Who Says Rum Drinks Must Be Sweet? Introducing Mr. Buddle

I like austere drinks. There I said it. I like drinks that are restrained, fine-tuned, almost delicate in their finesse. That doesn't mean that I like cocktails that are boring or plain--creativity with few ingredients is really important. Simple, elegant and yes austere. I like a cocktail that makes sense, but in a way I've never thought of before. It's like creating an outfit that looks effortless because it just hangs right. Is this hard to achieve? I hope so. I certainly have a hard enough time creating and finding this style of cocktail. But when I do finally stumble over one, oh how does it shine! Mr. Buddle is just one of those drinks--well though out, refined and indeed a beautiful intersection flavors that just make sense.

Mr. Buddle (recipe courtesy of Ricardo Hoffman, Zig Zag Cafe)

1 3/4 ounces Banks 5 rum*
3/4 ounce manzanilla sherry
1/2 ounce banana liqueur
1 dash orange bitters

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

Note on Ingredients: I used Banks 5 rum, Giffard banane du bresil, La Guita manzanilla sherry, and angostura orange bitters.

*If you do not have access to Banks 5, add a 1/4 ounce batavia arrack to a 1 1/4 ounces of flavorful light rum, such as the El Dorado 3 year.

There are a lot of things I could choose to talk about with Mr. Buddle. There is the intersection of rum and sherry, something that the bar world is still on the edge of exploring. I could write about the creative use of a new product, banana liqueur, which has recently caught fire in bars all over the country. I could write about the rum, which unlike other rums adds a bit of Batavia Arrack to the blend giving it a very unique flavor. All of these facts are interesting. But I felt attaching this drink to a larger movement would do it a disservice. So I will just say this, on an evening where there is a nice breeze in the air, a certain warmth so that a glass can't help but condense, mix yourself up one of these and experience a dry rum martini-style cocktail that would challenge the notion that all rum drinks are sweet.

What's with That Onion?, or the Curious Case of the Missing Bitters

I am a big martini fan. A big part of that is the gin--I do love gin. But I also love vermouth. When I was in France I would often have a glass of dry vermouth to accompany my meals in lieu of wine. So when you put those two ingredients together, it is not surprising that I am going to like it. A smidge of orange bitters and the zing of fresh lemon oils--it is a winning combination. But this simple drink has brought about so much controversy. What is the perfect martini? I don't really believe there is one--I like what I like, you like what you like. For posterity, I like my martinis really wet, or really old-fashioned depending on your definitions, with a gin to dry vermouth ratio of 3 to 1 or even 2 to 1 sometimes. I guess that some might consider this close to the original martini recipes, but to me it's more important that I enjoy it than its pedigree.

And while the martini is perhaps the fussiest of three-element cocktails, I never would have guessed that a gibson could also be controversial. I always just assumed that once you swap out the twist or olive for a cocktail onion, BAM! you had a gibson. I use the martini ratio I enjoy, and that is the end of the story. But this is not so.* The controversy comes from the unlikeliest place--the bitters. When some of the first "dry" gin cocktails were entering the cocktail vernacular in the late 1800s, almost all of them included orange bitters. The first recipe I could find for the gibson, published in Boothby's World's Drinks and How to Mix Them (1908), absolutely prohibits the inclusion of bitters. Nothing is mentioned about the garnish at all. In fact in some recipes coming out the 1910s, a citrus garnish is preferred. Thus, originally a gibson was not a martini differentiated by garnish but instead by the absence of bitters. In a way it makes more sense--change an ingredient, change the cocktail. Garnishes do not count. Food for thought--could it be that the modern extra dry martini should not be called a martini at all, but an extra dry gibson?

So to celebrate this fact, here is one of my preferred "martinis," complete with onion garnish, perfect for a warm summer evening. Hell, it works on a cool summer evening as well. When choosing cocktail onions for a garnish, make sure you find ones that are crisp; many have mushy texture that will not do work in a chilled cocktail.

