Taming Kummel: Angel's Tears and Army of Shadows

For years Kummel represented one of the larger gaps in my knowledge. On that day when I finally tasted it, I knew that I needed to learn more, but finding one proved difficult. Kummel in general is rare, and those that were available weren't all that impressive. Even here in Seattle, where the Kummel classics the Allies Cocktail and the Epicurean are pretty popular didn't help to solve this problem. Privatization helped the bars gain access to obscure products, while the consumer continues to struggle.

A strange ingredient, Kummel is simultaneously savory and sweet and usually features such complex flavors as anise and caraway. Not all kummels are the same, however. Gilka is more understated and caraway dominant, while the Combier kummel is bursting with cumin. Yes, I said cumin. But it is that cumin that makes it strange and challenging. Caraway and anise are not all that uncommon in the spirit world: Brennivin and all manner of aquavits contain some manner of both. But cumin is another story altogether.

The question quickly changed from where can I get it to how do I use it? Once I bought some, it just sat in my bar cabinet waiting to be opened. The months passed and nothing happened. But I have never let a bottle of booze get the best of me, so I started asking around. And I discovered there is nothing to fear. In some ways, it is best to think of it as yet another savory strongly flavored element that should be used with care, but used nonetheless.

Sweet Vermouth/Quinquina
It seems that sweet vermouth and other quinquinas are a good solution for the problems stronger flavors create. From celery bitters to absinthe, sweet vermouth and its cousins have continued to surprise me with their ability to tame the beasty ingredients. Here is just one example I came across:

Angel's Tears (recipe by Connor O'Brien)

2 ounces rum
1/2 ounce Byrrh
1 tsp Kummel
1 dash Angostura bitters

Stir ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Note on Ingrediets: Connor's recipe calls for Byrrh and El Dorado 15. I was out of Byrrh so I substituted Punt e Mes. I also used Combier Kummel.

Citrus
Ctirus has always been a perfect vehicle for strong flavors. With just one look at the daquiri, it becomes apparent. Add a dash of celery bitters--refreshing and delicious. Add a dash of absinthe, a delightful variation. Even a dash of savory kummel works just fine. Lime juice has the incredible power to mitigate other strong elements and even more than one at a time. Maybe it's because lime is just so tough to begin with. Ben Perri's Army of Shadows definitely shows how citrus can harness the more extreme side of Kummel and allow it to play nice with others.

Army of Shadows (recipe by Ben Perri)

1 1/2 ounces aquavit
1/2 ounce lime juice
1/2 ounce Kummel
1/4 ounce orgeat
1/4 ounce Islay scotch

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Note on Ingredients: I used Arbeg scotch, Small Hands Food orgeat, Linie aquavit and Krogstad aquavit, and Combier Kummel.

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.

Unexpected Nostalgia and the Kill Devil Cocktail

Some cocktails have the ability to take on a life outside the boundaries of the bar and become imbued with a time and place. It can happen at any time, and the cocktail becomes more of a signifier, a carrier of meaning. Perhaps it would seem more likely for a cocktail to represent a change in taste or an entrance into a new stage. The Vesper certainly always reminds me of my awakening to the lovely attributes of gin. The Pink Lady marked my first foray into the world of egg white drinks. And it was with the Improved Genever Cocktail that I first really understood and appreciated how absinthe can transform a cocktail. But when you spend as much time as I do thinking about cocktails, researching and reading, hell even imbibing cocktails, some of them stray into other territories.

I first ran into the Kill Devil Cocktail at Pegu Club in New York City three years ago. For summer, the city was unseasonably cool. The humidity was barely on my radar--a blessing since my years in the Pacific Northwest have lowered my tolerance. Five years had passed since I lived in Brooklyn, and I could feel how far I had moved away from that life. In the intervening years, I had changed coasts and moved three times before finally settling in Seattle. But some things never really go away. As I walked the streets on the edge of the East Village across to SoHo, I could feel the energy, could feel myself picking up the familiar pace as I wove through crowds and dodged traffic. I felt very much at home and yet not. So much had changed and yet so little. Of course, the pang of nostalgia was as present then as it is for me now while I write this. And while all of this self-awareness slipped away as I found myself staring at tiny blue flames that were flickering from a lime coin floating on the surface of my cocktail, I certainly knew at that moment that my taste buds were entering new territory.

The Kill Devil Cocktail is a strange concoction. It looks curious on paper--a drink that you aren't really sure will work in the glass, but that is too interesting to pass up. These cocktails are my weakness, and I have succumbed many times. The only surety is that the experience will be wholly new, regardless of whether you will ever want to relive it. This cocktail combines two ingredients not often seen together--rum agricole and green chartreuse. And while you may instantly think, there must be lime juice in there or something else to smooth out those big bold flavors, you would be wrong. This is not a Daiquiri or Last Word variation. While a bit of sweetener does help these two ingredients meld together better, it tends to stay out of the spotlight. When I first saw this cocktail on the menu, I was intrigued. When I tasted it, I was mesmerized. The flavors were intense and beyond anything I had ever tasted before. And as I sat there, taking in the complexity of each sip, it struck me how much I had changed. Even two years earlier I would have never been able to enjoy the Kill Devil. In fact, I probably never would have even considered ordering it.  

Kill Devil

2 ounces rhum agricole

3/4 ounce green chartreuse

1/4 ounce simple syrup

3 dashes Angostura bitters

Combine ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. The original garnish was a "coin" of lime peel with a small amount of Stroh rum set alight. I have seen this drink garnished differently elsewhere, but I leave mine ungarnished.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Rhum J.M and a 1:1 simple syrup.

