A Madeira Link? Baker's Creole Contentment and the Creole Lady

It is always difficult to write about a Charles Baker cocktail that is actually tasty. While many more of his drinks come under the heading of barely palateable experiments from the past, the good ones have already been uncovered. Even if you've never heard of it, entering the cocktail name into a search engine will fill your screen up with links. But of course it makes complete sense--these are old recipes after all. The Gentleman's Companion has been in print for over 80 years. There are no secrets. So what is there to say about a cocktail that has already make the rounds. It sure is tasty, especially when you follow Baker's advice--but just this once.

Creole Contentment

1 1/2 ounce cognac
1 ounce Madeira
1/2 ounce maraschino liqueur
1 dash orange bitters

Stir ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a cherry if you must, though, as Baker says, this drink needs no adornment

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac, Broadbent Madeira, Angostura orange bitters and Maraska maraschino liqueur. 

Sometimes the most interesting part of the story comes where we aren't looking. For me this was the case with the Creole Contentment. Baker states that this tipple was birthed in the Big Easy. As any diligent cocktail nerd, I quickly took to the books in hopes of uncovering some hidden reference that would fill out this cocktail's lineage. I turned to Famous New Orleans Drinks and How to Make 'Em by Stanley Arthur. As is my habit, I also grabbed a couple of other tomes as well. To sum up an afternoon, I didn't find any secret provenance for the Creole Contentment, but I did find something interesting--another "Creole" drink that is almost a mirror image of Baker's Contentment, the Creole Lady.

Creole Lady

1 ounce Bourbon
1 ounce Madeira
1/2 ounce maraschino liqueur

Stir ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with 2 brandied cherries. I also added a dash of Angostura bitters. 

I found the Creole Lady while flipping through the Old Waldorf-Astoria Bar Book. Sadly I could not find a true correlation between these two drinks. They look like they are related. They have similar names. But perhaps this just comes from the fact that New Orleans was an important port during Madeiras heydey. Perhaps it is because a lot of Creole cooking has stayed true to the traditional recipes, many of which included Madeira. Or maybe it is because of the many Portuguese immigrants who ended up in the New Orleans region in the years leading up to the Civil War, when Madeira was incredibly popular. Regardless, both cocktails are delicious.

Looking Inside the Cooler: Charles Baker's Colonial Cooler

Our friend Charles Baker certainly knew how to get into a couple of scrapes. He outlines many of them in his tales, but perhaps none is so memorable as the time when his boat ran out of gas and left him stranded on his way to Sandakan in North Borneo. And while considering that his stories are often fabulous and detailed, being rescued by a man in a g-string and headdress has made this tale infamous. The drink associated with the tale, the Colonial Cooler,  is often overlooked. Fortunately, the Charles Baker scholar, St. John Frizell, has resurrected it. Of course perhaps resurrection is the wrong word since he has hardly changed it. It certainly is tasty as written.

When I first pondered this cocktail, I was immediately taken by the combination of gin, sweet vermouth, an amaro, bitters, and a sweetener. As I had been playing with amari in the Martinez, I was easily led astray, thinking that the club soda was a mistake. What I missed in understanding this cocktail had much to do with the overlooking the nature of a cooler. Coolers were defined by their inclusion of ginger beer and citrus. While the Colonial Cooler doesn't really look like a by-definition cooler, looking at the recipe through that lens made more sense. In fact as soon as I saw that Frizell decided to add cucumber, I saw how much the Colonial Cooler resembled the Pimm's Cup, another very notable Cooler.

Colonial Cooler (adapted from St. John Frizell's recipe)

1 1/2 ounces gin
1 1/2 ounces sweet vermouth
1 tsp Cointreau
1 dash Angostura bitters
1/4 ounce Amer Picon*
1 sprig of mint
1 ounce of club soda

Shake ingredients, except club soda, and double strain into a high ball or Collins glass filled with ice. Top with soda and garnish with a sprig of mint, slice of pineapple, or slice of cucumber. 

Notes on Ingredients: I used Beefeater gin, Cocchi di Torino sweet vermouth, and Bigallet for the Amer Picon.

*Frizell omits this part of the original cooler, but I added it back in.Also of note, Frizell calls for splitting the sweet vermouth between Cinzano and Carpano Antica. Also, he adds a sprig of mint to the shaking tin in addition to garnish. Cucumbers are also listed as an optional ingredient.

Baker's Cherry Beauty: The Parisien Cherry Ripe

You should never judge a cocktail solely on the way that its recipe reads. I have been disappointed by cocktails that on paper sounded delicious and pleasantly surprised by ones that seemed to present at best a hot mess. Like when dealing with people, giving a cocktail a chance can often provide a deeper insight into what is really going on beneath the surface. At the very least you will learn exactly what it is that you don't like instead of just guessing what you might not like. Knowledge comes in having the concrete details. Perhaps there is no better time to reserve judgment than when dealing with a Charles Baker drink.

We catch up with our unreliable narrator and guide in the City of Lights, fresh from an outing to Bois du Boulogne where he took in a bit of tennis. And once again we are faced with a drink that at least on paper seems incredibly suspicious. But what really had my mixing tins quaking was the fact that even Baker proclaims the drink "one of the most foetid conceptions ever to come out of a shaker when served improperly chilled." Baker drinks issued without such admonitions can be scary, but with them . . . terrifying to the point of prompting an immediate fit of page-flipping. Truth be told, I almost skipped it. But because I actually had all of the major ingredients and have been proven wrong on more than one occasion, I proceeded hesitantly.

Parisien Cherry Ripe 

1 1/2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce Cherry Marnier
3/4 ounce Kirsch

Blend with crushed ice. Float 1 tsp Cherry Marnier. Garnish with green and red maraschino cherries.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Beefeater gin and omitted the cherry garnish as I was out.

Notes on Method: Though normal practice would warrant stirring, as no juices or cream is included, Baker's requirement of extreme coldness prompted me to change tack. And while Baker describes using a Waring mixer, I chose instead to shake the ingredients with ice and strain the mixture over new freshly crushed ice. 

While this was not the vilest Baker concoction I have ever tasted, which surprised me, it definitely will not win any awards or new Baker followers. Initially it was just too much all cherry all the time. Though spirits make up 75 percent of the recipe, the Cherry Marnier still managed to dominate the drink with its slightly earthy, yet overwhelming sweetness. The dryness of the gin and the slightly nutty kirsch did pair nicely and actually peeked out on occasion, but it was not enough to save this cocktail. And as much as I love a good snow cone, this tipple only resonated on one note and could not hold my interest.

After perusing other cocktail guides as well as the Internet, I discovered that this drink actually predates Baker's world travels. This boozy cherry monster can be found in the Savoy Cocktail Book (1930) not under the moniker of the Parisien Cherry Ripe, but as one of a trio of drinks called the Rose Cocktail (French Style Nos. 1-3). Baker's cocktail and the French Rose No. 2 are exactly the same, except for Baker's decorative additions--the shaved ice and colorful maraschino cherries. The other two variations only include one cherry flavoring agent--either cherry liqueur or kirsch--not both. The French Rose Cocktail No. 1 replaces the kirsch with dry vermouth, while No. 3 replaces the cherry liqueur with syrup de groseille and the gin with dry vermouth.

While trying to figure out how to amend the Parisien Cherry Ripe, these two French Rose versions kept popping into my head. Perhaps the secret to fixing Baker's cocktail would be hidden in the differences. Both of these cocktails are noticeably less boozy. More important, though, might be their dryness as both call for dry vermouth. A bit of dryness certainly couldn't hurt. Though I usually try to stay true to the original ingredients, I decided an additional element might provide the balance and depth this cocktail was missing. Though dry vermouth may have been the natural choice, I chose to insert the acidity and dryness of sparkling wine. While it did help tone down the sweetness, it was the dash of orange bitters that really created an interesting contrast for the earthier flavors of the Cherry Marnier.

