They married, settled in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and began looking for spaces to open their bar.īut Ms. “As soon as I met Matt, we knew we wanted to open a bar together,” she said. Weatherup met Matthew Maddy, an American who was casting bronze at a foundry outside Paris. “I made a lot of tequila sunrises and sex on the beaches.” “Back in those days everybody wanted cranberry juice,” she said, with a hint of despair. Weatherup began her bartending career in Paris somewhat ignominiously, serving shots at Stolly’s Stone Bar, a sort of Les Deux Magots for hard-drinking Anglophone expatriates in the Fourth Arrondissement. “That’s what bartenders are supposed to do anyway.” The last item reads: “Keep Calm and Carry On: Just ask your bartender.” “It’s a cocktail made at the bartender’s discretion based on what the customer likes.” Ms. There are only seven drinks at Weather Up TriBeCa. “A wide bar keeps a nice distance from the world,” Ms. And the bars are wide enough for a Coyote Ugly line dance, though her intentions are less social. Both are sheathed in white tiles that could have been lifted from the Paris Métro. Even when they are full, the din barely rises above a murmur or the swishing sound of a drink being shaken. They are quiet, intense, artisanal affairs. The ambience at her bars is similarly exacting. Weatherup uses a cherry soaked in brandy until dark red, almost carmine. Instead of a plasticine red maraschino, Ms. When the embryonic manhattan is appropriately chilled, she pours the amber liquid through a strainer into the waiting coupe. “Shaking,” she explained, “is for drinks with citrus.” Weatherup gently cools the drink by stirring it with a bar spoon. Checking the temperature with the back of her hand, Ms. She slips in 4 hand-cut ice cubes, careful not to upset the alcohol. Then, into a cocktail shaker, she gently pours 2 1/4 ounces of Templeton rye, 3/4 ounce of Carpano Antica Formula vermouth and 3 dashes of Angostura bitters. Weatherup takes a coupe, a saucer-shaped Champagne glass, from a barside froster. In her hands, a classic manhattan is a four-minute rite.įirst Ms. Instead, she lavishes attention on her cocktails, which she approaches with the punctiliousness of a lab technician and the purity of a nun. “Besides, when you’re shaking a cocktail shaker, your face goes all wobbly, and you can’t talk anyway.” Weatherup, who was born in the English Midlands and speaks with the long rolling vowels of that region. “I like to make cocktails because it makes it easier to not make small talk behind the bar,” said Ms. Not only is she the rare woman in a male-dominated field, but she is also the rare bartender who doesn’t brook banter. Weatherup has emerged as an effervescent but unlikely force in the city’s tight-knit mixology scene. Her latest, Weather Up TriBeCa, opened on Duane Street in December and has brought a high dose of cocktail culture to the stroller-beset neighborhood.ĭespite her unassuming presence, Ms. Her first venture the original Weather Up, a tiny bar with subway tiles and a bronze bar opened in 2008 in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, and was regarded by connoisseurs as the borough’s first true craft cocktail bar. Although here, a sloe gin fizz might be more appropriate. She is what, in some circles, is called a tall drink of water. Its 34-year-old namesake and owner, Kathryn Weatherup, is tall and blond, an unbearded lady. But those who frequent Weather Up, a Prohibition-style cocktail lounge, need not worry. WITH its pyrotechnics, suspenders and tattoos, the cocktail scene in New York appears, at times, to revolve around a troupe of Barnum & Bailey escapees.
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