Bourbon. The very word conjures something classic—say, a chance encounter at a dive bar in a ’40s film noir. The girl’s got moxie, so she takes it on the rocks, the same as the mysterious stranger with his brim pulled low. She matches him drink for drink as the clock ticks on toward midnight. At the witching hour, she gets up to leave and sidles past Mr. Tall/Dark/Handsome, and her satin heels are nearly out the door when he reaches out and pulls her into a long, smoky kiss. I’m not promising bourbon can do this for you. But try ordering it the next time you saddle up at your favorite watering hole. Chances are, the bartender will have a decent selection. Because bourbon’s back, baby, and with a bang.

It’s that time of year again, when we venture out into the bitter cold and brave the vast retail wilderness in quest of holiday treasures. Exactly one hundred years ago, also at this time of year, Anglo-Irish explorer Ernest Shackleton was out freezing his bum off on a quest for the South Pole. To warm the crew’s spirits, they brought along a few cases of McKinlay and Co. “Rare Old” whisky -- at £1.40 a case, hardly the good stuff, so they probably weren’t overly put out when bad weather forced them to dump it not a hundred miles short of their goal. It’s been sitting there ever since, frozen solid. Next month an expedition team plans to retrieve a sample in an attempt to replicate the original liquor. Hey, I’m down for a whisky popsicle. But I think I’ll skip the trip down south and instead whip up an Iced Cranachan, a frosty spin on a traditional Scottish dessert.

If you put on Thanksgiving dinner this year, you’ve probably been avoiding the kitchen the last few days, taking it easy, microwaving leftovers. I was only a grateful guest this time around, but working up a homemade pecan-pumpkin pie was enough to justify a trip to the local pub. A friend recently tipped me off to the Bronx Ale House, a cozy new brew joint that more than meets the needs of northern Manhattanites and western Bronxites. Just down the street from the landmark Riverdale Diner, this cheery, boisterous tavern boasts a daily menu of compelling craft beers on tap, along with great comfort grub like cheesy chili-bacon fries and beer-battered dill pickles. I settled in next to the crackling fireplace and indulged in a sweet dark Ten Fidy (easily my new favorite stout) and a succulent beer-marinated Kingsbridge steak sandwich. That stout got me thinking about a cold-weather pub grub fave: shepherd’s pie. In the spirit of fine beer, comfort food, and a handy way to use up some of those Thanksgiving leftovers, here’s an easy, cheesy recipe for shepherd’s pie that’ll put a little Bronx in your Brit.

Do you remember the first drink you ever ordered? Mine was an Amaretto sour -- not very adventurous, and though I like them to this day, I’ve been fine-tuning my drink list ever since. I’m now partial to sidecars, although more often than not, a bartender turns me down. So I’ll ask for something easier -- a lemon drop, a mojito, or, facing a very limited bar, that girly drink every mixologist knows how to mix: a cosmo. But I’m always embarrassed to utter that word. I am not a cosmo girl. They’ll do in a pinch, but how much lovelier to saunter up to a long bar and order something refined, raising one’s eyebrow and rolling each syllable off the tongue -- Bran-dy Al-ex-an-der, or Sing-a-pore Sling? The elegant romance of these classics is evoked by Assouline’s glossy new picture book, Vintage Cocktail. Gorgeously photographed by Laziz Hamani, the drinks in this coffee-table treasure were mixed at an equally urbane watering hole, Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle Hotel.

As someone whose favorite dish is Trainwreck Fries (pickled jalapeño, buttermilk ranch, smoked bacon, and scallions, from Virgil’s Real Barbecue), I try to make up for bad fuel with good, choosing organic and local produce whenever I can. In the green versus conventional debate, for me it comes down to fresh food that doesn’t rack up frequent flier miles or need to wear a hazmat suit. (Supporting local and small agribusiness, the health of growers, and a happier planet notwithstanding.) What started off as a health thing is now just as much about taste. I find that many organic and conventional foods can be as different from each other as a symphony from a one-man band. New nuances of flavor appear in the most ordinary of ingredients. What gastronome wouldn’t want that?