New Parisien Cherry Ripe

1 1/4 ounces gin
1/2 ounce Cherry Marnier
1/2 ounce Kirsch
1 dash orange bitters

Stir ingredients with ice in a chilled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled champagne flute or coupe. Add 1 1/2 ounces of dry champagne or sparkling wine.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Beefeater gin, Angostura orange bitters, and Yellowtail sparkling wine.

Trying to improve upon a Baker cocktail often results in a concoction that is only marginally better than the original. Usually it is the initial ingredients that provide the biggest obstacles. Whether the original is off-balance, lacking depth, or completely undrinkable, sometimes only one factor will stand for improvement. In this case, adding dryness and acidity certainly helped, but the result still wasn't the home run I had been hoping for. You can't win them all.

Ice Cube Tower and Pineapple Sticks--It Must Be a Charles Baker Drink

Sometimes I wonder how much Charles Baker really knew about cocktails. Sure, he drank big and a lot. But quantity does not magically equate to quality. A lifetime of poor drinking choices does not necessarily point toward someone becoming a sophisticated drinker. In my most romantic moments, I like to imagine Mr. Baker a discerning drinker, a sort of proto cocktail enthusiast, who tried everything in spite of, well, what trying everything entails. Perhaps he even understood that sometimes the value of a cocktail experiment is not always expressed in the final expression of flavors but instead in the eye-opening experience of moving away from what is mainstream or even expected. Sometimes a cocktail is a journey and the destination is just one of the unknowns, like the weather.

Treading in Mr. Baker's footsteps is not without its failures or surprises. This tends to create suspense, or at least hesitation. More often than not a simple glance at the list of ingredients stirs an involuntary shudder. The champagne cocktails have been more of a safe haven, though none of them have been a walk in the park, either. The flavors in this last one are not particularly challenging, but the Champagne Cocktail No. III does not come without obstacles:

"Choose a large tapering champagne glass; inside of this build a tower of 4 ice cubes, crown it with a lump of sugar saturated with 4 dashes of orange bitters. Against the sides of the glass lean 2 sticks of ripe fresh pineapple, encircle the tower with a spiral of green lime peel, and fill with well chilled champagne, medium dry, and not too acid in type. Now as the crowning gesture carefully float on 1 tbsp of cointreau"

Even written on the page, the Jockey Club Cocktail blows right past difficult straight to impossible--at least in terms of my skill set. The idea of making a tower of ice cubes in a glass topped with a bitters-soaked sugar cube seems challenging enough without considering the pineapple spears. Don't even get me started on the lime twist.

The first problem I discovered rather quickly--I do not have tapering champagne glasses, only flutes and coupes. At first, this seemed unimportant--glassware is usually the least painful substitution. However, my decision to proceed instantly proved fatal. While a coupe wouldn't work because of its demure height, a champagne flute is equally flawed because of its narrow opening. While it was technically possible to stack four small ice cubes with the help of a bar spoon, as soon as I inserted one stick of pineapple, the entire structure immediately collapsed. Trying to get the lime twist to wrap around the flimsy "structure" required more patience than I could muster, and perhaps tweezers.

The folly of attempting to balance a slowly disintegrating sugar cube atop my column was instantly clear, so I opted for simple syrup and bitters instead. But as soon as I poured in the syrup, the ice structure collapsed. I understood then that this was inevitable. Ice floats. Only then did  I understand how unimportant that tower really was--the ice was simply a vehicle for creating the pineapple and lime garnish. Though it was a eureka moment, I was less than amused. Had I grasped this fact earlier, I would have spent less time on the ice and more time positioning the lime twist. Alas, with my ice melting, I added the bitters, champagne and float. I only hoped that the flavors would be blind to my poor craftsmanship.

"Jockey Club Champagne Cocktail" (as adapted)

4 small square ice cubes
2 pineapple spears
1 lime twist
1 teaspoon simple syrup
4 dashes orange bitters
6 oz champage (demi-sec)
1/2 oz Cointreau

Build an ice-cube column flanked by pineapple spears.* Curl a long lime twist around the structure.** Add syrup, bitters, and then champagne. Carefully float Cointreau.

Notes on Ingredients:  I used a 1:1 simple syrup, Regan's orange bitters, Graham Beck demi-sec sparkling wine. Also I substituted Clement Creole Shrub for the Cointreau on a lark, thinking the rum base would be a nice addition in the fruity environment.

* Good luck. Just remember that creating the garnish is the point, not where the ice ends up.
**Using a champagne glass with a larger opening will be key here unless you really want to use tweezers. Also, length may come in handy--I would recommend a crusta-style treatment.

Despite the procedural missteps, this champagne cocktail did turn out quite nicely. The demi-sec champagne wasn't as sweet as I'd feared and in general seemed to contribute a pleasant fruitiness. The pineapple's flavor became more significant over time, as expected. I can't help but wonder if substituting pineapple syrup for the sugar cube-pineapple spear business would yield similar results. Perhaps then the pineapple flavor would prove too intense, but boy would it be easier. Well, something to consider for future masochism.

A Champagne Cocktail Worthy of Happy Hour: Ile de France Special

I am a big fan of the champagne cocktail. For many years I would have said that there was no better way to drink champagne. Granted I didn't much like champagne, or any sparkling wine, for that matter. But my tastes have changed. Over time, I discovered other beverages that put bubbly to good use--and some of them I would opine, are far superior to the champagne cocktail. For example, the Morning Glory Cocktail, with necessary champagne substitution, the Seelbach, the Jimmie Roosevelt,and the Old Cuban all come to mind. I am also partial to a negroni sblagliato. But those all require more than just dousing a sugar cube in bitters and dropping it in a glass of champers. The champagne cocktail is simple and elegant. Like the Old-Fashioned, it is a drink I never get sick of. I mean sure, I could just drink a glass of sparkling wine, but I could also just drink a glass of whiskey. Time and place are important factors here. Just like certain circumstances call for a champagne over a champagne cocktail, certain circumstances require, a term I use loosely, a jigger of whiskey neat over an Old-Fashioned. And how weird to find ourselves back at that fuzzy place where craving becomes an issue.

A champagne cocktail is my go-to alcoholic beverage to accompany brunch. I know that the overwhelming majority tends to favor the mimosa. I also know some people who lean toward a Ramos Gin Fizz or a Brandy Milk Punch--and sometimes I like to lean with them. Their company is usually exuberant and filled with possibilities, though a mid-day nap might also be required. But as I am sure I have posted before, a nice champagne cocktail creates the illusion of luxury and relaxation--exactly what brunch should mean. The unhurried gorging of oneself over hours, belts and comfort be damned. The problem is that other than for this occasional indulgence, I never look to a champagne cocktail. For some reason, they have been limited to brunch only. Thank goodness for Charles Baker, though its no surprise that he is posthumously forcing me to expand my drinking horizons.

Perhaps the reason why I never have a champagne cocktail after about three p.m. is because I don't take it seriously as a cocktail. It is a rather light drink, considering that it is simply a mildly flavored glass of wine. I usually crave a little kick At least for me, I tend to favor cocktails with a bit more of a kick in the evening. That's what is so wonderful about almost all of the champagne cocktails in Baker: at least four out of five have a slug of brandy in them. And this doesn't only up the ante on the kick. A smooth richness of flavor comes through as well. As far as the Ile de France Special specifically, mingle the brandy with the usual suspects (sparkling wine, syrup and bitters) and a float of yellow chartreuse and you get a perfectly herbal beverage that totally is perfect as the sun is sinking down the sky.

Ile de France Special (as adapted)

1/2 teaspoon simple sugar
1/2 ounce cognac
3 1/2 ounces champagne
1 dash orange bitters
1/8 ounce (1 bar spoon) yellow chartreuse

Into a chilled cocktail glass or flute, add syrup, cognac, and bitters. Stir gently to incorporate. Top with Champagne. Carefully float yellow chartreuse.