Earlier this spring, I found myself back in the Big Apple. It seems I can't visit my family without tacking on a trip back to New York. Very few things in my life are the same as they were on that trip so long ago. But those same pangs of nostalgia were there, though weaker. As soon as I arrived back in Seattle, I found myself craving a Kill Devil. This drink has come to symbolize that strange feeling of belonging in a place and yet not--the push and pull of how we change over time--a feeling I experience most keenly when I visit the East Coast. No longer does the Kill Devil seem novel and overpowering. I now understand its refined simplicity, how the disparate ingredients have been tamed. But regardless, the Kill Devil serves to remind me of how things change in spite of what we choose to hold onto. It makes me remember how the things that define us at one point in time, never really go away, but are just markers on the path.

Anything You Can Do . . . : Gin and Rum in the Stork Club Cocktail

Recently I was brainstorming drinks for an informal dinner party, and the Stork Club Cocktail popped into my head. If you haven't tried it, the Stork Club is just about one of the easiest drinking panty droppers from the 1930s. I like to trot out this cocktail every now and again when I am looking for an uncomplicated, unpretentious start to a informal summer's eve. The combination of gin and orange juice give it away as a concoction created during the days of sub par gin and the uninspired ways to cover up the telltale flavor. Of course, it's very name points to its origins--the Stork Club was one of New York City's more famous speakeasies during Prohibition and was infamous for its rich and famous clientele for many years after. Refreshing, sweet and yet not so sweet, the Stork Club is an unassuming, uncomplicated sour, a lazy orange-laden Pegu Club. In the late days of spring, when the temperatures seem to first broach the seventies, and it's just warm enough to be noticeable, the Stork Club never fails to satisfy.

Stork Club Cocktail (from Lucius Beebe's Stork Club Cocktails (1946))

dash of lime juice (1/4 ounce)
juice of half orange (1 1/2 ounces)
dash of triple sec (1/4 ounce)
1 1/2 ounces gin
dash of angostura bitters (2 dashes)

Shake well and strain in chilled 4 ounce glass.

But this time was different. Almost as soon as I thought of the Stork Club, I was already transforming it into something else. Because the drink reads like an overly simple tiki drink--a blend of juices, bitters, and a liqueur on top of a versatile base--rum was just a natural impulse. But in general this cocktail is crying out for variations. The lime juice invigorates the orange juice. The bitters add necessary depth. Of course, the liqueur can easily be modified--orange juice with a hint of lime is incredibly forgiving. Whether apricot liqueur or grapefruit, peach liqueur or even something a bit more herbal like Strega, there is ample room for experimentation.

What struck me was how easy the substitution really was, both mentally and in terms of taste. It was quite a no-brainer. And while many cocktails allow for rum to stand in for gin to wonderful effect, the most notorious being the Bee's Knees (gin) and the Honeysuckle (light rum) or Honey Bee (Jamaican rum), I hadn't really paid that much attention before. Of course, an argument could be made based on drink families--a sour, whether it has gin, rum, or even whiskey, is still delicious. But whiskey does not work as a stand-in for gin in all citrus manifestations. The chemical reactions inherent to barrel-aging make sure of this. And while white spirits in general will usually work as a substitute in a pinch--some play better than others. White rum will generally work in any gin drink that includes citrus, and many that don't; white dog and tequila, each with its own funkier flavors, are harder to meld. The Stork Club is the perfect example of a citrus cocktail where both rum and gin work really well, and the substitution doesn't make the drink step too far out of its original packaging.

West 58th Street 

1 1/2 ounces white rum
1 ounce orange juice
1/4 ounce lime juice
1/4 ounce apricot liqueur
1 dash Angostura bitters

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Chairman's Reserve white rum, Bitter Truth Apricot liqueur and Angostura bitters.

The Martinez in Depth: Byron's Sweet Martinez

This past week, I have been pondering the changes my tastes have undergone over the last five years as I grew more interested in and moderately obsessed with the world and history of cocktails. Where once I couldn't stomach the "astringency" of gin, the floral nature of scotch, or even "menthol" flavors of tequila, in the intervening years, I have learned to love all three. I even successfully conquered my revulsion for all things anise. But these changes did not happen overnight. While perhaps the most important factor may have been having an open mind, certainly some cocktails or experiences played greater roles than others. The Vesper may have been the first gin-based cocktail that I actually enjoyed, that in and of itself could have been a fluke. After all, one singular experience does not alter one's taste from yuck to yum.

The gin drink that kept me coming back for more is the Martinez--that dusty old cocktail often included on menus today despite its checkered past. I wish I had some great moment of discovery, some memory where every detail resonated, but I cannot place either the circumstances or the location of my first sip. Two winters ago it was my go-to cocktail, and I could often be found starting the evening with a Martinez. It seemed like I drank one at every cocktail establishment I visited over the course of many months. Some were dryer, more modern representations. Others were richer, bearing the stamp of Carpano Antica in generous amounts. I have had every garnish available, from orange twists to olive ,or even nothing at all. I have had historically accurate renditions that harken back to Jerry Thomas's 1887 recipe, where the sweet vermouth carries the bulk of the volume. And I even consumed a Martinez that was "tossed"--where the ingredients are aerated as the bartender essentially pours the mixture back and forth from tin to tin blue-blazer style. When it comes to the proportions, choice of ingredients, or even method, the defining feature of any given Martinez depends almost entirely on the bartender's whim. It seems it has always been this way. But after considering all of these experiences, I had to conclude that my current love of gin is inextricably linked to my love of this drink.

History
Before vermouth really took off, almost every cocktail was directly related to the Old Fashioned--some form of spirit, sweetening agent, bitters, and ice. As this drink and the burgeoning cocktail market evolved, liqueurs and flavored syrups crept into the glass. This led to such creations as the Japanese Cocktail and the Fancy Brandy Cocktail. By the 1880s, absinthe had fomented its place as a key ingredient in the Sazerac, another Old Fashioned variation, and had even impacted the original cocktail recipe, as evidenced by its inclusion in the Improved Whiskey Cocktail, which first appeared in print in Jerry Thomas's 1887 reprint of the Bar-Tender's Guide. Other liqueurs, such as maraschino, that were widely used in punches were also making their way into the cocktail vernacular. All in all, the evolution of the cocktail seemed fairly straightforward.

