Rediscovering the Classics: Welcoming Back Overproof Cognac

Cognac was once the workhorse spirit reached for more often than any other spirit. By the late 1800s with the phylloxera epidemic threatening to devastate the entire European grape industry, cognacs were still flowing into all sorts of concoctions in America. And with good reason--cognac is tasty. But as the blight continued, something had to change. For the wine industry that meant grafting American root stock onto European vines to curb the pests' steady appetite. The cognac industry made changes as well. For instance, the folle blanche grape, long the mainstay of cognac distillers, was passed over in favor of the more resilient ugni blanc grape. Even considering the changes and innovations cognac houses made, cognac's reign in the world of cocktails persevered. Even as many spirits fell out of popularity during Prohibition, cognac maintained a steady role as such classics as the Sidecar, French 75 both gained their popularity during those dark days. And if the resilience of the Stinger, which made it through unscathed, attests to anything, it is that cognac still carried weight in bartenders' hands.

When Americans emerged from the bleak days of the failed Noble Experiment, cognac, like many spirits, was forced to change again. New drinkers emerged, but their thirst was not for the more rough and tumble spirits that flowed during the golden era of cocktail. Their palates, fueled by years of sweeter drinks that required cream and other heavy-handed mixers to overpower the under-quality spirits, craved more mellow flavors, sometimes even invisible spirits. Thus, Canadian whiskey, bourbon, and vodka grew in popularity. With innovations in the areas of distillation, barrel-aging and blending, cognac producers were able to keep their spirit on pace with demand. Regardless of whether the industry changed to adapt to the market or whether it was just a happy accident, the resulting cognacs were smooth, drinkable and utterly complex. These changes would help define the cognac market for years.

No matter how revelatory a fine cognac's qualities may be in a snifter, the master blender's artistry can easily be lost in a mixed drink. While the hints of oak and vanilla can create a wonderful foundation, the other flavors in a cocktail often take center stage instead interacting with and enhancing the base spirit. While historically cognac has been used in conjunction with other stronger flavors--such as in the vieux carre where the rye is tempered by the milder cognac--cognac was never simply a pushover spirit. Like the whiskeys and rums of the early twentieth century, early cognacs were built for more, whether by choice or accident. And while this may have turned off certain tastes, those cognacs were able to carry a cocktail and not be pushed around. And even before the age of cocktails, brandies held up the punches of the world.

With the popularity of truly classic cocktails rising, the booze market has been steadily introducing products to allow those historic drinks to be re-created. And while those early spirits were rougher for many reasons, not all of them on purpose, they also were sold at higher proofs. This allowed the spirit to shine when mixed, and perhaps required that they be mixed. But as new products meant to replicate obscure ingredients emerge, we have also seen the the re-introduction of higher proof spirits with bolder flavors. Quality overproof cognacs give us a glimpse into what those classic cocktails may have tasted like and it becomes quite apparent why cognac was reached for so often.

Champagne Julep
Juleps were one of the first mixed drinks consumed widely across the United States. A simple mixture of spirit, mint, sugar and ice--nothing is more refreshing, especially in the heat of summer. Today, the julep has become linked to the Kentucky Derby, and it has become famous for its reliance on bourbon. This was not always the case. In the days before whiskey found a steady audience, a julep meant cognac. And just as an overproof bourbon works best in a julep--primarily because it won't be as affected by prolonged dilution--an overproof cognac also is a clear choice. Adding champagne to this already decadent beverage is quite extravagant, and incredibly delightful. Dangerous, yes, but delightful nonetheless.

Champagne Julep (adapted from Paul Clarke's recipe at cocktailchronicles.com) 

2 ounce cognac
7 mint leaves
2 teaspoons simple syrup
1 ounces champagne

Muddle lightly mint leaves in syrup. Retain one for garnish. Add cognac and then crushed ice. Top with champagne. Garnish with mint sprig.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac, Chateau St. Michelle sparkling wine, and a 1:1 simple syrup. 