When Is a Crusta Not a Crusta: Enter Charles Baker

The crusta will always, for me at least, symbolize nineteenth century bartending techniques and tastes. Or at least the best ones. The crusta also played an important role in the evolution of the cocktail, allowing it to become what it is today. Originally formulated with brandy, the crusta sprung onto the scene in the early 1850s in the great cocktail city of New Orleans at the hands of Joseph Santini who held court behind the bar at the New Orleans City Exchange. This esteemed drink spurred on the creation of other notable potations such as the Sidecar, the White Lady and the Margarita, but it would be impossible to completely trace its widespread influences. It could easily be argued that the crusta acts as a bridge connecting the original cocktail and the various sours.

The differences between the crusta and the original cocktail--our old fashioned--are slight, but notable. Looking at those changes sets the tone for how cocktails changed and were transformed at the hands of bartenders as they adapted their craft to current tastes, innovative tools, and newly imported, or discovered ingredients. The first innovation to change the old fashioned revolved around the sweetening agent. For example, why not substitute a bit of orange-flavored liqueur or maraschino liqueur for the gomme syrup. This simple alteration changed the plain cocktail to a fancy cocktail, though it didn't really alter the landscape of the cocktail--too much. The resulting drink is still composed of a spirit, bitters, a sweetening agent and some form of water. And sure by this time some of the techniques had changed (shaking or "throwing" had been introduced) as well as some of the tools (shaking tins, hawthorn strainers), but this was essentially a very minor step.

One of the next important innovations came when Santini decided to add a dash of lemon juice to the basic cocktail framework. Until then, cocktails had never contained citrus juice. Sours, fixes and daisies--all prevalent during the mid-nineteenth century--certainly contained citrus, but not the cocktail. And it was this move from a lemon twist to a quarter ounce of lemon juice that changed the face of cocktails.

The addition of juice to the fancy cocktail notwithstanding, the defining characteristic of a crusta is its presentation. It is just one of those drinks that is immediately recognizable. With its sugared rim and coiled lemon peel just peeking out of the glass, the crusta is a study in the lost art of over-the-top garnishing. The amount of time and skill it takes to properly assemble a crusta speaks of its old-fashioned roots. (And let me tell you, it is not as easy as it sounds to pare the entire peel from a lemon in one continuous piece.) The lemon juice was an innovation that influenced the future of cocktails. But it is the garnish that firmly situates its presence in the past. 

By the 1930s lavish, ornamental cocktail garnishes had mostly disappeared and the introduction of juice to the cocktail was no longer a novelty. The crusta was almost a hundred years old after all and must have been looking a bit long in the tooth. Cocktail culture, then as now, has always revolved around what's new and different, even when a recipe is simply a rediscovered gem. Though the crusta was still bumbling around the continent, as evidenced by its inclusion in Robert Vermiere's Cocktails and How to Mix Them (1922) and Harry McElhone's Barflies and Cocktails (1927), given the voluminous number of cocktails available, its popularity may have been on the wane.

But the crusta was still around in 1939, when the Gentleman's Companion was first published, and it is curiously included in bar books through the 1950s not to mention afterward. Despite its lavish garnish, the crusta was not forgotten like so many of its contemporaries, or those cocktails that had been created later. Therefore, it is not terribly surprising to find the crusta hidden in a section dedicated to champagne drinks in a tome dedicated to unearthing worthy libations from all over the world. And it is really not surprising that Charles Baker uncovers it while journeying through China in the years of the French Concession of Shanghai in the early 1930s. What is curious is that what Baker calls a crusta hardly resembles the original crusta at all. For starters, the lemon juice, which always stood out to me as one of the defining elements of a crusta, is not present in the recipe for the Imperial Cossack Crusta. And while the sugared rim is included, and then subsequently exaggerated as the recipe calls for the entire interior of the glass to be sugar-coated, the famous lemon peel is missing. The only part of this champagne crusta that recalls the classic crusta is he sugar. If I had looked at the recipe without knowing its name, I would have never have pegged it as a crusta-style drink. 

Imperial Cossack Crusta (for two)

1 1/2 ounces cognac
3/4 ounce kummel (5/8 ounce aquavit, 1/8 ounce Benedictine)
2 dash orange bitters
champagne

Using a thick slice of lemon, coat the entire inside of a champagne flute with juice, as well as the outer lip 1/2  to 1 inch. Pour in sugar, creating a thin coating. Place glass in the freezer for a half hour. In a mixing glass, combine cognac, kummel and bitters with ice and stir. Strain liquid into the sugar-coated flute and top with champagne.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Paul Masson VSOP brandy, Krogstad Aquavit, Chateau Ste. Michelle Sparkling Wine and Regan's orange bitters. Here I also went against my better judgment and used four ounces of sparkling wine.

Ah, the problem of kummel rises again. What to do when a recipe calls for a liqueur I don't have and can't get easily. In the past, I have followed Erik Ellestad's example and just substituted aquavit and a bit of simple syrup. But on this occasion after talking to my friend Dayne, he told me that I should use Benedictine in place of the syrup to get closer to the actual flavor of kummel. Because I have never tasted kummel I have no idea how well this worked, but this little tipple was delicious. The flavors were herbal and complex. A certain sweetness was present, but the dryness of the champagne and the bitters provided balance. Because of the sugar-lining a certain amount of sugar puddled in the bottom of the glass, which caused bubbles to continuously rise through the glass as a result of each sip. The effect is much like what happens when you add the sugar cube when making a champagne cocktail. The Imperial Cossack Crusta was a very surprising cocktail that we will definitely revisit in the future.

It's All About the Process: The Jimmie Roosevelt

After I first received my copy of  the Gentleman's Companion a couple of years ago, I flipped through the pages and landed on the Jimmie Roosevelt--a champagne cocktail spiked with cognac and topped with a green chartreuse float. It blew my mind. So, of course, when we had some friends over later that month, it instantly popped into my mind. What better occasion for a fancy champagne cocktail? And, since I knew that all of my guests were comfortable with green chartreuse, easily the most controversial ingredient, what could possibly go wrong? Mind you, this was before I had ever tasted, or even heard of, drinks like Firpo's Balloon Cocktail and the Adios Amigos, before I had learned about Baker's borderline obsession with cocktails that have large amounts of absinthe. At that specific moment in time, I still harbored a certain naivete and, I'm not afraid to admit it, infatuation with all things associated with Charles Baker (except perhaps the man himself). I was only aware of the successful creations, like the tasty Remember the Maine,  and knew nothing of the abject failures. Like so many others, I had been caught in a web of flowery prose, exotic locales and the ethos of the 1930s world traveler and adventurer.

But in this case, the ingredients were not my downfall. As most people know, ingredients are only half of the equation. It is the process of making a cocktail--that learned ability to actually construct a drink properly--that truly separates the novices from the amateurs and the amateurs from the professionals. That is where the magic of well-crafted cocktails lies. Though the actual method is hardly given any space on a menu, that is where the mystery and suspense lie, because what a drink tastes like actually does depend on how its made. When constructing a cocktail at home, this process is guided by vague instructions that require some amount of interpretation and the resulting drink's success will depend, heavily, on the home bartender's skills and experience. So, at this particular point in time, I was doomed.

Champagne Cocktail No. II, which with Modestly Downcast Lash We Admit Is an Origination of Our Own, & which We Christened the "Jimmie Roosevelt"

Fill a big 16 oz thin  crystal goblet with finely cracked ice. In the diametrical center of this frosty mass went a lump of sugar well saturated with Angostura, then 2 jiggers of good French cognac, then fill the glass with chilled champagne, finally floating on very carefully 2 tbsp of genuine green chartreuse--no pineapple, no mind sprig, no cherry garnish.