Everything changed when Italian vermouth began making its way into the country. The popularity of vermouth-based cocktails is evidenced by their inclusion in O.H. Byron's Modern Bartender's Guide (1884), Jerry Thomas's 1887 edition of the Bar-Tender's Guide, and George Kappeler's Modern American Drinks (1895). Americans quickly became infatuated with the various ways this aromatized, fortified wine interacted with their favorite spirits. The world of cocktails would never be the same.

While the Martini and Manhattan became two of the most famous cocktails ever concocted, the Martinez's chances stalled as popular trends and industrial innovations shifted tastes away. Eventually history would only remember its recipe as a footnote in one of the Martini's various origin stories--that is, until cocktail historians and bartenders resurrected it. Though the exact details are lost to history, the Martinez's birth is undoubtedly linked with the experimentation that followed Italian vermouth's explosion in American markets.

Like its more famous cousins, the Martinez did not begin with a recognized recipe. Early vermouth-based cocktails were highly dependant on the whim of the bartender. In the late nineteenth century, even published recipes for a Manhattan allowed for differing ratios between the rye and sweet vermouth as well as the amount and type of bitters. Many authors even called for the inclusion of a sweetening agent, such as gum syrup or orange curacao. In these early days the Martinez's recipe was very obviously linked to the Manhattan. In fact often the two cocktails were identical except for the base spirit.

O.H. Byron and the Missing Maraschino
The Martinez first showed up in print in 1884 in O.H. Byron's Modern Bartender's Guide. Nestled up underneath the entry for the Manhattan, it is easy to overlook. While the Manhattan easily takes up half the page with its dry and sweet variations. The Martinez's recipe is succinct, involving only one sentence: "Same as Manhattan, only you substitute gin for whisky." Because early beverage guides were more heavily reliant on drink styles, such as a daisy or a smash, as opposed to individualized cocktail recipes, this cross-referencing was not uncommon. However, no other cocktail is dealt with in this manner. It is easy to understand how a Gin Crusta related to a Brandy Crusta. In those cases, too, the drinks would be practically identical down to the elaborate garnish, but all this started to change with vermouth-based cocktails. While the Martinez is simply a Gin Manhattan, the fact that it does have its own name and internal variances based on vermouth style sets it apart.

O.H. Byron's Martinez

2 dashes Curacoa [1/4 ounce]
2 dashes Angostura bitters
1/2 wine-glass gin [1 ounce]
1/2 wine-glass Italian vermouth [1 ounce]
Fine ice; stir well and strain into a cocktail glass
[garnish with an orange twist]

Notes on Ingredients: I used Ransom Old Tom Gin, Pierre Ferrand Dry Curacao, and Angostura Bitters. As I only had Dolin sweet vermouth on hand, I bumped up the flavor profile with Bonal in a 2:1 ratio.

Even though this recipe is the first one in print, if you walk into a craft cocktail bar today and order a Martinez, this is not what you will receive. In most circumstances you will receive something very similar. While both cocktails rely heavily on their large proportions of gin and sweet vermouth, one will include a splash of maraschino liqueur instead of the other's curacao. For whatever reason, the Martinez that has been revitalized is not the one from Byron's pages. History has, instead, taken a shining to Jerry Thomas's version.

Curacao had been used in cocktails for years before maraschino liqueur became a popular cocktail ingredient. While more than a handful of Byron's recipes call for maraschino liqueur, the Martinez isn't one of them. A curious side note is that two versions of the Fancy Brandy Cocktail are included, one containing curacao, the other maraschino. Perhaps it was just a question of time before maraschino was substituted for the curacao in a Martinez.

As written, the drink is incredibly tasty. While the wonderful interaction between the herbaceous gin and the maraschino's funky cherry and almond flavors are definitely missing, there is something so wonderfully simple about the addition of the orange notes.

Fall Cocktails: Pushing Past Brown, Bitter, and Stirred

As the first rains of the season created a staccato on my windows and the pavement outside, I knew that fall had officially arrived. Though I tried to keep my head buried in the proverbial sand, my taste buds were not so easily fooled. As the weather held off, my own denial seemed to intensify. But the glass never lies. As I bellied up to the bar, more often than not I heard myself utter those three words that seem to coincide with the change in season: brown, bitter and stirred. While I watched varied bartenders collect bottles of amari and bitters, I tried in vain to hold on to the last vestiges of summer. At long last the truth won out--summer had indeed fled and the dark days of pre-winter were here to stay.

For years whiskey defined brown, and thus fall. My entire drink repertoire revolved around Manhattans and anything even mildly related--Brooklyns, Boulevardiers, Rob Roys, even the venerable Seelbach. More recently, though, sweet vermouth and dark, earthy quinquinas usurped this role. Their rich, bold flavors shifted my intense focus from whiskey and allowed me to explore other spirits. Rum Manhattans, tequila negronis, and the Martinez followed. But cravings are not so easily understood. Last year, the flavor of the moment was apple brandy. Over the past month, I have explored even stranger flavor combinations. And while not all of them can be characterized as "brown," or even "bitter," they have all of course been "stirred." I am still me after all.

Tequila and Quinquina

This drink was not created specifically for me. I was sitting in front of the well on an average Wednesday or Thursday, watching Erik craft drinks at the Zig Zag. Though my drink was well-crafted and delicious, this other concoction, which had been made for an entirely different person, stole my attentions. With each new ingredient introduced into the mixing glass, my curiosity was piqued. Before long, I had pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted down my observations as best I could remember them. 

