…get in the way of a good story. That’s what Mark Twain said, and he did pretty well for himself. I don’t know if this story is true or not, but I love it for several reasons. First, I adore a well-made Sidecar cocktail. Second, it’s set smack-dab in the center of the time period I enjoy writing about. Third, it’s an excuse to make a pilgrimage to the Ritz in Paris and write it off as research.
Back around 1916 or 1917, the British high command were holed up at the Ritz in aforesaid Paris, deciding how to win the war to end all wars. They received daily dispatches from the Front, and used these to inform the next day’s attacks. These dispatches were were sent to them via motorcycles equipped with…ready for it… a sidecar.
Legend has it that the poor guy riding in the sidecar was practically frozen by the time he got to the Ritz. He’d hand over his case to the adjutant, then wait for return orders. Why wait in the lobby when the bar is open? The bartender created a drink meant to warm the poor man, preparing him for the return journey. I’m not sure a drink shaken over ice is a warming as a simple brandy, but, just like the truth of this story, who cares? It’s good, and that’s all that matters.
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