Considering my drink crafting skills two years ago, this cocktail was a bit over my head. Sure, I could perform the tasks, but doing them well, or even doing the right thing at the right time, that was more iffy. Even picking out appropriate glassware seemed difficult--I don't have 16-ounce goblets. And then came the cracked ice, which is when I started to worry about what I had gotten myself into.  I have never to this day had another champagne cocktail over cracked ice. (Cubed ice? Yes. That is our preferred way to drink French 75s. But not cracked ice.) Everything seemed to go down hill from there. Second step: add the bitters-soaked sugar cube to the "diametrical" center of the ice. Note, this is not easy in a champagne flute that is very tapered at the top. Pour in cognac and top with champagne. Finally, float the chartreuse. When the opening of your glass is the same size as your barspoon, floating anything is pretty much impossible. Or at least it was for me. Baker makes it sounds almost easy, but it is easily one of the most involved champagne cocktails I have ever made.

I have heard that when a Jimmie Roosevelt is made correctly, with expert precision and, I must add, confidence, such as at the Pegu Club in New York City, it will knock your sock garters off. When properly made, the flavors should transform and evolve as you drink, ensuring that you receive multiple flavor combinations over course of the drink. Unfortunately, I was not making drinks then with either expert precision or even confidence. What I remember of that first Jimmie Roosevelt is the glorious herbal aroma of chartreuse mixing with the champagne. I remember how annoying it was trying to drink through cracked ice.  And finally, I remember the disappointment--after all the steps and all of the mess, the cocktail wasn't all that exceptional. In fact, I believe the word we chose was "weird." And I would now also add forgettable, as I have no recollection of the flavor.

But I didn't give up. My initial fascination with the Jimmie Roosevelt never really disappeared. So a year later, while reading cocktailvirgin's interview with Brian Rea, what did I find at the end shimmering like a beacon but a variation of the Jimmie Roosevelt. No "diametrical center." No crushed ice. No floats. All of the ingredients that initially sparked my imagination were present, and, best of all, it didn't sound hard to make. And it wasn't. We enjoyed this cocktail last fall, and it was exactly what I had hoped for--bubbly, herbal and dry with a little spice and richness. In short, absolutely delicious.

Jimmy Roosevelt (Recipe by Brian Rea, originally posted at cocktailvirgin.blogspot.com)

1 1/2 ounces cognac
3/4 ounce green chartreuse
2 dashes Angostura bitters
champagne

Shake cognac, chartreuse, and bitters with ice. Strain into a chilled coupe. Top with champagne.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Masson VSOP brandy and Chateau St. Michelle sparkling wine [I suggest 2 ounces].

This is still one of my absolute favorite champagne drinks. The differences are tiny enough--just the omission of the sugar cube and an increase in green chartreuse. The chartreuse's sweetness surely balances out this change. The proportions are also very similar, except that the Baker version is twice the size. Of course, in both recipes the amount of champagne is unspecified, but considering sixteen-ounce goblet specified, using seven or eight ounces of champagne is what Mr. Baker has in mind. As I usually cut all of Baker's recipes in half, Brian Rea's recipe made a lot of sense. And it is just so tasty his way.

A Champagne Cocktail with a Kick: The Maharajah's Burra-Peg

We have reached the champagne cocktail portion of the Gentleman's Companion. I will admit that I am quite excited--ah, the joy of sparklers. French 75s (and all the other numbers), Seelbachs, Airmails, Morning Glory Royales, Old Cubans, the list goes on and on. Champagne, or any sparkling wine (when used properly, of course), adds pure magic to a cocktail. Some call it bubbles. Others might say it's the dryness or acidity. They are wrong--champagne is pure fairy dust, aka magic. So when I flipped to the introductory statement for the five ensuing champagne cocktails, I almost did a jig. Almost--for I know that these sparklers are still arriving via Mr. Baker and thus will include some hidden surprises. But in my book a scary champagne cocktail is always more exciting and less risky than a scary absinthe and cream cocktail.

Charles Baker came upon this spiked champagne cocktail when his travels took him to India. He explains that a "burra-peg" translates to a large drink, or a double--and that in turn, at least in colonial times, usually meant a double scotch and soda. Rudyard Kipling, in his short story, "At the End of the Passage," also notes the existence of another variation of the Burra-Peg, something called a "King's Peg," where the whisky is swapped out for cognac, and the soda water is transformed into champagne. It may seem that the terminology shift from a "king" to a "maharajah" is the most significant change that this drink undergoes in the forty years between Kipling's story and Baker's time in India. And while it is impossible to separate the politics of colonialism and imperialism that imbue that specific place and time, reading too much into this difference masks the change that is most relevant to this blog and to other contemporary drinkers: the size. After all, Kipling does not refer to a  "King's Burra-Peg."

When Baker calls the drink large, he is not kidding. One would need 6 ounces of cognac and a whopping 18 ounces of champagne to construct two of these drinks as written. That is almost an entire bottle of champagne for two people. Well, let's just say that no one will every accuse Mr. Baker of not knowing how to party. I have learned from experience, though, that when Mr. Baker calls for a 14 to 16-ounce glass, it is prudent to cut the recipe in half. At least until I have tasted it.

Other than being huge this drink is really not that out there. It is simply a bulked up champagne cocktail, and  I'm a big fan of the traditional champagne cocktail. And what's not to like: a bit of sugar and bitters added to a glass of champagne. (A healthy slug of brandy isn't going to make me like it less, either.) I have always thought of the champagne cocktail as the perfect brunch beverage, regardless of how revered the mimosa has become. For me, the entire idea of brunch revolves around decadence. Partaking in great food, great drinks, great company, and preferably some sunshine for a couple of hours, pretty much requires sacrificing at least an entire afternoon for the pleasure of inactivity. It is almost impossible to be productive after so much relaxation and indulgence. I can't imagine a better way to spend such an occasion than with a glass of champagne tinged pink with bitters, sparkling in that imagined sunshine. What a treat it would be to stare down a Maharajah's Burra-Peg over brunch--I don't think I would be able to worry about anything at all.

Maharajah's Burra-Peg (as adapted)

For Two:

3 ounces cognac

1/4 ounce simple syrup

3 dashes Angostura Bitters

champagne

Stir cognac, syrup, and bitters in an ice-filled mixing glass for 10-15 seconds. Strain into a chilled champagne flute. Top with champagne (I suggest 3 ounces each, maximum). Garnish with a lime twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Masson VSOP brandy, a 1:1 simple syrup, and Chateau St. Michelle sparkling wine.

Generally for a champagne cocktail that includes spirits, I will not add more than three ounces of "champagne," maximum. In fact, less is usually better, though it depends on the specific ingredients. In the past, when I have followed a recipe that called for more than three ounces, balance was quickly lost as the dryness of the wine took over. Now, with sparklers that do not include spirits, each drink must be evaluated individually. I found that adding three ounces of sparkling wine to the Maharajah's Burra-Peg worked very well. 

As far as how this champagne cocktail tasted, it was delicious. It almost makes you remember why Charles Baker drinks can be exceedingly popular. The lime twist really elevated the drink and brought it together in an unexpected way. Over time the alcohol pulled more of the essence out of that little sliver of peel and that just added to the development of the flavors in a really pleasant way. Not only did I find this Baker recipe acceptable, with the tiny, though necessary adjustments, I am positive that we will actually have it again. We may even serve it to guests.

The Joy of a Pineapple: Castle Harbour Special

Whenever I see pineapple, whether it is the actual word in a book or on a menu, or the actual fruit at the grocery store or even perched on the lip of a glass, I can't help but think of summer. And not these paltry Northwest summers, where we long for warm temperatures just as much as a break from the rain. And also not those disgustingly humid summer days of the East Coast, where you are trapped on your couch coated in a thin later of sweat, while the heat drains all of your energy. No, these are not the summer days that I associate with pineapple, or else I would probably never want to look at another one. Pineapple means sunshine, dry heat, and a slight breeze, but just enough to rustle the leaves and flowers and keep the bugs at bay. In short, a totally idealized, absolutely perfect summer day. So yes, pineapple makes me smile and dream of sitting outside in the sun. That is a nice reaction to have while looking at a Charles Baker recipe.