Unnamed Cocktail (inspired by Erik Hakkinen, Zig Zag)

1 3/4 ounces reposado tequila
3/4 ounce Bonal
1/3 ounce Benedictine
1 dash Peychaud's bitters
1/2 dropper Bittermens tiki bitters

Stir ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Note on Ingredients:  I used Milagro reposado tequila.

When (re-)creating this cocktail, there was one obvious obstacle--I had never even tasted it. I didn't even know the magic words that had inspired its creation. I started with the golden ratio: 1 1/2 ounces spirit, 3/4 ounces vermouth (or quinquina), 1/4 ounce liqueur, 1 dash bitters. After a bit of fine-tuning, the assorted ingredients finally came together. Though I am sure this cocktail only barely resembles Erik's original, the intersection of flavors is well worth exploring. I discovered this drink while battling a bit of palate ennui. But this cocktail, with its unexpected depth and challenging flavors--the unusual combination of tequila and Benedictine alongside the earthy Bonal certainly helped revive my interest.

Mescal and Chartreuse

I discovered this drink during Sambar's last summer. Customers lined the bar, filling every table both inside and on the patio, while others stood anywhere they could, awaiting one last tipple at one of Seattle's most celebrated cocktail bars. From my seat, I could see the drink tickets piling up--never were there less than ten. I know that I should have been happy with a cocktail from the menu. But a last hurrah is after all an occasion. So, hoping he would forgive me, I forged ahead, requesting a stirred mezcal cocktail. The result was a tipple that expertly combined three of my absolute favorite ingredients. While the flavors could be described as light, nothing is sacrificed in the way of flavor. Its adept combination of smoky and herbal flavors seems perfect for fall days when dark and bitter has become mildly repetitive.

Unnamed Drink (Jay Kuehner, Sambar)

1 1/2 ounces mezcal
3/4 ounce Cocchi Americano
1/2 ounce Green Chartreuse

Stir with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a grapefruit twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used del Maguey Minero mezcal.  

Notes on Preparation: I was sadly out of grapefruit and substituted Bittermens grapefruit bitters.

Bitter and Bitter

Inevitably, most of the cocktails I consume in the fall still contain some measure of bitterness. This fact, I am sure, surprises no one. In fact there are those who might claim that my tastes run toward the bitter in general. But given that most of the months in Seattle are dark, cold and primarily damp, it seems natural that high proof, full flavor spirits and amari tend to prevail. Then again, I can't imagine a season where I would turn down a cocktail that contains an amaro. Most often this bitter component comprises a fraction of the total ingredients, with the brown doing most of the heavy lifting. But this certainly isn't a rule. 

Unnamed Cocktail (Adam Fortuna, Bar Artusi)

1 1/2 ounces Santa Maria al Monte
3/4 ounce dry vermouth
3/4 ounce Cynar
1 dash aromatic bitters

Stir with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Notes in Ingredients: I used Vya Whisper Dry vermouth and Angostura bitters.

This cocktail is surprisingly smooth for a cocktail that combines two different digestive bitters in addition to Angostura. The Santa Maria, perhaps the most mellow of Fernet-style amari, is surely responsible. Surely, using either Luxardo Fernet, Fernet Branca, or even the elusive bitter monster, Fernet Magnoberta, would drastically change the results. With the orange notes of the Santa Maria mingling with the almost grassy artichoke flavors of the Cynar, this drink is perfect for the cold damp temperatures that run rampant in autumnal Seattle. Regardless of season, however, this cocktail gives new meaning to the idea of brown, bitter and stirred.

While most of the drinks I consumed this fall could easily fit into themes of years past, exceptions do exist. And yet I know that my tastes have to expanded exponentially since my recent enchantment with the Martinez. This year, however, my cravings have led me farther from my comfort zone. But what happens when the distinct patterns of the past no longer apply? Perhaps it is time for a new perspective. This fall I have been celebrating surprises found in unlikely places, whether an unexpectedly earthy tequila drink, a smoky, herbal exercise in restraint, or even a bitter bomb. After all, we can celebrate brown bitter and stirred all winter.

Untraditional Bitters Part Two: Smoky Vesper and Dunbar

Choosing between the different flavor profiles of bitters wasn't the only option available for early bartenders seeking to differentiate their own creations. The evolution of the Cocktail into the wide array of drink families and styles of today began with the addition of all sorts of untraditional ingredients that were used like bitters--in mere dashes. The Fancy Cocktail was one of the earliest, incorporated as it was into the first edition of Jerry Thomas's cocktail tome. It was simply an Old Fashioned served up with a dash of orange liqueur and a lemon twist. Then, as absinthe and other liqueurs became popular and easier to come by, the Improved Cocktail was created--an Old Fashioned served up with a dash of absinthe and maraschino liqueur. But for the most part, these drinks were all made in the same way--shaken or stirred with ice--with the newest ingredient just added to the mix. As far as availble techniques, bartenders did not have a vast amount of options. Sure, muddling happened, as well as layering. And there was the always popular pouring flaming hot liquid from two tankards method. But perhaps the most interesting innovation in technique was introduced in New Orleans with the adaptation of the Sazerac: the rinse.

You see, it's all about the rinse. Now, this technique didn't change the way drinks were made at the time, and it certainly have a resounding impact on the ways drinks were constructed over the years. The rinse was still used here and there--sometimes to good effect and sometimes to none at all. Steadily, it plodded along with the Cocktail, though it wasn't until much later that it would garner  attention as one of the important tools in the bartender's bag of tricks. But back in the beginning, the absinthe rinse was even not part of the original Sazerac. This was only added later, most likely when the popularity of absinthe began to soar in the late nineteenth century. The small amount is easily understood--even a quarter ounce of absinthe can overpower many ingredients. But why use a rinse? Why not just add the absinthe, as a dash, to the chilled mixture? Perhaps the easiest hypothesis is that the absinthe was an add-on--some bit of flair to finish things off. But just maybe those bartenders were using a rinse to incorporate the powerful anise aroma as an additional garnish. Unfortunately, the intentions of the nineteenth century bartender will always be a mystery.

