Whenever I go to one of the San Diego cities that has "Beach" in its name, that's when I feel I have truly arrived in San Diego. Here is the real thing: the San Diego of postcards, the one dreamed of by Midwesterners as they shovel their snowy driveways. Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, Mission Beach: these are the places I imagined Southern California was like during my own midwestern childhood. And while it's not like I can afford to live there, I still find that these neighborhoods offer easy, unassuming, worn-in feeling — something I can’t say about Del Mar or Coronado.

I like where I live in La Mesa just fine, but it’s a different fine than the one I feel as I stroll down Mission Boulevard on a Friday evening, catching views of the beach through the residential courts that separate the boardwalk from the boulevard, smelling the ocean air. The streets are populated by tan and healthy-looking people, the weekend is here, and I’m on my way to Moe’s, where I happen to grab a spot just two stools away from former mayor Kevin Faulconer.

I tell bartender Geza that I’d like to try their Campfire Dreams cocktail. I’m attracted to it because it incorporates two kinds of Fernet, along with Tennessee whiskey and some other things. Here’s how it’s made.
Stir together:
1.5 oz George Dickel (8 year)
.5 oz Amaro Nonino
.5 oz Fernet
.5 oz Fernet Branca
.5 oz Patron Citronge
.5 oz brown sugar
Serve in a tumbler over a large cocktail ice cube. Then comes the campfire part, when Geza adds hickory smoke into the glass from a handheld smoker. Finally, the drink is garnished with an orange rind.
I did not actually care for the smoke. It looks interesting, but to me, it tasted a bit like the way an electrical fire smells. If you’re intent on adding smoke at home, you could see what you think by acquiring one of those devices, or you could get creative and add a bit of smoke some other way — maybe just light a little wood chip fire in a pit and hold your glass, inverted, over the rising tendrils. You could even try it in your La Mesa backyard.
Whenever I go to one of the San Diego cities that has "Beach" in its name, that's when I feel I have truly arrived in San Diego. Here is the real thing: the San Diego of postcards, the one dreamed of by Midwesterners as they shovel their snowy driveways. Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, Mission Beach: these are the places I imagined Southern California was like during my own midwestern childhood. And while it's not like I can afford to live there, I still find that these neighborhoods offer easy, unassuming, worn-in feeling — something I can’t say about Del Mar or Coronado.

I like where I live in La Mesa just fine, but it’s a different fine than the one I feel as I stroll down Mission Boulevard on a Friday evening, catching views of the beach through the residential courts that separate the boardwalk from the boulevard, smelling the ocean air. The streets are populated by tan and healthy-looking people, the weekend is here, and I’m on my way to Moe’s, where I happen to grab a spot just two stools away from former mayor Kevin Faulconer.

I tell bartender Geza that I’d like to try their Campfire Dreams cocktail. I’m attracted to it because it incorporates two kinds of Fernet, along with Tennessee whiskey and some other things. Here’s how it’s made.
Stir together:
1.5 oz George Dickel (8 year)
.5 oz Amaro Nonino
.5 oz Fernet
.5 oz Fernet Branca
.5 oz Patron Citronge
.5 oz brown sugar
Serve in a tumbler over a large cocktail ice cube. Then comes the campfire part, when Geza adds hickory smoke into the glass from a handheld smoker. Finally, the drink is garnished with an orange rind.
I did not actually care for the smoke. It looks interesting, but to me, it tasted a bit like the way an electrical fire smells. If you’re intent on adding smoke at home, you could see what you think by acquiring one of those devices, or you could get creative and add a bit of smoke some other way — maybe just light a little wood chip fire in a pit and hold your glass, inverted, over the rising tendrils. You could even try it in your La Mesa backyard.
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