This libation is rimmed with a sense of yearning for the past. Castle Harbor, located on the northeastern edge of Bermuda, is a large natural harbor located between the northeastern edge of Bermuda and St. David's island. In 1928, when Charles Baker spent several weeks there, its isolation and beauty struck him so intensely that the very small description he offers rings with a nostalgia. To look at pictures of Castle Harbor today, with Bermuda's airport perched on one side and its golf course and numerous hotel resorts situated on the other, it's hard to imagine unsettled islands with "white and pink beaches in utter seclusion except . . . the screaming nesting sea birds." I imagine this vision of a vacation paradise untouched by civilization was almost as rare by the time Baker was writing the Gentleman's Companion as it is now. He was lucky to have experienced it, and sometimes you even get the sense that he knew it. But just sometimes.

The drink itself sounded delicious. A mixture of rum, lime juice, syrup and fruit--it could easily be described as a type of rum punch. Though, as with many other Baker drinks, a substantial amount of rum provides the very firm backbone of this drink, the pineapple is definitely the star. As Baker describes the Bermuda-based Gosling Brothers outfitting his little hotel, his Castle Harbor Special most likely revolved around Gosling's Black Seal Rum, the dark black strap rum used most famously in the Dark 'n Stormy.

The drink also calls for sweet pineapple soda fountain syrup. Though the consistency or actual sweetness of this syrup remains a mystery, I would guess it falls somewhere in the region of what Torani might offer. Some bars and bloggers have used pineapple gum syrup as a substitution. On top of the smidgen of pineapple syrup, the recipe also includes a teaspoon of grenadine. When I first read it, I was worried about the sweetness level. Baker must have agreed because just a sentence later he says the drink is perfectly good without the grenadine. Also, he says leaving out the grenadine makes for less competition between delicate flavors. Though I would never describe either pineapple or grenadine as delicate, I followed his suggestion and omitted the grenadine. I'm sure that even in such a small amount, the grenadine was primarily used to ramp up the color and make it look more tropical.

Castle Harbour Special (original)

4 small pieces pineapple
juice of 1/2 lime
1 tsp sweet pineapple soda fountain syrup
1 tsp grenadine
1 1/2 jiggers dark rum (2 1/4 ounces)
1/2 jigger light rum (3/4 ounce)

Stir with a lump of ice and strain into a goblet half-filled with crushed ice.

Soda fountain syrup must have been really sweet. When I made this with my homemade pineapple syrup, I quickly heard Tracy say, "Um, I think this is a bit sour." Now, in general we appreciate tart, refreshing drinks, but this was a bit much. The teaspoon of pineapple syrup couldn't even touch the lime juice. I never taste a Baker drink for balance--the point is to taste it the way he intended, not the way I would fix it. Usually it is a flaw in the design of his recipe, but here it is a flaw in the substitution. So, instead of tossing it, I adjusted the sweet-to-sour ratio, matching the lime juice with pineapple syrup. It was much better.

The drink tasted mostly of lime and rum, but there was a nice pineapple hint to it. Perhaps if I had used pineapple gum, the original proportions would have worked and maybe the pineapple flavors would have been more apparent. I also chose to shake this drink with the semi-candied pineapple chunks that were left over from making the syrup. Perhaps muddling those pieces would have encouraged even more pineapple flavor and also provided more balance to the lime juice. I also decided to stick with the original amount of rum. Three ounces of rum is not so unusual for a tropical drink, and is an amount commonly seen in tiki drink recipes. Given the fact that the drink is served over fresh cracked ice, I figured over time the ice would take care of the proof.

Castle Harbour Special (as adapted)

4 small pieces pineapple
3/4ounce lime juice
3/4 ounce pineapple syrup
2 1/4 ounces dark rum
3/4 ounce light rum

Shake ingredients with cracked ice. Strain into an old-fashioned glass filled with fresh ice. Garnish with pineapple chunks.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Lemonhart 80 Demerara rum, Cruzan light rum, and homemade pineapple syrup (see below).

Pineapple Syrup (as originally published at cocktailchronicles.com)

4 cups sugar
2 cups water
1 small pineapple
smidgen of vodka or other neutral-flavored spirits

Mix the sugar and water until fully dissolved. Add the pineapple (skinned and cubed), and let sit for 24 hours. Remove the pineapple, pressing with a hand juicer to get some juice into the mix. Strain through cheesecloth or a fine strainer, and add the spirits for preservative. Refrigerate.

Truly wonderful summer days are the stuff of legend and yearning, just ask anyone mid-winter.  But the idea of nostalgia can't really contain them, namely, because technically tomorrow could be one of those days (not really). Sure there is a certain pang of longing. But it is not the same as the feelings associated with a place, or time, you can never go back to because it doesn't exist any longer. Even in the 1940s, Charles Baker could not rediscover the joys he found on his first visit to Castle Harbor. And perhaps there really is no way to re-experience even a fictionalized, idealized version of a perfect summer day, if we ever really have truly have. Maybe our memories of what a perfect summer day can be, as exaggerated over time as they are, create the need for feeling like as if something has been lost in time, something that is unreachable in the future. I don't know--it's certainly is complicated. What I do know is that for me pineapple symbolizes blissful days and a certain carefree feeling. This drink took me to a different place, away from the dreary Spring, away from the need for coats and sweaters. It seems that this is an important part of what the Gentleman's Companion has to offer a contemporary audience, a certain measure of escapism--even to an imperfect past.

A Gin Milkshake: Charles Baker's Cafe de Paris Cocktail

Some cocktail recipes just scream off the page, "I am wonderful. Make me now!" And then there are the ones that don't look like they would work on paper but are amazing in actuality. The Blood and Sand instantly comes to mind. Many of the drink descriptions in the Gentleman's Companion, mingled as they are with narrative, evoke a history that most people couldn't even imagine--exotic ports of call, palaces, underground caves--except perhaps in the world of celluloid. The Cafe de Paris is not, however, one of those showstopping cocktails. Never did I look at the recipe and think that it was going to knock my socks off. But sometimes there is a hidden story hidden that makes the entire experience that much more interesting. The Cafe de Paris actually became more vibrant the more I explored its possible history and it took me on a journey all its own.

Charles Baker offers little in the way of beginnings. He states that the cocktail is "from 'MONTE,' a place well-mentioned in our previous volume on foods; sampled first in 1931." Considering that I do not own Knife, Fork and Spoon, his note is a bit of a dead end, especially since "MONTE" is curiously vague, and the date means little even in context. The Cafe de Paris is also curiously absent from many of the cocktail guides that I own. The volumes where it has been collected are the Savoy Cocktail Guide (1930), Boothby's 1934 reprint the World's Drink and How to Mix Them, and Harry McElhone's Barflies and Cocktails (1927). But it is in this last source where we find our first real clue, as McElhone includes, "Recipe from the Cafe de Paris, Broadway, New York."

Located at the corner of Forty-Second Street and Seventh Avenue in the heart of Times Square, the Cafe de Paris, originally named the Cafe de L'Opera, opened its doors in December 1909. One of the most opulent hotels of the time, it was designed in an "Assyrian" style, stood eight stories tall and contained a twenty-foot wide staircase outfitted with crouching bronze Assyrian lions. Decadent, indeed. But unfortunately, a mandatory formal dress code and poor service (dishes often arrived cold) proved to be its undoing. By 1910, Louis Martin, one of the successful owners of the Martin Cafe, had entered the picture to attempt a  rescue mission. After his intervention, the restaurant/lounge became one of the most popular cabarets before World War I started. Vernon and Irene Castle, who popularized modern ballroom dancing for American audiences, made their debut at the Cafe de Paris's height in 1912. Their story was later immortalized on the silver screen in the Story of Vernon and Irene Castle, starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. However, even the Castles' success could not permanently save the Cafe de Paris. Louis Martin resigned in 1914 and the Cafe de Paris soon closed its doors forever.