Not a Gibson (Martini with an Onion)

2 ounces gin
1 ounce dry vermouth
1 dash orange bitters

Stir ingredients with ice and strain into an chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a cocktail onion or two.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Halcyon gin, Dolin dry vermouth, Angostura orange bitters, and Sable & Rosenfield's tipsy onions.

* A big thank you to Wendy Miller for inspiring me to research what differentiates a gibson from a martini.

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.

A Tale of Three Drinks Featuring Pineapple Syrup

Spring is a season you just can't count on here in the Pacific Northwest. Sure, you may get a week of eighty degree weather, but often it is chased by a dreary rainy patch where the temperature swings twenty degrees back into the low sixties. But even as I will summer to arrive by wearing lightweight coats that keep me shivering, I figure I have to make my own sunshine. While I have a friend who says that when he tastes a bit of rum, how can the sun not be out, I opt for a different tack. Pineapple. Not only is fresh pineapple simply a blissfully tasty snack, but a single pineapple can also create a syrup that can compel sunshine from the door of your refrigerator. The best part is that pineapple syrup is incredibly easy to make. All you need is a knife and a cup of simple syrup. Breaking down the pineapple is the only obstacle. But once you've got this delicious syrup, what do you do with it besides pour it generously over ice cream or pancakes?

A San Francisco Legend
Born in the late 1800s, pisco punch is one of the earliest, more famous uses for pineapple syrup. Duncan Nicol, proprietor of the Bank Exchange Saloon in San Francisco, saw his pisco punch gain notoriety far and wide. Travelers from all over the country heard tales of this potent concoction and then made their way in droves through his doors to get a taste. The drink centers on pisco, a spirit first introduced to the United States by South American sailors as they passed through San Francisco. Even today pisco is very popular in San Francisco. And while this lesser known spirit forms the base, it is the pineapple that makes this drink sing. For years, the recipe for pisco punch was a mystery. At the beginning of Prohibition, Nichols refused to disclose the recipe as he closed up shop forever. Thankfully, a discovery made in the 1970s brought the drink back. In truth, it is a very simple punch. Which begs the question, What made it so famous that its praises were sung coast to coast?  Rumor has it that cocaine is what really gave this drink its kick. Still others have posited that the secret ingredient was actually the syrup. Instead of pineapple macerated in simple syrup, the original recipe called for pineapple gomme syrup. The pineapple is steeped in a syrup with gum arabic in it, a common ingredient in the 1800s that fell out of popularity. The cocktail renaissance has, however, brought it back. Gomme syrup provides a drink with a velvety texture and a richness that are unique.

Pisco Punch

2 ounces pisco
1 ounce water
2/3 ounce (4 teaspoons) pineapple gum syrup
3/4 ounce lemon juice.

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a punch glass. Garnish with a syrup-soaked pineapple chunk.

Note on Ingredients: I used Piscologia pisco. I also used a 2:1 simple syrup for the base of my pineapple syrup in place of the pineapple gum syrup. The richness adds a similar but not exact texture to cocktails While it is not the same as gum syrup, it is easier to make at home.

Blast from the Past
Fixes are a product of a long forgotten era--when individualized pours were steadily overtaking the communal punch bowls of old. Long before the cocktail would become a catch-all phrase for any drink in a conical glass, drinks that followed a formula were popular--sours, fixes, daisies, fizzes, and Collins just to name a few. Collins and fizzes both preserved the soda water element. Sours became concentrated punches in short form. Daisies and fixes revolved around different choices for sweetener, though no clear pattern was ever established. While differences come and go between the daisy and the fix, the treatment of the ice creates the distinction--fixes are served over crushed ice, daisies, like sours, are not.

Though liqueurs and various other sweeteners were used in fixes, my favorite variation is still Harry Johnson's Brandy Fix. Pineapple syrup was a common choice among bartenders of the time, but it is the green chartreuse that really caught my attention. Green chartreuse and pineapple go extremely well together--the sweetness of the fruit works balances out the herbal intensity of the chartreuse. The Dean surely stumbled upon a great pairing there.