Temperature plays a most important factor in the succesful use of a rinse. The ingredients in the mixing glass, for example the bitters, syrup and rye of the Sazerac, will be thoroughly chilled. If you pre-chill your glass, the absinthe rinse will only be partially chilled, otherwise it will be room temperature.  This absinthe will have a stronger aroma than the bitters-syrup-rye mixture. Along with chilling and diluting, the ice also constricts aroma. By combining a chilled mixture with a warmer rinse, the aroma of the rinse will be more pronounced on that intial sip, and perhaps even subsequent sips. If you use a glass that is slightly larger than the volume of the cocktail, the rinse will have an even more profound effect. The extra space, layered with the more aromatic rinse, makes it less likely that the rinse will be incorporated into the cocktail, meaning that the intense aroma will be stronger for longer. After a few sips, however, the two elements will mingle and the drink's flavors will approach equilibrium.

For years I took this small detail for granted with the Sazerac. I just always assumed it was a way to incorporate a strongly flavored ingredient without allowing it to take over the cocktail. I never really thought about the fact that just by adding a dash to the mixing glass would accomplish this all on its own. It was only recently that I began thinking about the mechanics of the rinse and how it is an integral part of using strongly flavored ingredients as bitters. The rinse has become one of the most popular ways of incorporating such untraditional bitters. It just makes sense that ingredients that have whopping flavors also have strong aromas. Whether a bartender is adding smoke, as in the Dunbar (Laphroaig rinse), herbaceousness as in the Man with No Name (green chartreuse rinse), bitter orange in New Orleans Is Drowning (from 2008, Campari rinse), dry almond-cherry notes in the Cuzco (kirsh rinse), or fruitiness in the entire class of Bell-Ringers (apricot brandy rinses), these cocktails were counting on a particular aroma to finish the cocktail, sort of like twisting a citrus peel over a finished cocktail. Not all of these drinks are new, but it seemed that as soon as I was actively looking for rinsed cocktails, everywhere I looked a glass was being drizzled with something.

Dunbar (recipe from cocktailvirgin.blogspot.com, created by California Gold of Drink in Boston)

1 3/4 oz scotch
1 oz amontillado sherry
1/4 oz Benedictine
1 dash aromatic bitters
1 dash orange bitters

Stir with ice and strain into a glass pre-rinsed with Laphroaig Scotch. Twist an orange peel over the top.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Famous Grouse, Lustau amontillado sherry, and Angostura orange and aromatic bitters. Instead of Laphroaig, I used Arbeg.   

Of all of the rinsed cocktails that I have tried though, the most successful in my mind is probably the simplest: the Smoky Vesper. It is exactly what it sounds like, a Vesper with a rinse of Islay scotch. Specificity isn't needed, though each scotch will bring its own qualities to the fore. When you dip your nose into the glass, the smell of the peat smoke mingles with the brightness of the lemon oils glistening on the surface. Of course the gin is there as well, and all of the herbal notes together create a kind of symphony. It isn't magical--it tastes like scotch added to a Vesper. But it is the interaction that, at least for me, pushes the boundaries and elevates the experience.

Smoky Vesper

1 1/2 ounces gin
1/2 ounce vodka
1/4 ounce Lillet

Stir ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Strain into a scotch-rinsed cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Martin Miller gin, Chopin vodka, Ardbeg, and Cocchi Americano in the place of Lillet.

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.

Cilantro Syrup Experiment: An Arrack Sour

I am a big fan of do-it-yourself cocktail projects. I find it incredibly relaxing to roll up my sleeves, throw on an apron, and break down fruits and vegetables. Maybe it's the physicality of actually working with my hands, maybe it's that I can escape into a totally different state of mind--I'm not sure it really matters. Regardless of why,  I savor those moments surrounded by sieves and sugars, funnels and high-proof spirits. I don't even mind the time investment of larger projects, the daily shaking and tasting. There's something about this type of creative process that is both soothing and stimulating

When it comes to the process though, I often find that no recipes exist for what I want to make. Occasionally I can find an adequate guide where only simple substitutions are necessary. Mostly I just figure it out on the fly, and try not to focus on the results. What else it there to do when you want to make a hops liqueur, cook up some apricot shrub, or even try your hand at a celery root infusion? The crazier the project seems, the more likely I am to try it. Without a detailed recipe, at the very least Ill gain some valuable experiential knowledge. The end result isn't always important, sometimes it is the journey that makes all the difference. '

Besides storage, which is a huge problem on its own, the largest issue I have with making nontraditional cocktail ingredients is what to do with them once they're finished. Something like apricot shrub, or any other shrub for that matter, is pretty easy, but other things can be more difficult.  I'm still not really sure what I was thinking with that celery root infusion. Usually miscellaneous syrups end up sitting in the refrigerator door, and countless infusion experiments have already overrun one closet and overflowed directly into boxes housed under my desk. Jars and bottles labeled with masking tape litter our house, half-forgotten and gathering dust.

Inspiration came most recently in the form of cilantro syrup. I had this great idea for a cocktail, or at least I had this great idea. In practice, not so much; the flavors just wouldn't come together. Eventually I figured out that it was a monumental fail, but I still had almost six ounces of syrup left. What now? I started easy--herbal cilantro with herbal gin in a refreshing silver fizz. Perfect, but that only used 3/4 ounce. I could always whip up a batch of cilantro lemonade, cilantro limeade, or even cilantro Italian soda. I wasn't finding too much inspiration there. But then I was talking about cilantro with Anna from twosheetsinthewind and she told me about her success pairing cilantro with Batavia Arrack. As luck would have it, I not only happen to love Batavia Arrack but I also own a bottle. What a glorious suggestion it turned out to be.