But that still doesn't connect all of the dots. How did a recipe from the Cafe de Paris make its way into a cocktail manual written in 1927, almost ten years after it closed? What's even more curious is that this cocktail didn't find its way into Robert Vermiere's Cocktails: Here's How written in 1923? Could it be that Harry McElhone himself provides the key? Harry McElhone is most famous for Harry's New York Bar, which he bought in 1923. Located in Paris, it is still open today. Before he relocated, Harry could be found behind the stick at Ciro's Club where he landed after World War I ended in 1918. But in 1912, when the Castles were dancing their way into America's hearts in the Tenderloin district of New York City, where was our man Harry? Just seventeen blocks north, bartending at the famous Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel.

Unfortunately, this is where the trail runs cold. There is no formal link between Harry McElhone in 1912, when he had newly arrived at the Plaza Hotel in 1911 and the Cafe de Paris cocktail. It is very likely though that during his stint in New York he would have come across the Cafe de Paris cocktail at some point. Even today drink recipes tend to travel around cities and among bartenders. But there is no reason to believe that the Cafe de Paris cocktail was overly popular, considering how many cocktail manuals passed it over. The last potential lead I uncovered turned out to be, sadly, beyond my reach: Harry McElhone published the first impression of his ABC's of Cocktails in 1918. Subsequent impressions followed. If the Cafe de Paris is included it would definitely show that McElhone is responsible for the survival of the Cafe de Paris cocktail even while its namesake did not and it would potentially fill one of the remaining blanks in its history. In the meantime, as with most cocktail history, it just seems natural that a certain shroud of vagueness is blanketing yet another cocktail origin story.

Cafe de Paris Cocktail

1 1/2 ounces gin

1 tsp anisette
1/2 egg white
1 tsp heavy cream

Dry shake ingredients to emulsify egg white. Add ice and shake again. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Sambuca instead of anisette and Bellringer gin.

This was one surprising cocktail. As with most Baker drinks that include any anise at all, I expected to be bowled over. But the drink was deliciously restrained, with a delicate licorice flavor that mingled well with the botanic flavors of the gin. The texture was creamy and smooth, as would be expected from a cream and egg white drink, but the actual flavors were dry and refreshing. Unfortunately, the taste of the cream was just a bit too much for me. I am sure another might be okay with this, however. I do think that perhaps the addition of orange bitters would smarten it up and make it more than just a really good frothy gin milkshake with a hint of anise. All in all, my initial doubts were confirmed--this drink doesn't really suit my taste, as pleasant as I found it initially. But it also wasn't as bad as it could have been considering the ingredients and Baker's poor reputation. Sometimes just that tiniest of differences is all that separates a good cocktail from a bad one.

A Refreshing Cooler: The Barbados Buck

Bucks are one of those drink categories that stretch far back into history. A simple combination of a spirit, citrus, and ginger beer, they require little to no effort to make and are completely delicious year-round. Beat the heat with one in the summer, and its bright, gingery flavors will quench your thirst. Use a dark spirit, and the spicy ginger beer and richness of the barrel-aged spirit can reinvigorate a palate weary from a winter of endless Manhattans. As Charles Baker explains, the buck also can act as a fine bracer. I will take his word for it. Considering the strength of the cocktails he enjoyed, he certainly had a powerful need for a good bracer.

While it is unfortunate that the term "buck" no longer immediately translates for many modern drinkers, bucks also go by another more recognizable name: the mule, as in that most famous of mules, the Moscow Mule. The vehicle of vodka's conquest of American taste buds on the 1950s, the Moscow Mule is just a vodka buck in a fancy copper mug. The variations on the buck are endless: gin buck, Kentucky buck, Shanghai buck, gin-gin mule--the list goes on. Hey, add lime juice to a Dark 'n' Stormy and you've got yourself a rum buck. No matter which spirit you decide on, the most important part of the equation is the ginger beer. Not just any will do. The easiest place to start--skip the ginger ale. To maximize the flavors and really experience the glory of this drink, you need a ginger beer with some serious ginger kick.  Whether you chose Reed's, Fentimans, Blenheim, or Bundaberg, this is one place where bigger and bolder is definitely better. Or you can always take matters into your own hands, and make some ginger beer at home.

When I first ran across the Barbados Buck in Jigger, Beaker and Glass, I think I did a little jig. It was like finding a forgotten five-dollar bill in your jeans, a happy surprise. It just doesn't get more straightforward. Granted, as with all Baker concoctions, his buck is enormous and therefore, I halved the proportions.

Barbados Buck

3/4 ounce aged, dark rum
3/4 ounce light rum
1/2 ounce lime juice
1/8 ounce simple syrup
7-8 ounces ginger beer

Build over a lump of ice in an eight to ten ounce glass. Top with ginger beer. Stir gently to incorporate. (I added a lime wedge garnish.)

Notes on Ingredients: I used Cruzan light rum, Mt. Gay rum and Reed's Extra ginger beer and honey syrup.

This drink was refreshing and tasty as expected, and disappeared much too quickly. I blame this on the amount of ginger beer. Once you added the rum, syrup, and juice, even with a "large lump" of ice as prescribed, filling the glass with ginger beer required adding at least five ounces of soda. Thus, the drink tasted mostly of ginger beer with a hint of lime and rum. Either using a smaller glass, or adding more rum, lime juice and syrup, or just decreasing the ginger beer would easily solve this problem. But maybe that extra ginger beer helps this drink function as a bracer, instead of a more potent beverage. So, I conclude, to each his own. And as with most things, the way you construct this drink will depend entirely on what you are looking for. Substituting pimento dram for the syrup or even adding a few dashes of aromatic bitters, as a brilliant red float, would also add some interesting notes.

On a less serious note, Charles Baker tell us that he was introduced to this refreshing cooler after "lying naked on a sugarwhite beach, discussing Gilbert and Sullivan" with two gents he knew from back in the day. I know I raised an eyebrow. But let's give Charlie the benefit of the doubt and say that it was a different time--though just how different, we shall never really know.

A Journey to Bavaria: The Bridegroom's Cup

What is it about light, crisp libations that make them so perfect for summer. Many classics are notorious for how well they can stand up to the heat: the Pimm's Cup, the Sherry Cobbler, the Americano, or almost any aperitif on the rocks. Whether based on fortified wine or smoothed out in a long drink, these drinks offer flavor without all of the booziness of stronger cocktails. They are true session beverages, if we may borrow the lingo of brewers, like a wonderful punch. Lower in strength, they are perfect all day beverages, if only hypothetically. I know few things as thirst-quenching as a nice sangria or Rose when the temperatures soar. Even an ice cold Peroni or Asahi will do--bubbly and dry with just a hint of bitterness. The Bavarian Bridegroom's Cup easily falls into this category, as it is a sort of riff on sangria with its wine, brandy, and fruit. Even Charles Baker notes that it would be "doubly nice on a hot summer's day." Perhaps his mention of "doubly" is linked with the size of this drink; though Baker drinks tend to come in large proportions, this one is the largest calling for half a bottle of Rhine wine.

Unfortunately for me, I came upon the BB Cup, as I have taken to calling it, when the temperature outside was barely clearing 50 degrees and clouds lined the sky. I think it even rained. Cold, damp, dark was not what this drink was meant for. Alas, the downside of traveling through Jigger, Beaker, and Flask in a linear fashion is that certain drinks will be unseasonable. In the dead of August, I will probably be constructing hot punches. C'est la vie.

Bavarian Bridegroom's Cup (as interpreted)

6 ounces Dry Riesling
3/4 ounce kirschwasser
1/2 tsp granulated sugar (approximately)
2-3 hulled and quartered strawberries

Muddle strawberries with sugar and chill. Fill large chilled goblet one-third full of cracked ice. Add Riesling and kirschwasser. Stir lightly. Carefully spoon in strawberries, about 1 1/2 tablespoons total.