Dismal weather brings out the cook in me. There’s nothing like cozying in your kitchen and whipping up a warm, satisfying dish on a hot stove. It’s also carb season, and what better way to fuel up than a tangled pile of spaghetti? And I’m not talking your childhood sauce-n-glop. No sir. We found a recipe for designer pasta that’ll knock the stockings off your most well-heeled dinner guests: Isaac Mizrahi’s Mushroom Truffle Spaghetti, published this month in Assouline’s CFDA American Fashion Cookbook. Mizrahi’s dishy dish is just one of dozens of stylish entrée, appetizer, dessert, and drink recipes from a roster of fashion’s finest. Hungry? Try Zac Posen’s great-grandma’s butterscotch wafers, or Diane von Furstenberg’s chicken, or Bill Blass’ prune whip.

Sunday saw some seriously perfect weather -- a fall crispness that had you feeling as bright and bushy as a squirrel, but with this farewell kiss of summer heat that lured you to the corner Mister Softee for a double cone. Turns out I wasn’t the only one screamin’ for the stuff; near Ft. Tryon park, the ice cream lines were clear down the block. The annual Medieval Festival was going strong, and I’d either have to swordfight my way through the crowd to get my fix, or queue up for that high delicacy of the Middle Ages: the deep-fried batter plate. A quick scope of those patronizing the Ye Olde Fried Dough line found two pairs of ill-fitting leather pants, a homemade vulture-feather cape, a samurai, and a wan girl so tightly corseted that her eyes bulged like a goldfish’s. A greasy mound of pockmarked yellow carbohydrate floated by on a sagging paper plate. Was this really worth jousting for? I decided to head home and whip up a batch of my favorite dessert, Choco-Doodle-Roons, instead.

I have a crush on crustaceans. Their mollusk sea-pals ain’t too bad, either. This time of year, I start getting a craving for the creatures of the deep, particularly those who dwell in the cool, briny waters of the Atlantic. But where I live, the buildings butt up against the sky, not sandbars, so I’ll have to fantasize about that seaside-village getaway -- the one where me and the Creature from the Black Lagoon share fried clams and giddily pinch each other with lobster claws, buzzed on local craft ale -- while I’m cooking up a pot of creamy clam chowder in my wee NYC kitchen. It all started with a bowl of velvety lobster bisque at Ed’s Lobster Bar in SoHo (not to be confused with the newest seafood stud in town, Ed’s Chowder House), savored with a bucket of salty fries. Upon inquiring as to the ease of making this tasty belly warmer on my own, the waitress promptly quashed the scheme, saying something about needing a monster emulsifier.

Walk up from the Blue Note, turn the corner at MacDougal, and there under bright green awnings Caffe Reggio beckons: my refuge in this ever-changing twitter-totter world. The haunt hasn’t evolved much since my fresh-faced college days, with its ornate antique clocks, chipped busts (“Horatio,” I call the winsome boy-man perched above the coveted corner window seat), and moody 16th-century canvases “from the school of Caravaggio,” as the back of the menu boasts. I know the history by heart. Louisa May Alcott once lived across the street. More importantly, Reggio claims to be the first place to bring cappuccino to America.

When the weather’s this hot, cocktail night may find you sucking down a monster frozen margarita at the local faux-Mex. But summer needn’t be limited to blender-benders and weak beers sweating on ice. At Upstate Manhattan’s New Leaf Café, they beat the heat in fruit-tastic style. First we introduced you to mixologist Neil Simon Coleman, a lanky Irishman who dabbles in improv comedy (if you’re really, really lucky, he just might perform his “lobotomy improv” routine) as well as cocktails. With Neil, you never know what you’ll find. He says he’s always experimenting but prefers to keep his concoctions “complex in flavor, simple in origin.” His Kumquat Mojito is a recent crowd-pleaser, although you’re bound to see many a Leafer with Neil’s signature Black Cherry Cosmo in hand. Inspired a few summers ago by a bushel of fresh local cherries the chef brought in, this vodka infusion proved so popular, it’s now served year-round.