Brandy Fix (Harry Johnson, Bartender's Manual, 1900)

2 ounces brandy
1/2 ounce fresh lime juice
1/2 ounce pineapple syrup
dash of green Chartreuse (1/4 ounce)
1/4 ounce simple syrup

Shake with ice and strain into a wine glass or tumbler filled with crushed ice. Add a splash of seltzer, adorn with lots of fruit and go to it.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac, and a 1:1 simple syrup.

A Bittersweet Variation
 During the summer, Campari goes in everything and variations of variations of Negronis abound. I am also not ashamed to admit that I do very much enjoy the reddish pink hue that every Campari-laced cocktail takes on. The shade reminds me of perfect summer sunsets, of watching the sun steadily drift behind the Olympic mountains. Perhaps not surprisingly, Campari pairs quite well with pineapple. I first learned this on a Tiki Sunday while I was visiting Drink in Boston a couple of years ago. After asking for something unusual to follow a lovely champagne cocktail, I was presented with a Jungle Bird. This exotic tiki drink originated from the Avery Hotel in Kuala Lumpur in 1978 and it combines dark rum,lime juice, Campari and pineapple juice.

With a new batch of pineapple syrup in my fridge, I remembered the Jungle Bird and began looking for other drinks that match up pineapple and Campari. My search led me to the Argonaut, a drink created to celebrate Campari's 150th anniversary in 2010. The drink could easily be seen as a play on the pisco punch, where the interaction between the Campari and the pineapple take center stage. This is definitely a drink to witness the day as it transitions into night.

Argonaut (Marco Dionysos)

1 ounce Campari
1 ounce pisco
3/4 ounce pineapple syrup
1/2 ounce lemon juice
1/2 ounce orange juice
2 dashes orange bitters

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a highball glass filled with ice. Garnish with an orange twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Piscologia pisco, Angostura orange bitters, and Gran Classico and Aperol to approximate the Campari.

Using Homemade Ingredients: Apple Cider Syrup

As with any newly made syrup, the problem instantly becomes how do I use it? Fortunately since apples are so versatile, the potential applications seem endless--apple and citrus, apple and spice, apple and savory, apple and nutty. My only concern was that apples too often share the spotlight or simply act as the backdrop; they are hardly ever the star of the show. I was worried that somehow the syrups would not be robust enough and would get lost in the cocktail glass. In practice, this turned out to be a viable issue. While both syrups are quite robust on their own--the mulled apple cider syrup is especially delicious on oatmeal--in cocktails, the apple flavor was easily overwhelmed. But with some experimentation, I did have some rather surprising successes.

I have two "go-to" recipes when I am trying to figure out how to incorporate a new syrup into a cocktail: the old fashioned and the gimlet. Both allow the syrup's flavors to shine because there are fewer ingredients involved. Of course, the way that the syrup interacts with the specific flavor profile of a gin becomes the central issue. Because gin and apples in general work well together, I decided to start there. After discovering the relative delicacy of the syrup, I opted for a more traditional London dry gin. While an absinthe rinse is not usually included in a gimlet, it does add a nice element here that works indirectly to highlight the apple flavors.  

Apple-let

2 ounces gin
1/2 ounce apple cider syrup

Express the oils of a thick lime peel into the shaker. Combine  the peel with the other ingredients and shake with ice. Strain into a chilled absinthe-rinsed cocktail glass.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Whitley Neil gin and Pacifique absinthe.

The old fashioned seemed the perfect vehicle for the mulled apple cider syrup. The syrup's combination of fruit and spice propelled me toward barrel-aged spirits. Because of the many successful drinks pairing rye and apple brandy, rye was my first choice. But then again, I don't need an excuse to make a rye old fashioned. Unfortunately, this was not the best choice, as the apple flavors were easily overwhelmed. Though the drink was lovely, it could have just as easily been made with a cinnamon or clove syrup--not the ideal situation. I then tried brandy and a mellow rum and both were quite successful. At first the spices in the syrup came across strongest, but over time hints of apple started to peek out.

Variation on a Rum Old Fashioned

2 ounces rum
2 teaspoons mulled apple cider syrup
1 dash orange bitters

Combine syrup and bitters in a rocks glass. Add a large chunk of ice and pour in the rum. Stir to combine. Garnish with an orange peel. Optional: add an absinthe rinse to the glass before building the drink. 
 Notes on Ingredients: I used Plantation 5-year rum, Fee's barrel-aged orange bitters. I rinsed the glass with Pacifique absinthe.

