In 1850 Edward Buffum walked into a makeshift building situated just a short distance from a rapidly growing community of settlers near the Barbary Coast. The large doors opened to reveal a panelled room with a dirt floor. In the back was a wooden stage furnished with a band playing jovial tunes that seeped through the timber walls and into the surrounding desert. The room was filled with people from all walks of life, bankers, lawyers, chefs, bricklayers and chimney sweeps, those who had abandoned their jobs months ago to search for buried nuggets of gold. There were eligible bachelors, single women and families all dressed in their best carousing about the place. A long line had formed by the bar where guests were patiently waiting for their cocktails, juleps, and cobblers to be mixed to perfection. The rest were dancing, singing, laughing, and conversing, melding together into a homogenous group of pleasure-seekers. The space was fun, energetic, wild. What Buffum saw was a party, but it wasn’t just any party. These gatherings went by many names, including tradesman balls, or subscription balls, or miner’s balls, or fandangoes. Whatever people wanted to call them, these gatherings were causing quite a stir, not only through the fields of California, but across the globe. (Yes, Australia had their share of these parties as well)
What was the big deal? Well, in one of his entries, Buffum tries to explain:
At these balls, there is no exclusiveness, the high and the low, the rich and the poor, all meet on perfect equality and dance away their sorrows, if they have any, upon the same mud floor. No scented cards of invitation are sent to the favoured few but all who choose enter and participate freely.
Get that? Apparently before the Gold Rush, ‘balls’ were the kinds of things rich people had. At least, that is what the wealthy aristocrats thought. These were get-togethers where upper classes invited their friends and obligations to show off their fancy clothes, rigidly dance to the newest music, and drink some of the finest spirits in the world, of course. And the idea that the emerging middle and lower classes were mingling together in such high society style didn’t seem to sit well in some of those wealthy circles. That is one of the reasons why I love the following story.
In 1853 the Ballarat tradesman ball was attended by everyone, shopkeepers, diggers, publicans, their wives, and daughters too. It was also attended by the newly assigned (and incredibly wealthy) governor and his wife, Sir Charles and Lady Hotham. Although the appointed officials made a point to attend this soiree in the dusty town, they were not wholly prepared for what was in store. In fact, the couple, especially Lady Hotham, spent the majority of the night walking around the place with a bit of RBF. (that’s an acronym, look it up) And that is not just me saying this. Many attendees noticed the disgusted look plastered on Lady Hotham’s face as she stared in bewilderment at the crowd. According to testimony, the woman did not just look uncomfortable, she seemed horrified at the sight of such a mingling of classes. To help dislodge the thorn that had formed in her incredibly affluent backside, a lawyer who had joined the couple at the bar suggested that Lady Hotham “try a brandy cocktail.” He said, “It’s a mate, drink, washing’ an’ loddgin’ all in one.” It is said that the woman then “raised the dorsal elevator to her lips’ and took a sip.”
This is one of those historical moments that I would have loved to have witnessed. Maybe it’s because I am sure I’ve seen an image very similar in some of the bars I’ve been to before.
It has been argued by some (and by some, I mean, me) that the main purpose of the cocktail was to help people relax, delay their judgements, and enjoy the company of the people they were surrounded by, regardless of their differences. The cocktail’s early 1806 definition says as much stating that the swallowing of this drink made you “ready to swallow anything else”. (I imagine all puns were intended) If there is anything I can gather from the story of Charles and Lady Hotham (other than the fact that they were both classist snobs) it is that the cocktail, even 50 years after its 1806 definition, was doing exactly what it was made to do. Did the drink work its magic on the elitist Lady Hotham? Maybe not, but if I am being truly honest, I can assure you, my love of drinking cocktails has made me much less of a judgmental conversationalist. The fact that this mysterious mixture of spirits was often historically used to make a party more fun doesn’t really surprise me at all. At this point it would be truly difficult to count all the times I have had some open, interesting, and altogether pleasant exchanges with people I’d otherwise write off as too strange to entertain. In that case, I’d say from experience, that the cocktail, 218 years later, still functions in much the same way today.
** What do you think? Do you think the cocktail still has the same purpose as its 1806 definition? Do you think it makes you less of a snob? I want to know! Share your thoughts in the comments/chat below!