What happens when a love of tribal art, mid-twentieth-century pop culture, and good rum drinks all come crashing together? I had never asked that question before, but it was answered for me anyway in 1991, when I discovered my first vintage tiki bar. This, I thought, was truly the place for me. It seamlessly incorporated three favorite recreational pursuits—and in an amusing way.
The mai tai is the quintessential tiki drink. The classic Trader Vic’s version, upon which this recipe is based, is complex, sophisticated, and a far cry from the overly sweet, cherry-red pre-mix variants that lesser establishments fob off on their customers.
It is relatively simple: It starts with rum blended with those two building blocks of most outstanding rum drinks, lime and sugar. To this is added curaçao (an orange-flavored liqueur) and orgeat (pronounced or-ZHA), an almond-flavored syrup now often found in upscale coffee shops. As in any good cocktail, the quality of the spirit should not be underestimated: Better rums make a better mai tai. Don’t stint.
Mix in a cocktail shaker with ice:
1 ounce heavy rum
1 ounce medium-bodied rum
3/4 ounce fresh lime juice
1/4 ounce simple syrup
3/4 ounce curaçao
1/4 ounce orgeat
Our hurricane-naming system evolved much the same way our baby-naming system did. Just as it’s easier to say “Jane Q. Smith” than to reel off a list of her identifying characteristics, so forecasters in the nineteenth century grew tired of referring to every big storm by its longitude, latitude, and date of origin. But that was the official protocol until the early 1950s, and more than once it led to dangerous mix-ups. At the exact moment when timely, accurate information was paramount, the presence of two storms in the same area could muddle communication between weather stations and coastal bases or ships at sea. Radio broadcasters often confused warnings about an oncoming hurricane with information about another cyclone traveling in the opposite direction.
If the year of recrimination over Hurricane Katrina has shown us anything, it’s the potency of human intervention in the hours and days before and after those moments. A nation that might have grown blasé was reminded late last summer how vital protective engineering and prompt relief can be—even if the lesson came in their failure. To mark the first anniversary of Katrina, here is an assessment of the ten deadliest natural disasters to strike the United States. As a whole, they paint a sobering picture of the impermanence of human enterprise, but they also reveal some fascinating—and familiar—patterns.
You can get started at the state’s excellent web site, www.colorado.com , then zero in on the southwest region for Gunnison and Crested Butte, and check out Aspen on the site’s northwest section. Or just go directly to GunnisonCrestedButte.com and aspenchamber.org . Linking the communities is a memorable drive along the West Elk Loop. The 204-mile, two-lane journey provides a great sampling of the national wilderness areas, climbing steep mountain passes that follow the route of the old railway tracks and lit by miles of aspens at their golden best. You’ll want to stop at small towns tucked into the river valleys, like Marble, whose quarries produced stone for the Lincoln Memorial, and Redstone, a mining company town built in 1901 with taste and care that today is home to artists and craftspeople.
This June marked the tenth anniversary of Abebooks.com, an Internet operation that has made things much easier for American Heritage editors along with countless thousands of other people.