As I started experimenting, I quickly discovered just how delicate my syrups were. For example, aquavit's more savory anise and caraway worked really well with the mulled syrup's warm cloves and cinnamon, but the apple completely disappeared. The apple cider syrup only acted as a sweetener. So I decided to utilize more delicate flavors. Gin softened with vermouth or sherry was much more successful. And a friend of mine recently discovered that the mulled apple cider syrup added a nice touch when used in a Manhattan. Adding vermouth or dry ingredients seemed to be the key to creating a successful cocktail.

Touch of Apple

1 1/2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce manzanilla sherry
1/2 ounce apple cider syrup
1/4 ounce Calisaya liqueur 
 Combine ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used No. 3 gin and Lustau dry manzanilla sherry.

The Brooklyn Cocktail: A Personal History

The Brooklyn was first mentioned in print in an obscure tome, J.A. Grohusko's Jack's Manual (1908). Though it was lost to history for over fifty years, its popularity has skyrocketed in recent years. It is yet another cocktail that has become a darling of the cocktail resurgence, embraced by craft bartenders and cocktail enthusiasts alike. But what an unlikely star. The combination of rye and dry vermouth is a hard sell for many, and even procuring a bottle of Amer Picon, or a suitable replacement, remains a challenge. Perhaps these details play a part in its popularity. Many formerly lost cocktails have resurfaced and are loved in part because of their polarizing flavors or hard to acquire ingredients. Regardless of the cultural weight of these details today, these two factors could have been what propelled such cocktails into obscurity in the first place. Despite all of this, the Brooklyn is my favorite cocktail.

I first came across the Brooklyn in the July/August 2007 issue of Imbibe magazine. The main article was centered on lost ingredients that were making a comeback in the bar world. Several do-it-yourself recipes were also included for the more ambitious. While allspice dram and creme de violette were mentioned alongside several others, it was the Amer Picon that drew me in. Looking back I am surprised that it wasn't the allspice dram that tempted my novice palate. At that point, I had never even tasted an amaro. But while the catalyst remains hidden, the Amer Replica, also known more commonly today as Amer Boudreau, was the first major cocktail ingredient I crafted at home, and with it came my introduction to the Brooklyn.

The hardest part about making homemade ingredients lies in replicating flavors that are sometimes slightly and sometimes completely out of reach. The Amer Picon used in that 1908 Brooklyn is not the same as the one available today. Sadly, the recipe was altered sometime in the 1940s and the resulting product is supposedly a shadow of its former self. Sure there are bottles of the old stuff out there--some hoarded, some just waiting to be found in the back of liquor stores in random corners of the world. But for most people, the original Amer Picon is unattainable. The current Amer Picon has not been imported into the United States for decades. In 2007, the closest substitute on the market, Torani Amer, was not available in Washington.

Of course I still remember my first Brooklyn. While I waited for the orange tincture to steep--the first step in making Amer Boudreau--I decided I needed more firsthand knowledge about this mysterious cocktail. Whenever I wanted to know more about an obscure classic cocktail, I would find myself at the Zig Zag sitting on a bar stool in front of Murray. He seemed to always know not only the recipe, but also some other tidbit of information that would propel me to uncover another drink. When I ordered a Brooklyn, he leaned in across the bar and asked me how old I was. I will admit I was surprised. But then he smiled and told me that only eighty-year-old men ordered that drink. While I am not sure how he solved the Amer Picon problem I do remember loving the resulting cocktail. And I have been drinking them ever since.

Brooklyn

2 ounces rye
3/4 ounce dry vermouth
1/4 ounce Amer Picon
1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur

In an ice-filled mixing glass, stir ingredients and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Optional: garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Maraska maraschino liqueur, Bulleit rye, and Vya's Whisper Dry vermouth.