Arrack Sour

1 1/2 ounce Batavia Arrack

3/4 ounce lemon juice

3/4 ounce cilantro syrup

1 dash Angostura bitters

1/2 egg white

Dry shake ingredients. Add ice and shake again. Strain into a chilled sour glass or double old-fashioned. Garnish with a few drops of Angostura on the foam.

As I leaned in close to the Angostura-tinged foam, the aroma of the arrack and the cloves met me. I could also detect the scent of something vegetal, which I assumed was the cilantro. I was immediately impressed by how smooth the texture was. While this was in no way surprising--it does have an egg white in it after all--it was very pleasant. The peppery funky taste dominated the entire drink from the beginning to the end, though the lemon was just as strong. The egg white did soften it and smooth out the flavors in general, but the arrack was still a very strong presence. All the better for my palate--I love arrack. Initially, I was having trouble detecting the cilantro beyond the smell. The lemon and arrack were just too powerful. But as I drank more, and the drink warmed up, it became more pronounced. So much for thinking the cilantro syrup was too delicate. By the end, each sip started with more vegetal notes and then segued into the peppery spiciness of the arrack. The aftertaste was of course dominated by the arrack, but the sourness of the lemon lingered as well. This drink was extremely very refreshing and crisp, with the arrack providing a solid base for the other flavors. Anna was right--cilantro and the arrack do go very well together.

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.

White Dog vs. Vodka Part Two: The Bumpass Hound Showdown

In order to have a successful showdown, the cocktail choice was crucial. It needed to really accept white whiskey and highlights its unique flavors. The Albino Old-Fashioned was one option, but it seemed too easy. I also considered the White Manhattan, but it didn't really suit my mood at the time. The more I think about it, though, I am sure it would provide interesting results. Instead, I chose the Bumpass Hound.  To date, the Bumpass Hound is my favorite way to get white dog into a cocktail. This lighter version of the Toronto, one of my absolute favorites, really showcases one of the way that white whiskey can really excel in a cocktail. Even as the unaged whiskey plays a supporting role, it accents the aged rye well, lightens up the bolder elements, and still manages to bring its unique flavor to the mix.

Jim Romdall's recipe, which I found on Paul Clarke's blog cocktailchronicles.com, calls for an unaged primarily rye-based whiskey, specifically Wasmund's rye spirit. I, unfortunately, don't have any unaged primarily rye-based whiskey. Instead, I will be forging ahead with an unaged primarily wheat-based whiskey, Death's Door from Wisconsin. The different grain base compounded with the Death's Door's lower proof (Wasmund's is cask strength) will result in a very different Bumpass Hound that will lack heat and spice. But since I don't have a rye-based full-flavored vodka, I didn't think it would matter that much. This exercise is really just for the sake of my curiosity, not to prove some sort of scientific hypothesis. Besides sometimes you just have to make due with what you have.

Bumpass Hound (Jim Romdall, via cocktailchronicles.com)

2 ounces rye
1/2 ounce unaged whiskey
1/4 ounce Fernet Branca
1/4 ounce simple syrup
1 dash Angostura bitters

Stir in an ice-filled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with an orange twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Fernet Magnoberta, Pikesville rye and Death's Door white whiskey. Because I ran out of simple syrup (for shame!) I used Chinese five spice syrup, which added an interesting dimension.

On the nose, the orange oils completely dominated the aroma. The first sip was characterized by the spicy flavor of the rye, though the orange oils were present as well. The dry herbal/menthol notes of the Fernet in combination with the flavors of anise and Sichuan peppercorns from the syrup then usurped control. The bitters came through at the end of each sip and resonated through the aftertaste mingling with the menthol of the Fernet. As with the Toronto cocktail, a pleasant sweetness helped to keep the rough and tumble elements in order. The Bumpass Hound was not quite as deep and flavorful as a Toronto, though, and thus was a nice change of pace. 

Death's Door white whiskey is notoriously light and subtle, at least in comparison to the other white whiskeys I have tasted. Part of this is due to its heavy wheat grain bill, part of this comes from the distiller's vision . Unfortunately, this means that it becomes a bit lost in the Bumpass Hound. It is not initially detectable but stands out primarily because of the way it softens the other elements. It almost seems to dilute them without sacrificing any proof. As Paul Clarke noted in his post on the Bumpass Hound, a milder white whiskey doesn't make the same drink that the overproof rye spirit does. The milder white whiskey he references is a corn-based one, but it seems that a wheat-based white dog provides similar results. In retrospect, I wonder if I should have bumped up the amount of white whiskey to account for its non cask strength status. Another time perhaps. Its funny how this sort of exercise tends to raise more questions than it answers.

Vodka Bumpass Hound (a blasphemous adaptation!)

2 ounces rye
1/2 ounce vodka
1/4 ounce Fernet Branca
1/4 ounce simple syrup
1 dash Angostura bitters

Stir in an ice-filled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with an orange twist.


Notes on Ingredients: For comparison's sake I used all of the same ingredients, except for the very full-flavored vodka, Ebb & Flow.

Not surprisingly, this drink retained the same powerful aroma of orange oils. However, the scent of the malted barley spirit also made its presence known. It was apparent early on that the vodka had totally changed the makeup of this cocktail; both in terms of aroma and taste. It would not be covered up. The barley came through strongly on the first sip and provided a formidable match to the spicy notes of the rye. Perhaps this struck me because I tasted the vodka version second, and the white whiskey version was still very present in my taste memory.  Like the previous Bumpass Hound, this drink was exceptionally smooth but seemed a touch sweeter flavor as the vodka's vanilla notes carried through. The Fernet and various spices were strongest throughout, but like the white whiskey version, dominated the aftertaste. Even with the pronounced vodka flavors, this drink was quite pleasant and still balanced.

