I love Thanksgiving, a house packed with cinnamon and food on every surface; it’s magical. The best part is the Turkey, a bird stuffed to its tits with onions, celery, bread cubes, sage, rosemary and thyme. The skin rubbed down with olive oil, lemon rind and smoked paprika, roasted to a beautiful shade of dark red. The thought of that roasted beauty makes me drool, and when it’s fresh out of the oven with juices dripping down its thighs, it’s enough to make a Rabbi blush.

 

When I was 10 my parents had the whole family over for the giant feast, grandparents, aunts, uncles and whomever else they could fit into their cars. Ma was playing host, dad was carving up the turkey with fervor, when one of the uncles asked for a refill. Ma took his cup and headed out, but not before grabbing my red plastic up as well to be filled with sprite. The conversations continued with the aunts cackling over the homemade cranberry sauce, stirring it like the weird sisters over a cauldron, and the uncles talking about sports and business. Mom returned to me with my red cup, and gave the uncle his refill; dad had carried the tray of carved meat to the center of the dining table. Everyone marveled over the smells, the colors, and the heat of this meal warming us against the cold autumn day outside. With forks and knives in their hands people launched into the meal like it was their last. Before I jabbed at the bird with my fork I took a quick swig of my sprite, which I quickly spit out… all over the stuffing, the cranberries, the mashed potatoes and the turkey. I sprayed the meal with the foul drink my mother had mistakenly given to me, which was meant for my uncle. That was the first time I tasted Gin.

 

While I still haven’t recovered from that traumatic experience I learned to love alcohol. I enjoy mixing and making cocktails, and coming up with my own little special concoctions in a glass. Each one is special and different and they all make us happy. That feeling of drinking cocktails and brews with a group, while sharing stories, theories and our hopes and dreams makes us family, no matter who or where we are.

 

In 2010 I was fortunate enough to move to Changshu, and in 2012 I opened by first bar. Now in 2015 I am able to proudly present Brooklyn – An American Bar.

 

Should you find yourself in China, and more specifically Changshu, come join me, the New Yorker who brought a little bit of home with him. Come share a drink and some stories, but don’t offer to buy me a Gin & Tonic.