweet potatoes, chestnuts, rice—”

“They have plenty of that.”

“Right,” she said, looking a little irritated. “Anyway, the point was to keep it Japanese…”

She must have registered the blank look in my eyes, as she went on to explain it a little more thoroughly.

“You see, kamikazes were these suicidal Japanese fighter pilots, so I thought I’d make a drink that was also Japanese, and named it for the ‘Land of the Rising Sun’. That’s what the Japanese call their country.”

“Oh.”

“Which was perfect, I figured, because I could make it orange and red—like an actual rising sun. So the name dictated the colors, and the colors helped determine the flavor of the drink. Oranges were perfect as a substitute for limes or lemons. The Shochu makes it even more Japanese than a Kamikaze, but I’m happy to use vodka instead. Muddle it up with Triple Sec and add a shot of Campari to give it some red, and you’re good to go.”

“Sounds complicated,” I said.

“It is, actually,” said Diana. “Campari is considered a bitters, so there’s even more going on, taste-wise, than a Kazi. Or the Lemon Drop.”

“Would you like another beer?” She must have noted the confused look on my face at the mention of ‘bitters.’

“Yeah.”

After pouring me another Slug Bait, she walked over a piece of paper with a dirty piece of scotch tape at the top.

“One of the regulars actually wrote a poem about the drink. He was sweet, and I liked the poem, so I typed it up in the office and taped it up on the Wall of Fame.” She waved that thumb again, back to the left, where postcards, photographs of people partying, and drawings done in crayon were stuck on the mirror.

“It’s basically a drink recipe, if anyone ever needs it. I put another copy in the Drink Guide as well, so you can keep it.”

And I have. Long enough to reproduce here:

The Rising Sun

We’re never more ourselves than when entirely
absorbed in something else, and you’re most yourself,
easily, making your specialty drink, The Rising Sun.
You begin by filling the steel shaker with ice
and several orange slices (hurried, you’ll use juice),
two ounces of Shochu (Stolichnaya on request),
and a splash of triple sec (Grand Marnier for me).
After muddling the mess into an orange mush,
you’ve even shaken it thrice, for good measure, before
straining it into a martini glass, finishing with a sunburst
of Campari, the completed concoction glowing orange
and red as the eastern sky at daybreak. Bestowing
your gift on a serviette, you then stand back, smiling
gladly, your eyes finally seeing what your hands did.

I’m sure it tastes better than it reads. I had another shot of Maker’s. Less poetic, maybe, but it gets the job done.