Ebb & Flow vodka is a 100 percent malted barley spirit that has a ton of flavor--especially when you compare it to other vodkas on the market. In a drink like the Bumpass Hound, even the other overwhelmingly bold flavors can't push it around. This is commendable for a vodka. Usually it is used as a supporting ingredient, even when it is the base. But then again this is no ordinary vodka. Regardless, I was pleasantly surprised by how well it stood up to the other flavors, like a force to be reckoned with.

Conclusions:
Perhaps it wasn't really fair to use the Bumpass Hound for this showdown. I should have at least guessed at my own bias. Unsurprisingly, I found both versions compelling and interesting, but in different ways. I am sure that the Fernet and rye had more to do with this than either the vodka or the white dog. The logical next step would include making more Bumpass Hounds using the same recipe but with a less assertive grain-based vodka and a bold-flavored white whiskey to really offer some other points of comparison. But we'll save that for another day.

Only the hard question remains: which version did I enjoy more. If I have to pick, I liked the Bumpass Hound aberration with vodka better. It surprised me at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The vodka version was balanced and had bigger flavor If the white whiskey version had wowed me with flavor, I am sure my conclusions would be different. Considering the fact that most white whiskeys are funkier in general, a bold vodka with very clean flavors wouldn't stand a chance. Well at least not with my palate. But as of today, vodka has won the Bumpass Hound Showdown.

Adventures with Creme de Menthe: the Barry Cocktail

Some flavor combinations are beyond my understanding. Most of the time, I try it anyway, because that is how we learn, and sometimes learning is surprisingly tasty. Charles Baker has inevitably, though grudgingly taught me this. I never would have guessed at how well the combination of caraway and brandy works, though that pairing is not Earth shattering. Or honey, scotch and cream--I am actually very glad I tried that one. Generally, I would not be considered the most adventurous person when it comes to what I put in my mouth. So when Charles Baker says that he is only including it "through clinical mixing interest," the physical sensations of panic start in my knees and reverberate slowly upward. If the other weird things I have tasted were included sincerely, where do I put the cocktail that even Charles Baker doesn't want to drink? This man drank everything, or at least tried it. Hell, he was a real adventurer, not just a flavor adventurer.

In my copy of Jigger Beaker and Glass, the recipe for the Barry Cocktail is broken over two pages. You actually have to flip the page to read the second half. So I was there--totally there--when Baker was describing a sweet martini with aromatic bitters. I thought his statement regarding clinical mixing interest was included because the recipe was comparatively mundane and simple. Sometimes those cocktails are the best, and his description had my mouth watering. Sweet vermouth happens to be one of my favorite ingredients. But, with Baker you should always reserve judgment, both for good and evil--there is always a "but" and usually it is huge. True enough, when I flipped the page, my hopes were dashed with three little words: creme de menthe.

I don't particularly like creme de menthe. Maybe it's because most brands are notoriously bad, or because the drinks that call for it are usually incredibly sweet. Or maybe it's because once you drink creme de menthe, your taste buds are done--at least for a while. Nothing tastes the same. Well, that sounds like three strikes to me. But I digress.

The major problem with the Barry wasn't the ingredients. Are they surprising? Yes. Not particularly appetizing? Sure. But considering some of the other Baker cocktails, after the initial shock, all it registered was a shrug. A few sips never hurt anyone, especially for the sake of knowledge. The real problem was that I don't own any creme de menthe, and I really have no need to. And considering that I don't really like it, don't cook in general (no grasshopper pie for me), and realistically have no room for it, this was a very real issue. So off I went to purchase a mini bottle--after all I only needed a half a teaspoon. Washington state liquor stores, however, don't stock minis of creme de menthe. Malibu rum, check. But no creme de menthe. I was doomed to buy a bottle. But then something wonderful happened. As I was sitting next to a friend at the Zig Zag, and complaining about this very conundrum, my friend looked up at me with a smile and said, "I have some creme de menthe. How much do you need?" It is a wonderful thing to have friends who love cocktails.

Barry Cocktail (as interpreted)

2 ounces gin
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura Bitters
1/2 tsp creme de menthe

Stir first three ingredients in a chilled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled coupe. Float (sink) creme de menthe. Twist a lemon peel over top and discard.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Plymouth gin, Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth, and Hiram Walker Green creme de menthe.

Baker does not supply any proportions for this drink: "It is exactly the same as a Martini, but using Italian vermouth instead of the dry French type." Martinis in 1926 were not constructed in the same way they are now. Vermouth was much more popular. I took a flying leap and decided to use a 2:1 martini recipe, which may or may not be too wet. Also, Baker didn't specify white creme de menthe or green, but beggars can't be choosers. I figured with such a small amount it wouldn't matter that much.

Because the creme de menthe sunk to the bottom, I had to practically drink the entire cocktail to really experience the range of flavors this drink provides. Getting there wasn't unenjoyable, either. But once I did sip my way into that waiting green pool--ew, and down the sink it went. Onto the specifics. The aroma of the lemon oils and the botanics of the gin greeted my nose. The juniper of the gin hinted with lemon dominated the first sip. Sweet vermouth was by far the most dominant ingredient. The juniper reappeared on the swallow, along with the heat of the alcohol. This libation reminded me of a London dry Martinez, of course missing the sweetness and funky notes of the maraschino. As I progressed, the taste of the mint started to creep into the flavor spectrum. This wasn't completely unpleasant, either. The mint played nicely off the herbals in a very delicate way, and even then mostly in the aftertaste. When I did reach the pool of green, the mint took over, much like a large dose of absinthe. The drink was completely unbalanced, which was a major flaw. But what killed this combination was the strong taste of mint, like gum or mints or even toothpaste, with the sweet vermouth chaser. Not good.
Barry Cocktail (as adapted)

2 ounces gin
1 ounce Punt e Mes
2 dashes Angostura bitters
5 drops mint bitters

Stir ingredients in a chilled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled coupe. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Plymouth gin and Punt e mes, because I ran out of the Martini & Rossi, and its what I like.