Over the years, I have had many Brooklyn variations. Because of the nature of lost ingredients, it seems that everyone has a different solution to accommodate the absent Picon. (Don't even get me started on all of the recipes with different proportions!) I have seen amari blended--usually Rammazotti and Averna. Sometimes a bartender will use Amaro Ciociaro, which is widely recognized as a workable substitute. I have even had a Brooklyn with the current Amer Picon, which I returned from Paris with. And of course, I still have some of that homemade Amer Picon from all those years ago.

On a recent visit to San Francisco, I decided to order a Brooklyn at the Comstock Saloon. As soon as I tasted it, I knew that it was not the cocktail I had come to know and love. Though it did resemble most Brooklyns I had experienced, something was noticeably different. Almost immediately I knew it was the Amer component--after all, rye, dry vermouth and maraschino only differ so much among the various brands.What I didn't know was how lucky I was to have ordered that specific drink at that specific location. Finding a bar that was attempting to replicate the original Amer Picon was a wonderful surprise. With access to a bottle of the original Amer Picon, they decided that the combination of amontillado sherry, Bonal quinquina, and orange bitters best matched those long-sought after flavors. I can certainly understand the Bonal and bitters. Torani Amer, Ciociaro, and Ramazzotti (the base of Amer Boudreau) all have a strong orange flavor. It was the sherry that gave me pause. Jeff Hollinger explained to me that the savory, nuttiness of the sherry was the answer to the flavors of oxidation that they detected in the original. This was a curious detail about Amer Picon that I had never heard before. And while the resulting cocktail was tasty, the entire experience was still curious.

Brooklyn (as inspired by Comstock Saloon version)

2 ounces rye
3/4 ounce dry vermouth
1/2 ounce Amer mixture*
1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur

Combine ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.  

Notes on Ingredients: I used Bulleit rye, Whisper Dry vermouth and Maraska maraschino. 

Amer mixture (as inspired by Comstock Saloon version)
3 ounces Bonal
1.5 ounces dry amontillado sherry
3 dashes Angostura orange bitters

Note on Amer mixture: At the time, I failed to ask for the proportions used at Comstock and sought to replicate the flavor from memory. I hope that I was close, but I had the Brooklyn at the beginning of a long day.

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.

Bittering Up the Classics: The Palmetto

Lately I have been all but obsessed with bittering up classic cocktail recipes. Though this may just be a consequence of having recently acquired a bunch of amari and quinquinas, almost all of my cocktail experiments have included something bitter. Recently, the Palmetto Cocktail in general has garnered a lot of attention in this respect. Simply a rum Manhattan, its recipe is relatively easy to manipulate in a variety of directions. Besides, the intersection of rum and either an amaro or fortified wine almost always yields interesting, tasty results.  

Recently, I found myself craving a brown, bitter stirred cocktail. My thoughts instantly went to the Palmetto. Mind you, I wasn't looking for some extensive experiment, just a simple tasty three-ingredient cocktail. But when I opened the refrigerator, I discovered that I had run out of sweet vermouth. I was even out of Punt e Mes. This was unsettling on many levels. As I cautiously eyed the dry vermouth, I noticed inspiration hiding behind the sherry: half a bottle of Bonal. Eureka!

Though it is relatively new to the United States, Bonal has been around since 1885. Quinquinas like Bonal are very similar to vermouth in that they are aromatized, fortified wines, usually based on white wine or mistelle--non-fermented or partially fermented grape juice with alcohol added. What makes them different is what is then added. A variety of herbs are used in both to create the unique flavor, but generally quinquinas have a significant amount of cinchona bark. Vermouths don't usually include this ingredient, and if they do, in much smaller quantities. Vermouths, on the other hand, were known for their inclusion of wormwood--"wermut" is the German word for wormwood. This distinction has become less important over the years, though some vermouths do still utilize scant amounts of wormwood in their recipes.

Because vermouth and quinquinas are relatively similar in many ways, they can be substituted for each other in many recipes. However, the increased bitterness of a quina may require slight changes in the proportions in order to achieve the proper balance. Bonal in particular has a wonderful earthy, slightly bitter flavor. Because of this, I tend to pair it with rum, though not exclusively. I find that its earth depth plays especially well  with rum's light, slightly sweet taste.

