If you can bear the few-daily climbs to the umpteenth floor, you are privilege to a life slightly more free of perceived pollution, of street noise, and, if you’re on the very top floor, of the clatter of upstairs neighbors’ crack-of-noon activity. But the prospect of lugging over-stuffed baskets or a caddy (wheeled cart) up five or six flights of stairs gives new meaning to the market list, since popping back down for a forgotten bunch of flat-leafed parsley or a bottle of nuoc mam is an option only for the most devoted cook.
 
 Everyone has their own way of attacking the climb: there are the heavy-soled snails, who usually fall into the golden age category; the stompers, their pace on the steps pounding and rhythmic, approaching my floor in a deafening crescendo and then with a shuffle across the landing, they continue their trajectory upwards; there are light, wispy steppers, whose feet are adorned with either feathers or rubber-soled Clarks, who would rather no one hear their comings and goings at all; and then there are those most unlikely residents who actually skip steps going up, punctuating their boundless energy with a great clack of the apartment door upon arrival.
 
 Having had an extremely short-lived period as one of those exuberant stair-skippers, I eventually cut out the foolishness and took things more slowly, inspired by my friends’ long-standing stair techniques. My first French roommate, for example, would move with incomprehensibly slow and methodic steps, and later I decided she was saving her energy for other activities: late-morning Turkish-coffee-fueled Wagner marathons on the upright piano, a rêve party, or after-hours fence-climbing into the Buttes Chaumont park to spend the wee hours composing poetry and orating to the great white waterfall inside the false caves there.
 
 Living on the highest floors inevitably leads to inviting friends often, especially in winter, rather than braving the cold outdoors, and then – to add insult to injury – the stairs, at the end of the evening. But not venturing out as a last-minute decision also means making do with whatever is tucked away in the liquor cabinet: a dusty bottle of Marie Brizard or a cheap Rivesaltes or armagnac. A few years ago, when cranberry juice was mercifully introduced to French consumers, I bought a bottle to have on hand, and so it was one night that some friends were mixing wantonly. Often it seems that the best cocktail inventions are born of just such disparate elements as can be had in a sixth-floor liquor reserve – and behold our success among friends and fellow cocktail artisans. The recipe for our palatable libation is below.
 
 As for those founts of energy who grow dizzy skipping up stairs at blinding speed day after day, more power to them. I finally decided that taking stairs is one of those necessary acts which deserves transformation, thereby creating some – a task akin to doing the dishes, meditation through suds. The stairwell serves as a buffer between my dwelling and the rest of the world, a place to decompress. So even though I only live on the third floor now, when I arrive in my building, I grab the smooth, wooden banister, step up onto the first concave tread, and…breathe. And when I get home, I promise to sip my cocktail ever so mindfully.

Although I can only guarantee results for this list of ingredients, cocktail recipes just beg for substitutions, so do your worst! If you’re feeling adventurous, try a different herb like rosemary, but just use one at a time. Armagnac strikes a slightly more rich and round note compared to cognac, which is also from the southwest of France. If you’re wondering how to use up a bottle of armagnac, look for recipes with other typically southwestern ingredients: goose, duck, foie gras, walnuts, or prunes. Otherwise, invite more friends and sip the night away.

for the cocktail:

 1 cup gin
 ½ cup armagnac or cognac, or other brandy
 1 ½ cup cranberry juice
 ¼ cup simple syrup (recipe follows, or buy bottled)
 1 tbsp. lime juice
 10 ice cubes
 10 mint leaves, or other herbs you might have growing on the windowsill

for the sugar syrup:

 ¼ cup water
 ¼ cup sugar

how to make it:

Roughly chop four of the mint leaves. Combine them with the sugar and water in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Stir until the sugar is dissolved, and let this mixture cool completely before using. Chill six cocktail glasses. Fill a shaker (or any container with a tight-fitting lid) with all ingredients except the remaining mint, and shake vigorously. Pour through a strainer into chilled glasses, and garnish with mint leaves. If you like, serve in 4-oz. martini/cocktail glasses, or use any fun(ky) glasses you have around.

makes about 6 cocktails, depending on the glass