When our motley group of Louisiana exiles sauntered into San Antonio's Menger Hotel, the post-Christmas sales were in full swing and we were searching for a holiday cocktail to usher in the afternoon. It seemed like a perfectly simple request.

"You want a WHAT?"

"A milk punch. It's a drink. You never made one?"

"Never heard of it." The barkeep, a slow-moving teenager obviously looking to skate through an easy lunch shift, didn't seem too eager to improvise. Apparently he figured that a few seconds of silence and a thoroughly blank stare would force a lower-maintenance alternative ("A nice beer? A margarita maybe?") that was more in his range.

"Hmmmmm." Carla started slowly, glancing over the lineup of bottles against the bar mirror, "tell you what. You got any brandy back there?"

Joe and Carla Mouton, our group's official goodwill ambassadors, subtly set to educating our bartender in the finer points of his profession. Carla, as it turns out, spends most of her days teaching social studies to half-conscious adolescents and Joe, an old restaurant hand, has a gift for translation, especially when it comes to anything edible. So despite his best intentions, this bartender would learn a thing or two during his afternoon shift.

The two teachers patiently led him through a hands-on lesson on the art of the Louisiana milk punch. First there was the gathering of ingredients ("Good. So you have brandy? What about half-and-half? The white stuff you use in coffee?"), then a quick kitchen trip to fetch items not standard to the barman's garnish tray (small bowls of vanilla extract and preground nutmeg). The rest of the crew looked on as Joe and Carla carefully laid out the correct method and measurements. Pretty soon, it'd be punch time.

The traditional milk punch is as close to the cocktail world as most denizens of rural South Louisiana get. During most of the year, we're content to swill cold beer as our beverage of choice -- a perfect match for steaming gumbos, hearty jambalaya, and other delicacies of the pot. Nobody really thinks to mix a Tanq 'n Tonic when cayenne-dusted crawfish spill across paper-lined picnic tables. During most casual get togethers, it's always easier to pop a top.

But during the holiday season, the parties tend to dress up a little bit. Casual gumbo gatherings give way to a month-long string of more formal evening visits and traditional family reunions. Sugar-hyped kids run around in church clothes while adults get their share of special foods and holiday cheer.

And during the festive season, milk punch makes its annual appearance. Essentially an cluck-free eggnog, the basic milk punch is made with three parts light cream (half-and-half), one part dark liquor (usually bourbon or brandy), and various grace notes that fine tune the concoction's flavor (sugar for sweetness, vanilla, and a pinch of grated nutmeg). At full strength, the rich cream masks the liquor's warm kick and makes it a perfect brunchtime alternative to Bloody Marys. The final product can be mixed in punchbowl batches to satisfy an evening's worth of revelers or blended to a rich slushlike consistency (Carla's preference) for a quick internal freeze.

However it's made, the milk punch remains an integral holiday tradition in most of South Louisiana. During the countless family gatherings that mark the season, adults mill around with "company's coming crystal" sipping before dinner, after Mass, or during the New Year's feast. Parents are also known to mix a special batch with trace amounts of liquor for "older youngers" playing grownup -- all the illusions of maturity with the potency of rum raisin ice cream.

Back at the bar, the Mouton's training process took about ten minutes -- mixing, pouring, and blending included. In the end, the misplaced Cajuns contentedly sipped their spice-dusted holiday drinks in the Menger's grand historic barroom -- happy to have a little homestyle tradition in far-flung surroundings. Our illustrious barkeep tasted the smooth final product and after a moment, gave a slow nod of the head. "That's a good drink," he said slowly, "I'll have to remember that one for next year."