Bitter Orange

1 1/2 ounces rum
1 1/2 ounces Bonal
1/4 Cocchi Americano
1 dash aromatic bitters
1 dash orange bitters

Combine ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with an orange twist, or not, as desired.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Bacardi 8, Bitter Truth Jerry Thomas Decanter bitters, and Angostura Orange bitters.

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.

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.

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.

Tequila, Sherry, and Origin Stories

The world of cocktails is full of origin stories. The older and more well known a drink is, the more fascination surrounds its beginnings. Unfortunately, the details surrounding a beverage's journey from inspired idea to regional or even national prominence are usually hidden in the folds of inebriation. In the absence of fact, speculation abounds. Did the Martini originate in Martinez, California? Was the Manhattan created at the Manhattan Club in New York City for a banquet hosted by Winston Churchill's mother? Tall tales and outright mistruths are more common than actual facts. Usually nothing can illuminate the mysteries of a cocktail's birth. Luckily, those life-altering moments when you are wobbling on the cusp of change tend to stand out and are that much easier to recall, even if an event's importance is only acknowledged in retrospect. As time passes, those memories become embedded into our identity, like squares of fabric into a quilt--prominently displayed and openly cherished. I thought it was high time to share my own origin story, or at least as it pertains to classic cocktails.

Tracy and I were living in a one-story fourplex on a dead-end street in Portland, OR. As a freelance editor, I spent a lot of time in that house. At that time, cocktails were barely on my radar. While I did enjoy the occasional Manhattan or dram of bourbon, beer was my beverage of choice. But I had always been interested in mixing drinks, and when the occasion arose, I usually wielded the shaker. So when my twenty-seventh birthday rolled around, I was sort of a blank slate just waiting for the right decoration. Anything could have happened. In retrospect, it seems obvious that the next big thing was just around the corner, though I never would have guessed it. But while I was busy tearing wrapping paper, many spheres of influence were converging.

Awaiting its turn alongside a new set of bar tools, consequently, was the Art of the Bar. It's funny, but not entirely surprising, that it all started with a book. Little did I know that this particular cocktail book would not only drastically alter my drinking habits, but also the entire landscape of my life. To this day I remember flipping through its glossy pages lined with beautiful cocktails, both new and old. Now it was probably the stylistic design  that spoke loudest to me, all of those gorgeous garnishes dangling off the edges of beautiful stemware. I have always had an eye for great stems. But the effect of that book were instantaneous. I told Tracy right then and there that I was going to make each and every one of them. Though the years have passed and I still love looking through its pages, I never did make it to every cocktail. As my interest in cocktails grew, both newly released cocktail books and vintage bar books stole my attentions. Though I hate to admit it, more often than not, it sits on a book shelf waiting for me to get the urge to flip through its pages again.

Recently, while searching for cocktails with both sherry and tequila, the Internet led me to the Choke Artist. Though the name sounded vaguely familiar, my interest was piqued as the drink brought Cynar into the mix with the tequila and sherry that held my interest. I quickly discovered where I had run into this libation before: the Choke Artist is the creation of Jeffrey Hollinger and Rob Schwartz and is included in the Art of the Bar. It was one of the ones that had I had missed all those years ago. But then again, it wouldn't have even been on my radar back then. I hadn't yet acquired a taste for tequila and it would still have been a couple of years before I truly discovered sherry. I am sure I didn't even know what Cynar was. All that has changed of course. This drink is definitely one to try.

Choke Artist (as adapted)

1 1/2 ounces anejo tequila
1 ounce Cynar
3/4 ounce manzanilla sherry
2 dashes Regan's orange bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Don Julio anejo tequila, and Barbadillo manzanilla sherry.

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.

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.