The aroma was full of the characteristic nutty, flavors of the kirsch. On the first taste, though, it was the tartness of the wine that was most prevalent. The cherry notes of the kirsch became more apparent near the end of each sip. While each sip was dry and refreshing, the Riesling's acidity accumulated as I progressed. This fact made the first half much more interesting than the second. As the drink warmed up, more of the woody notes came across. The kirsch went extremely well with the dry wine though, which gave me hope that this drink could be improved. The strawberries added a nice touch once they were in range; they had sunk to the bottom of the glass. I am not completely sure if Baker meant for the muddled strawberry component to be a floating garnish, but mine refused to linger on the surface. Perhaps if they had, the strawberries would have contributed more of a presence throughout. As it was, I simply spooned them out after about two-thirds of the way through the drink

I was very interested in this libation, though curious is probably a better word. It was a new experience because I had never tasted Riesling before. Picking one out wasn't all that hard, but I did choose a dry Riesling to ensure that the drink would be appropriate for a hot day. The kirsch-Riesling combination didn't seem all that weird considering that they are produced in the same part of the world. All in all, the shortcomings of the Bavarian Bridegroom's Cup were few. The wine's acidity was too strong, and the strawberries were not used to good effect. In order to tame some of the acidity, I decided to use strawberry liqueur in place of the actual fruit. I thought the increased sugar content might help soften the tannins. Also, by lengthening the drink with club soda into a sort of spritzer, I hoped to mellow out the some of the Riesling's boldness while still staying true to the original ingredients.

 Bavarian Bridegroom's Cup (adapted)

3 ounces Dry Riesling

3/4 ounce kirschwasser

3/4 ounce creme de fraise

1 1/2 ounces club soda

Stir first three ingredients with ice in a mixing glass for about 15-20 seconds. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Top with club soda and garnish with a slice of strawberry. 

The strawberry garnish mingled with the nuttiness of the kirsch combined to greet my nose. The drink was still quite tart and had that customary woody, cherry note at the end of each sip. By adding the club soda, the drink gained a pleasant effervescence that further highlighted the intersection of the Riesling and the kirsch. The creme de fraise contributed a nice berry note that was provided more of a balance to the dryness of the wine. The tannins were still present on the swallow, but they seemed more subdued. The strawberry flavors of the creme de fraise were most apparent on the after taste. I found this drink more refreshing as the new elements helped balance out the strong wine flavors and contributed to an even better summer spritzer.

Port and Raw Eggs: The Broken Spur

Raw egg yolks. Once upon a time that idea stopped me cold. It didn't matter if it was breakfast or dinner, I was not going anywhere near that thick gelatinous yellow goo. Just watching anyone sop up yolk with their toast was enough to turn me from my own breakfast. Once again cocktails came to my rescue. How was I supposed to experience the classics if I was squeamish about raw eggs? My first breakthrough came with a Pink Lady, where I discovered the wonder of egg whites. It was delicious: smooth, creamy, tart, and boozy all at once. Since then I have consumed a number of cocktails with egg whites. I have even ventured into the world of flips, which helped me learn to appreciate the entire egg. But until the Broken Spur, cocktails that used only the yolks were still undiscovered territory. Once again, it seems that Mr. Baker was going to provide me with a way to escape my comfort zone.

Not many cocktails include only the yolks. Far more use the whites, which makes sense as they add a foamy buoyancy not unlike meringue to a drink. But what do the egg yolks do? They do froth, or at least something in there creates a foamy top. They do add a certain velvety texture. I would imagine it is the same as when raw egg is added to a carbonara to make it all creamy and rich. Most egg yolk drinks seem to fall into the categories of pousse-cafe, some type of golden fizz, or a dessert drink. I am assuming that the Broken Spur would fall into the latter category, especially considering many of those drinks include brandy, Madeira or port as well the egg yolk. The inclusion of gin is perhaps the only thing that separates the Broken Spur.

But it isn't just the egg yolk that makes the Broken Spur so interesting. The Broken Spur seems to have originated in the 1930s, or thereabouts, as I could only find it in cocktail books from that time: Barflies and Cocktails (1927), the Savoy (1930), and Boothby's 1934 reprint. The proportions match up, which is kind of amazing, considering that any cocktail in the Gentleman's Companion seems to be enormous and suspiciously filled with anise. But where Baker details "port wine" as the base, a very general designation, every other recipe calls for white port instead. I used a tawny port because that is what I have, but if I had used a white port the Broken Spur would have been incredibly different. White port and tawny port are about as opposite as can be.

Tawny ports are made from red grapes that are fermented into wine and then fortified with grape spirits to halt that fermentation process. The they are aged in barrels and then blended in a fractional method that is like the solera method used to make sherry. Tawny ports are usually older than white and ruby ports when they get to market, and they are known for their raisin and nutty flavors. White ports are made from white grapes and may or may not have any contact with a barrel, though they are all aged to some extent.  They can vary in flavor from dry to sweet and are known for having delicate nutty flavors that are more like a dry sherry than the darker ports, though white ports do tend to be fruitier and richer than most dry sherries. As you can imagine, this would make quite a difference as the base of a cocktail. As I did even more research into this discrepancy, it seems that Baker's version is the only one that does not call specifically for white port.

Broken Spur

3/4 ounce gin
3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
1 1/2 ounces port
1 tsp anisette
1 egg yolk

Dry shake ingredients. Shake again with ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a pinch of ground ginger.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Plymouth gin, punt e mes and a tawny port. I also substituted Sambuca for the anisette.

This was a very surprising cocktail. The aroma was full of the berry, raisiny notes of the port mingling with the ginger. On the first sip, the port was also dominant. Though the drink was very dry, it also had an almost chocolaty flavor, which was both pleasant and intriguing. The egg yolk created a smooth, rich consistency and a thick foam. The punt e mes added a slight bitterness throughout ,and as my mouth became more accustomed to the flavors, the botanics of the gin were more prominent. The raisin flavors of the port were back on the after taste. The anisette contributed its licorice flavors near the end of each sip, but they were not overly pronounced. This drink was exceptionally good and very refreshing and I would highly recommend making this drink when you find yourself with some extra egg yolks. I can almost imagine myself sitting next to Mr. Baker as he contemplates fiancees and Jenghis Khan in a cave behind a statesman's house in 1932 Peking.

A Tale of Molasses and Honey: Two Rum Drinks

Many absolutely confounding drinks are included in the Gentleman's Companion, but just as many of them are quite simple, like the Jamaican Black Stripe and the Jamaican Black Strap. What's more simple than variations on the old-fashioned and the toddy? But then again, as Charles Baker has inadvertently proven time and again, easy to make doesn't always mean tasty. Even after only 15 recipes, I have learned to never prejudge a Baker cocktail or even my own tastes. Regardless of how I wince, groan, or even smirk at one of his recipes, each drink will contain a bit of mystery in one way or another. The most important lesson is that to truly experience something a certain amount of letting go is required, and sometimes that isn't easy or comfortable. But by relinquishing control, I have been able to stretch my sense of taste in ways I never could have foreseen. We all have ideas about what we think we like. Sometimes opening the window to something new lets in more than what we  bargained for, and it can change everything.

The Jamaican Black Strap is not a scary drink. You may or may not believe me depending on your view of the two primary ingredients: molasses and Jamaican rum. I happen to love Jamaican rum. This fact alone would have floored Mr. Baker, who many times asserts that most ladies have a strong dislike for the stronger, more pungent Jamaican rums. I do not particularly disagree with his assertion--indeed, some women probably would find the funkier rums a bit too, um, well, funky for their liking. I would add, however, that, as with most things, this fact does not apply to women alone. Leaving bold statements about gender stereotyping aside, why is Jamaican rum so challenging? The easy answer: it comes down to production.

For every place where rum is manufactured, there exists a different, usually very traditional distillation procedure that characterizes the product. That is why so many styles of rum exist--why Haitian rum tastes different than Martinique rum. Traditionally, in Jamaica, a portion of the material left over in the still after a distillation run, called dunder or setback (for all of you sour mash whiskey lovers), is collected and added to the next batch of mash that is fermenting. This process introduces the slow-acting wild yeasts used during the fermentation process, wards off other unwanted yeasts, and maintains consistency across a product line. But this also creates a lot of the funkier flavors that Jamaican rums are known for. Limings, the scum that forms on the surface of the molasses during the sugar extraction process, can also be added for additional pungency, as well as other things like cane juice, or molasses. Additionally, many Jamaican rum distillers blend spirits produced from a pot still, which typically produces more congeners and thus fuller flavors, with spirits from a column still to create a bolder rum. All of these factors work together to create bolder, more pungent flavors that are more challenging and eye-opening. But my goodness Jamaican rum is delicious.

