Eggnog at Grandpa Devlin’s

My grandfather owned a bar called the El Rancho Saloon in our small New Jersey town of Coytesville. As a kid I thought it clever that Grandpa had named his business in the style of the Old West. As an adult I wonder why an Irishman named Devlin, who emigrated from Ireland by way of England, named his town-famous bar after a place he had never been. Maybe it was his way of assimilating to his new country. The saloon actually appeared in some silent movies when Fort Lee, NJ, was home to the newborn film industry.

Grandpa and Grandma lived in rooms off the main room of the tavern, perhaps to economize as they built the business. Although it probably seemed natural to a man from the Ol’ Sod to live in rooms off his pub, I knew that there was no other house in our little world that had a bar that spanned the width of the room with floors that sagged under the weight of full and ready beer kegs. Mom and Dad made sure we only visited when the bar was closed.

Once a year my brother and I climbed onto bar stools, me in a smocked calico dress, my brother in a cowboy shirt, and spun on the stools until Grandpa served up glasses of Christmas eggnog, which my mother had checked and double checked wasn’t spiked: because once, she had forgotten.

Grandpa had survived the ravages of the Great War trenches, the deprivations of the Great Depression and the World War Two Homefront, but he never held back on the ingredients. His recipe was heavy in cream, spiced with the seasonings of the season, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and sugar. He used generous amounts sugar and more for good measure because it was only once a year that he made his recipe.

The scent of the spices rose up from the glasses and invited us to imbibe. We never hesitated and were never disappointed. Except for that one time when there was an unexpected bite in our throat.

The calico dresses, the spinning bar stools, the grandpa, are gone. But the aroma that escapes from those annual pools of creamy goodness take me back to moments of spinning on a bar stool in a smocked dress anticipating my first sip. Despite the calorie and fat content, I imbibe because it is still, after all, once a year.