So Much Absinthe: Firpo's Balloon

What is it about a full jigger of absinthe that so intrigued Charles Baker? While tastes have changed since the late 1930s, especially those regarding sweetness, Mr. Baker's fascination with all things involving heaping amounts of absinthe befuddles me. As someone who used recently learned to enjoy all things licorice-flavored, I can completely appreciate the beauty that hints of anise bring to so many classic cocktails, such as the Morning Glory, the Sazerac, or any Improved Cocktail. I can even understand the joys of a  Suissesse, Absinthe cocktail, Absinthe frappe, or any other cocktail that is wholly centered on the unique flavor profile of absinthe. But what I can't grasp is why anyone would make a cocktail with all these other substantial ingredients and then add so much absinthe to it that nothing else could be tasted. If you want an absinthe-based drink, have an absinthe drip.

Firpo's Balloon is one of Baker's more notorious drinks in this respect. Baker collected many extremely tasty libations like the Remember the Maine, the Jimmie Roosevelt, and the Hotel Nacional Special, which have turned many cocktail enthusiasts into hard-core Baker aficionados. But it is usually the Balloon, or one of the other drinks like it, that marks the time where the fascination begins to wane. Firpo's Balloon is one of those cocktails that creates skepticism, if not outright contempt. You don't even have to drink it to know something is wrong. The recipe provides all you need to know; we attempted it anyway.

Firpo's Balloon Cocktail (mildly adapted)

1 jigger rye (1 ounce)

 1 jigger sweet vermouth (1 ounce)
1 jigger absinthe (1/2 ounce)
2 dashes orange bitters
1 1/2 teaspoons egg white


Dry shake ingredients. Add ice to shaker and shake again. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Pray.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pikesville rye, Martini & rossi vermouth, and Angostura orange bitters.

The original recipe calls for an entire jigger of absinthe. I just couldn't do it. The point was made just as thoroughly with half the amount. This cocktail smelled and tasted heavily of absinthe. None of the other ingredients could puncture this hard steel casing of absinthe. I wasn't surprised. But sometimes a drink can provide a cocktail geek like me with something beyond the mere exploration of flavors. It's hard to admit, but I have actually been looking forward to this drink for quite some time. For the nature of experimentation, I assure you. Before Firpo's Balloon, I had never tasted, or for that matter ever heard of, a cocktail that included egg white, and that did not also include some form of citrus. Egg white cocktails almost always call for some form of lemon or lime juice because the acids help stabilize that beautiful characteristic foam. I was very curious to see what happened when egg white was called for in a cocktail consisted entirely of, well, alcohol. Result: given the small amount of egg white, only a very little foam appeared. In contrast to most egg white drinks, the Balloon's texture was not velvety--in fact, it was quite grainy. And thus, our ultimate conclusions were: it tasted one-dimensional and the mouth feel made it undrinkable. Alas, a sink donation.

When I first really looked at the ingredients in an effort to salvage the Balloon, I felt very optimistic. Vermouth, rye and bitters--hello Manhattan variation. By significantly decreasing the absinthe, this drink is absolutely wonderful. In fact it could be considered a close relative of William Schmidt's Manhattan recipe in The Flowing Bowl. The differences are small but significant, my variation of Baker's Balloon will include some amount of egg white, and Schmidt uses gum syrup and maraschino. This similarity aside, a Manhattan with absinthe sounded fabulous to me. The question became--how much egg white do I use? I decided to see what would happen if I used the same amount of egg white that I would use in a whiskey sour.

Firpo's Balloon Cocktail (as adapted, trial #1)

2 ounces rye
1 ounce sweet vermouth
3 dashes absinthe
2 dashes orange bitters
1/2 egg white

Dry shake ingredients. Add ice and shake again . Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

The drink looked gorgeous, almost like coffee ice cream with a big layer of foam. The aroma smelled of anise mingling with the rich herbal notes of the vermouth. Each sip started with the flavors of the absinthe and vermouth, again herbal and rich. The flavor of the rye created the perfect foundation and rounded out the flavors. The orange hints and dryness of the bitters came through at the end before the vermouth and the absinthe mellowed into the aftertaste. The texture was the real star--a creamy, velvety Manhattan with a touch of anise. Unfortunately, it was too good to last. About halfway through, I noticed particles sinking to the bottom of the glass. As it turned out, with all of that booze, the egg white just wouldn't stay together. Back to the drawing board.

