There’s nothing I like more than a story that de-mystifies or un-iconifies a famous composer, bringing us just that much closer to figures who are likely to exist in our minds as near-abstract entities rather than flesh-and-blood people.
It turns out that Antonin Dvořák was introduced to that delightful cocktail, the Manhattan, by no less than James Gibbons Huneker, the formidable art critic and magnificent lush. According to Huneker, Dvořák became so enamored of the drink that the good folks of the Chicago Conservatory became distinctly uneasy about their star composer’s frequent lack of daily sobriety. It is said that Dvorak was capable of knocking off as many as ten Manhattans over the course of a meal—an astonishing statistic, if true.
Antonin Dvorak: up or on the rocks?
I’m quite partial to Manhattans myself, but I have not forgotten that a Manhattan is fundamentally booze in a glass. Unlike some cocktails which temper themselves via fruit juices or other such additives, a Manhattan is almost entirely spirits: whiskey and sweet vermouth, with perhaps a slap of Angostura bitters and a drop or so of the juice from the maraschino cherry jar. Typically I prefer my Manhattans on the rocks, meaning that the drink arrives nearly full force, and dilutes itself gradually as the ice melts. More often than not, I don’t wait around but down the thing in a few quick gulps before the ice has done much damage. Mental fuzz grows quickly, the room warms, and the cares of the day slip away effortlessly.
But ten? I don’t know about the good old Czech master, but I’m likely to be under the table by #4. If Huneker’s stories are to be trusted, then we have learned that Antonin Dvořák was a drinking man’s drinking man indeed, a two-fisted hombre who could tipple with the best of them. Even Huneker appears to have been impressed, after all.