But we haven't forgotten about molasses. If Jamaican rum is a challenging rum, molasses is a challenging sweetening agent, if you can even call it that. Dark, thick, and slightly bitter, molasses is the byproduct of the sugar making process and serves as the raw material in most rums. Molasses used to be the sweetener of choice in colonial times, or at least until refined sugar became readily available. Molasses does have its devout fans who drizzle it on such things as cornbread or pancakes. Not me though. Though I have added it in small doses to simple syrups to create a funkier, bolder flavor, the only way I like to eat molasses is in a cookie, where its earthy, rich flavors shine but its bitterness is thankfully suppressed. So with only a bit of hesitancy, I progressed to Mr. Baker's version of a very old drink, the Black Strap, which was exceedingly popular both as a warm and cold beverage in the United States at least as late as the eighteenth century.

Jamaican Black Strap (for two)

3 ounces Jamaican Rum
2 tbsp water
2 tsp molasses
1 dash Angostura Bitters

Shake ingredients with lots of cracked ice. Strain into an old-fashioned glass. Garnish with a pineapple spear.

Notes on Ingredients: I used the mighty Smith and Cross for the rum, and after an initial taste or three upped the amount of bitters to 3 dashes for two drinks.

The aroma was filled with the recognizable smell of Smith and Cross: strong, funky and full of promise. Of course the molasses was there as well, though I am still not sure if I was smelling the actual molasses or the Smith and Cross. Also, the pineapple spear, which was an utter garnish failure, awkward protuberance that it was, added a bit of undefinable fruitiness to the nose. The first sip was very molasses-y, though the hogo of the rum carried through at the end. You would think that there would be some sweetness in this drink, but it was dry and earthy, with a vague powdery texture that made each sip seem almost chewy. After I increased the bitters, the spices became more detectable on the swallow. The flavors of the molasses were also enhanced by the increase in bitters--the drink seemed sweeter, in that pleasing molasses cookie way, and the flavors in general seemed more balanced. Overall, not bad but not great.

If the Jamaican Black Strap is the darker side of a Jamaican rum drink, there is always a lighter side. The Jamaican Black Stripe is similar to the Jamaican Black Strap, except honey replaces the molasses. This drink is even less scary. Just looking at the recipe, I could imagine the bountiful aromatics of the funky rum mingling with the floral honey and fresh ground nutmeg. My only sense of hesitation was linked to the amount of honey. Considering how easily honey can overwhelm a drink, I think this was a valid hesitation. But, if anything can stand up to it, I would bet on that Smith and Cross, pot-stilled, funky and 100 proof. Not much pushes that rum around.

Jamaican Black Stripe (as interpreted)

1 1/2 ounces Jamaican rum
3/4 ounce honey syrup

Combine honey and rum with ice and shake. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with fresh ground nutmeg.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Smith and Cross rum and a 1:1 honey syrup, which is sweeter and more fragrant than the proportions in Baker's syrup.

Unsurprisingly, the aroma was dominated by the nutmeg. No complaints so far. The light smell of molasses was detectable as well from the Smith and Cross. When I first tasted this drink was, I noticed that it was a bit sweet. On the second go, I could detect the other flavors better. The Smith and Cross contributed its customary swagger, though it seemed less funky and more earthy. The floral notes of the honey were most apparent at end of each sip, but the rum was back with its molasses and funk just in time for the aftertaste. It was surprising just how well the flavors matched up. The drink on the whole was exceedingly smooth and creamy, and the sweetness dissipated as I made my way through it. I do think that in general the Jamaican Black Stripe was a bit sweet and I still wonder what a dash of bitters would do. Maybe orange bitters? All in all, it was a very pleasant sipper that would work well, ice cold in the summer heat.

A Rum Drink Just in Time for Spring: Bertita's Special

March--a trying month to be sure. As winter loses its grip, a great impatience flourishes inside me, a restlessness stemming from the wearisome months of dark sky and early night. Accompanying this is a longing for all things bright, shiny, and summer-related. All of this daydreaming is of course helplessly premature. In places that are pummeled with snow and brutally cold temperatures, I imagine this phase occurs in February, when burrowing under layers and inside houses exceeds most people's thresholds for being couped up, mentally as well as physically. Seattle's winter weather at worst functions by erosion--you don't quite feel the pressure of a constant barrage, but little by little it builds up. For me, rock bottom occurs in early March.

I often wonder if our cravings are linked to our view of the passing of seasons, or vice versa. First comes that curious urge for all things barrel-aged that accompanies winter. It is not an unknown phenomenon, colder temperatures and shorter days readily link up with winter warmers usually including whiskey in all its various incarnations. Personally, that usually means rye, though this year I did take a brief sojourn into blended scotch. But restless taste buds can only handle so much of the same. As the season waxed and waned and the temperatures strayed from their lows, giving us teasing glimpses of the Spring, I found myself craving gin in combination with various amari. But at some point it all reaches a head, and drinks that are dark and bitter aren't as satisfying as they once were. So here we are: the days are lengthening, the cherry blossoms are tinting the streets with brilliant dashes of pink, and winter jackets seem a bit too heavy and oppressive. It can mean only one thing: the time for rum, citrus, color and maybe a bit of silliness has arrived. Thus, I flipped the page to Bertita's Special at exactly the right time, when tropical flavors can ease the passing of the last days of dreariness.  

Bertita's Special comes from South of the Border, from the small city of Taxco located in the mountains of Mexico, where many artists and artisans from America took up residence during the early part of the twentieth century "for various reasons, & with varying success." Bertita's Bar, owned by Dona Bertha, has been more famously linked to the creation of another drink, the Margarita. At best, it is one vague claim among many. Bertita's Bar, as Charles Baker notes, is a "dingy, but mildly celebrated place" and he notes that this drink--I am sure it was not the only one--is "poured with a heavy hand," which, considering Baker's taste, is probably why it was included in his tome. I can't help but imagine Bertita's as a spectacular example of a dive bar, with the perfect mixture of local color and lack of polish that makes certain places an unpretentious joy to visit.

Bertita's Special Cocktail (as adapted)

3 ounces light rum
3/4 ounce lime juice
2 ounces orange juice
1 teaspoon grenadine

Shake ingredients briefly with ice. Strain into a chilled Collins glass packed full of crushed ice. Float 1 teaspoon Jamaican rum on top.

Note on Ingredients: I used Cruzan white rum, homemade grenadine, and Smith and Cross for the float. Appleton's Estate V/X makes a fine substitute where Smith and Cross is unavailable.

Baker's instructions called for shaking the ingredients with cracked ice, pouring the contents--ice and all--into a large champagne glass, and then adding the float of Jamaican rum. I decided to shake the ingredients briefly with cubed ice and serve it over fresh crushed ice. In fact, it was very enjoyable and didn't become incredibly watered down.The aroma was full of Jamaican rum, which make sense because it was sitting right there on top. The first taste was also filled with the unmistakable hogo stamp of the Smith and Cross. What a wonderful way to start! Once through the initial sip, however, the lime stepped in. This drink reminded me of a mellowed-out daiquiri--tart, brisk and dry with a good dose of rum. Perhaps it would be more accurate to liken this libation to a mellower version of the Bacardi cocktail, a simple daiquiri with grenadine in place of sugar. With only a teaspoon of grenadine, the orange juice tempered the strength of the lime. The grenadine did, however, provide a nice color as well as a light berry note that became more apparent as the drink warmed up.The rum thoroughly dominated the aftertaste. This cocktail was exceptionally refreshing and really fit with my March mood, but it would also be wonderful during the warmer months.