To update this drink I was hoping to highlight the flavors that I had found enjoyable in the original. At one point, I could have easily consumed the Barry Cocktail, if only its flavors had stayed consistent. I decided on a sweet Martini with additional mint bitters. But how much is too much? At first I tried 2 dashes but that tiny amount of mint easily undermined any balance. So I tried 5 drops. The nose was full of the lemon oils and the herbal wine smells of the Punt e Mes. The first sips accurately reflected up those aromas. The gin provided a certain dryness and even more herbal notes. The spice of the Angostura, as well as the mint flavors, came through at the end, with the mint providing a refreshing aftertaste. This drink was not just interesting, it was incredibly tasty. I would easily drink this again.

The one thing that this exploration of Baker's book has taught me so far is that you never know what combinations will work. Usually his initial recipes are a bit out there, but they always seem to open my eyes to some new flavor possibility. This drink made me nervous. But in the end, I discovered something about incorporating strong mint flavors, and I had a really enjoyable cocktail. Also, it made me even more thankful for my friends with stocked liquor cabinets.

A Vodka Experiment

I'm not usually interested in creating original drinks and will happily imbibe others' creations, whether they are old or new. But the truth is, vodka and I have hit a wall. I had every intention of giving the endeavor a fair shot. But after hours spent clicking my mouse down to the circuits, with the dry, bleary eyes of a video-game addict, I just can't take it anymore. I have searched the books in vain; the experts have no suitable answers, and I am tired . . . and thirsty. So, in the name of self-interest, I have decided to get up off the bar stool and brandish my own mixing glass. Just one pivotal question remains: How can I work vodka into a drink that is essentially brown, bitter and stirred?

Why lie? It has been the holy grail all along: a proper modestly dry, bitter cocktail that can really do what all the enthusiasts claim vodka can do. To boil it down, I want to fit vodka into my flavor sweet spot. All of my favorite libations are primarily dry, herbal, bitter and quite strong. Why should I expect anything less from vodka? Because it isn't usually used that way is not a good enough excuse. Because only a few people have dared to tackle this issue is not going to cut it. But why are there so few options, you ask, dear reader? Most people who drink cocktails that are primarily dry, bitter, herbal and quite strong are not only not interested in vodka, they absolutely abhor it. It's true, check the blogs. So, without a clear audience, the pattern of available recipes moves in a never ending cycle. Few drinks are made with vodka that are really interesting and challenging. Thus, nobody thinks a vodka-based cocktail is capable of being interesting and challenging. So, in turn, few drinks are made that are really interesting and challenging, ad nauseum. Someone has to begin.

Every cocktail enthusiast trying to salvage a place for vodka on the bar--albeit a very small place--repeats the same mantra: vodka is a blank slate that allows other bolder flavors to shine. It adds proof without getting in the way of whatever else is going on in the glass. These are not novel, bold ideas; vodka has been added to fruit juices for exactly the same reason for years. Herbal liqueurs have also been used to excellent effect in drinks like the Drink Without a Name (aka the Harrington) and the Gypsy. Vodka is performing the same way in all of these drinks. So why not use its famous attribute to create a drink even more out there, a drink that even I would be excited about drinking?

The hardest part is where to start. One of the most effective methods is to pick a classic and start substituting. Playing with a drink that is tried and true is much easier than formulating an entire cocktail from the ether. But which classic? It must be bold, bitter, and primarily stirred. The Don't Give Up the Ship Cocktail instantly came to mind and it seemed perfect considering its boldness and subtlety.  This wonderful little cocktail combines an amaro, a wine-based aperitif, and gin, with a little orange (both sweet and bitter) to round it all out. It starts out big, with the herbal flavors of gin and fernet, but then the orange and wine flavors of the Cointreau and Dubonnet peek out when you aren't paying attention. It seemed a good a place to start as any.

Don't Give Up the Ship

1 1/2 ounce gin
1/2 ounce Dubonnet
1/4 ounce Fernet Branca
1/4 ounce Cointreau
1 dash orange bitters

Stir ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

The most obvious first step was to swap out the gin for vodka. Since I had recently ran out of Dubonnet, I substituted Punt e Mes, another wine-based aperitif that like Dubonnet has more punch that regular sweet vermouths. Actually Punt e Mes is quite bitter, but it is my go-to vermouth these days. Considering that the botanics from the gin were absent and the vermouth's flavor was now amped up, I decided to also use a lighter amaro, the CioCiaro. Its mild sweetness and orange notes also worked as a replacement for the Cointreau, which would have made the drink too sweet. In hindsight, this substitution was probably unnecessary as I am sure the Fernet would have provided an interesting direction as well. After pausing to test this initial combination, it still seemed too sweet. I added a touch of Gran Classico and Angostura bitters to further dry it out. I am pretty pleased with the results.

Vodka Experiment
1 1/2 ounces vodka (Dry Fly)
3/4 ounce Punt e Mes
1/4 ounce Amaro CioCiaro
1 barspoon Gran Classico
2 dashes Angostura bitters
1 dash orange bitters (Regan)

Stir ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

So after almost a month of tinkering, this was what I came up with. The aroma was full of the bright lemon oils that glisten on the surface. The cocktail was very smooth and dry, herbal and bitter, with a touch of orange and spice. My kind of drink. Because the vodka is so subtle, this cocktail came across almost like an aperitif hiding inside a cocktail.

End note: About halfway through the creation process, I discovered Imbibe's cover contest. While it didn't exactly change my thought-process, I did start taking this cocktail a bit more seriously than I had at the beginning of this vodka experiment. I will be submitting this cocktail, since I think it would be perfect in so many ways for the cover. But we shall see if they agree.