The Big Guy’s Last Drink

Blake the bullmastiff, R.I.P.

Before he passed away last Friday, Blake, a.k.a the Big Guy, was a regular at my basement bar.

He helped me hone drinks for this newsletter, which mostly meant listening to me mutter about ratios and flavor profiles. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he probably knew a lot about Cynar and syrups and Negroni specs. More than most dogs, anyway. 

One of Blake’s favorite commands was: “Go to the bar.” When he heard these words, he’d rush to the basement door, bolt down the steps — often with a leap at the bottom — and then sit, at attention, until I arrived to give him a treat.

He would sometimes hang out behind the bar, as if he had a mind to mix me — or himself — a drink.

But he spent most of the time on the big, comfy, half broken leather couch nearby, staring at my various concoctions, sometimes with a bit of well-deserved side-eye. Really? You’re drinking…that?

After Blake learned what “go to the bar” meant, he tried every now and then to reverse the command.

Instead of waiting for me to tell him to go to the bar, he’d nose open the door to the basement, then wait by the bar, sitting up straight like a very good boy, hoping that he could compel me to give him a treat.

Often, it worked.

Like me, Blake was a night owl. We often stayed up late together, long after the gals were off to bed.

Several times a week, I’d get home late from a movie screening or some after-hours work event, and he would come running to greet me, then demand to go down to the bar and hang out.

He loved going down to the bar. We spent a lot of time there together, just the two of us, drinking, reading, listening to music, and silently enjoying the company of another dude. He was my friend. He was my drinking buddy. He was my constant companion.

On his last night, after a difficult day at the vet and the animal hospital, the ladies of the house retreated to bed after dinner. 

But Blake wanted to go down to the bar with me. He was sick. He wasn’t eating, not even treats, but he trotted down the stairs and then sat at attention next to the bar anyway, politely declining to take the bacon-thing I offered him. 

He then went over to the couch and sat down, leaving a spot so that I could sit next to him.

We shared one last drink together, just him and me. The last photo I have of him at home shows him on the couch, in his usual spot, considering me and the cocktail I’d made. 

The final drink I shared with him was a new one to me — a slight twist on an Old Fashioned made with honey syrup and a new-to-me Japanese whisky, Iwai 45. 

Like Blake, it was strong, elegant, beautiful, just about perfect in every way — and over far too soon. 

The drink didn’t have a name. At first I thought about calling it The Big Guy.

But then I realized that a better name would be the other nickname I used for him, because it described both him and the drink so well — 

Big Handsome

• 1 dash orange bitters

• 2 dashes Angostura Aromatic bitters

• 1 fat tsp 3:1 honey syrup*

• 2 ounces Iwai 45 Japanese whisky

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Combine all ingredients in a mixing glass. 

2. Add ice, then stir until chilled. 

3. Strain into a rocks glass over a single large piece of ice. 

4. Garnish with a twist of orange peel. 

*3:1 honey syrup: Combine three parts honey and one part water, by volume. Whisk until combined, about 30-60 seconds. Bottle and store in the fridge.

I would give anything, anything at all, to share another drink with him. But at least the last one was a good one.

R.I.P Blake, the Big Guy, my very best boy.