Quinn, he said, did right by the classics and could handle (and coddle) a teeming crowd. Quinn had pioneered some clever infusion or paired two ingredients no one had thought to pair before. I asked Jim Meehan, the cocktail shaman there, whom he and other celebrated young mixologists of the moment looked up to.
I learned of it one night at PDT, a faux speakeasy in the East Village secret entrance, abundant taxidermy that’s about as far in spirit (and spirits) from the blunt, timeless rough-and-tumble of P. Quinn works quickly, and he works without error. My companion was sipping a second Manhattan with rye, not bourbon, per his initial request. “Another?” was all he asked, and a half minute later I had a Hendrick’s gin martini, up, with olives and jagged little floes of ice, just like the martini before it. Clarke’s, on the East Side.Īnd he remembered what my companion and I were drinking, even though we had ordered just one round so far, and there were at least 35 people clumped around the bar on this early May night, and he was dealing alone with all the tickets from all the servers in the adjacent dining rooms, and he wasn’t writing anything down, not that I could see. He apparently had, in his head, the whole liquor layout at P.J. He plucked bottles from their perches without pausing to check labels. He could apparently tell, by the weight of them, when to stop. He filled beer mugs without watching what he was doing. How else to explain the way he muddled mint for a mojito and went on to make the rest of the cocktail while glancing alternately at the door to see if anyone new was coming in, at the far end of the bar to see if anyone was telegraphing thirst, and at the guy in front of him, who was babbling anew about something or other? Not once did Mr. My mother had eyes in the back of her head Doug Quinn must have them in the palms of his hands.
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