Rebecca Orchant suggests you don’t be an ingrate this Father’s Day, and put a cocktail in dad’s hand.
By Rebecca Orchant

Your dad does not want another tie. Please, don’t get him any more golf clubs or Malcolm Gladwell books either. Give the man the kind of cocktail he deserves. One that puts hair on your chest and pep in your step. And while you’re at it, give your mother one too!

I wish I could say my Sidekick or I invented this recipe. To be honest, I cannot seem to figure out the origin of this cocktail. It does, however, seem to be making the rounds of quiet, dark, moody little cocktail lounges all over New York City. The quiet, dark, moody little cocktail lounge where we were introduced to this drink is called Dram – a delight in a sea of overpriced, over-styled, overblown meat markets. It exists on the same block in Williamsburg as Pies n’ Thighs, the best chicken biscuit this side of the Mason-Dixon.

At Dram, my Sidekick ordered a bartender’s choice with Rye, spirit-forward, as he is wont to do. The lovely, capable, tattooed girl behind the bar brought him Archibald’s Last Memory. It was so delicious and so unlike anything we’re currently drinking that my wonderful, obsessive Sidekick purchased each ingredient and went to work re-creating it.