Firpo's Balloon Cocktail (as adapted, trial #2)

2 ounces rye
1 ounce sweet vermouth
3 dashes absinthe
2 dashes angostura bitters
2 teaspoons egg white

Dry shake ingredients. Add ice and shake again. Strain into chilled cocktail glass.

I didn't change anything except for the amount of egg white and the bitters. I went back to the original amount for the egg white and found that such a small amount is exactly what this cocktail needs. While it wasn't as pretty as the last--the color was not as rich and no real foam appeared--it did not separate. The smell and taste were very similar to that above. I did replace the orange bitters with aromatic on the fly, which was a welcome addition. The spiciness came through on the aftertaste and really brought the idea of the Manhattan to the forefront. The texture was still creamy and smooth, though less so, as expected. All in all, a worthwhile experiment, with a very tasty cocktail at experiment's end. Now I feel like Mr. Baker's words will work: "This is another one to watch cannily lest our pedal extremities fold up at some totally inappropriate moment." Indeed!

A Vodka Old Fashioned?

It's difficult to find a vodka-based drink that I can get excited about. In general, this has been one of the reasons why I find it hard to get excited about vodka. Too many recipes call for vodka, citrus, and syrup, at their most simplistic, or vodka, muddled fruit, citrus, and a some crazy flavored syrup, at the other extreme. As a good friend of mine recently said, "Who wants to drink boozy lemonade." Nutshell moment, anyone? Indeed, who does want to drink boozy lemonade? Granted, sometimes I do--hello, whiskey sour. But that isn't the point. Why is there nothing else? At the end of the day, whether it's fresh peaches or kumquats, muddled basil or cilantro, or even chinese five-spice or lavender syrup, once you add the vodka, it's still just a variation of boozy lemonade.

It's true that some people just want the buzz. Good for them. And drinking a really great non-alcoholic beverage with herbs, spice and fruits, and even sometimes vinegar, can be a mind-blowing experience. But why is that all there is? Sure, there is a time and a place for everything, but sometimes the easy answer isn't the best answer. And it sure as hell shouldn't be the only answer. Where are the spirit-forward vodka drinks? There must be room for the challenging vodka drinks, for the kind of drink that makes you sit up and pay attention to what's going on in your mouth, that make you say "Wow. Really?" What about a drink with citrus, syrup, and vodka is going to do that?  Vodka does not stand in the way of flavor; that is its best and worst feature. But there are so many interesting flavors out there--using a blank canvas for lemonade seems like a waste.

So in spite of my rant, the search continues. Trying to find a complex, flavor-filled vodka-based drink can lead to bitterness and resentment, headaches and frustration. But then you stumble across something so unlikely, so interesting that your hope is renewed and you almost forget about the conundrum of boozy lemonade. Well, almost.

Delancey (from Killer Cocktails) 

2 ounces vodka (Dry Fly)
1/2 teaspoon simple syrup
1 dash Peychaud's bitters
1 dash orange bitters (Angostura)

Combine the syrup and bitters in a chilled old fashioned glass. Add a large ice cube and vodka and give it a quick stir to incorporate. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I chose to use the Dry Fly as it has more flavor than most vodkas, but any vodka with flavor will do.

The Peychaud's bitters made this drink an almost neon pink, though I am sure the photo doesn't do it justice. Perhaps this fact alone would chase away many. The brightness of the lemon oils, the honey notes from the vodka and the smell of anise from the Peychaud's all contributed to the aroma. The first sip was extremely creamy and heavy with vanilla, characteristic of the Dry Fly. The bitters rounded out the flavors, with the orange standing out most on the swallow. As someone who is usually skeptical of vodka drinks, this drink was light and surprisingly refreshing. As the drink warmed up, the flavors of the lemon peel and the cherry notes of the Peychaud's became more apparent throughout.

Very few drinks allow vodka to be the star, where its subleties and nuances are showcased. There should be more. This vodka old fashioned hinges on the fact that a drink doesn't have to hit you over the head with flavor to command attention. Sometimes complexity and interest are not dependent on boldness and strength. Instead, the inherent qualities of the spirit are highlighted, just like in any other spirit-forward cocktail.