Prescription Sazerac
The original Sazerac was so named because of the cognac used to make it: Sazerac-du-Forge et fils. I have tried many Sazeracs with cognac and they are quite lovely. But with an overproof cognac, they are a revelation. Still, though it is not a true historical representation, using a mixture of cognac and rye creates a marvelous drink that has been a mainstay of my cocktail rotation. Much as the way that the cognac and rye play off each other in a Vieux Carre, the same is true in other incarnations. The rye dries out the more sweet cognac. The cognac balances the spicy rye. If you are using both an overproof rye and an overproof cognac, beware--this drink is hefty. But if your palate can handle the heat, it is worth it. Of course, give it a couple extra turns with the ice to make it balanced. Just because a recipe calls for an overproof spirit does not mean overall balance should be sacrificed. These overproof spirits are intended to be diluted in mixed drinks. The wonder comes from the way that they can retain their flavor in the face of other ingredients as well as the weight of water.

Prescription Sazerac

1 ounce rye
1 ounce cognac
3 dashes Peychaud's bitters
1/2 ounce simple syrup
3 dashes (or so) Herbsaint

Combine ingredients except Herbsaint in a mixing glass half-filled with ice. Stir and strain into a chilled old fashioned glass rinsed with Herbsaint. Express lemon oils and discard peel.  

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac, High West rye, Herbsaint Legendre, and a 1:1 simple syrup. 

Pink Sidecar
While the Sidecar was created sometime in the 1920s, it grew to popularity during the dark days of Prohibition. While certainly a lovely drink, the Sidecar grew into a quick slurp on the road to drunkenness. Even when a sub-quality cognac is used the lemon juice and orange liqueur easily mask it--and that is not counting that pesky sugar rim that would be added to the recipe in the 1930s. It would be easy to discount this cocktail as yet another get-drunk-quick drink, but there is more behind its pedigree than meets the eye. Many stories point to the Continent as the locale of origin, making the cocktail not one put together in the murky dens of ill-repute that proliferated in American speakeasies. Classy drinks could still  be found abroad where many American barmen emerged with the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment. But regardless of these creation myths, the Sidecar was always a drink I wanted to love. It was after all my first classic cocktail. And with such notorious cocktail luminaries as David Embury elevating the drink as one of the most basic drinks that every host should know, I always felt like I had missed something. Of course even he says that the Sidecar "is the most perfect example I know of a magnificent drink gone wrong." Embury takes the path most appropriate for one who only has access to standard proof cognac--he bumps up the booze and dries it out as much as possible and omits the sugar rim (8 parts cognac, 2 parts lemon juice, 1 part Cointreau). Once I tried the standard recipe with overproof cognac, I was floored and understood why this cocktail has been around for almost 100 years. This revelatory experience pushed me to experiment further, and I found that other liquors also created amazing results.

Pink Sidecar


2 ounces cognac
1 ounce pamplemousse rose
3/4 ounce lemon juice

Combine ingredients in a ice-filled shaker. Shake and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. 

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac and Combier pamplemousse rose. 

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.

Bittering Up the Classics: The Japanese Cocktail

The Japanese cocktail was one of the first cocktails ever made. One of a handful of cocktail recipes published in Jerry Thomas's seminal cocktail guide, The Bar-Tender's Guide (1862), the Japanese is a wonderful drink that too often gets forgotten. Sure, most cocktail bloggers know it, as well as craft bartenders, but how often do you see someone actually order one. Perhaps the sole reason for this is that the Japanese cocktail is a bit sweeter than many contemporary cocktails. Notoriously in the nineteenth century, drinkers had more of a sweet tooth than drinkers today. And considering how much attention bitter cocktails receive these days, it seems that the Japanese will remain more commonly spoken about than drank.

I find the Japanese cocktail very enjoyable. The combination of the mellow brandy and the nutty, rich orgeat is tremendously extravagant. The bitters here are crucial. Historically the Japanese calls for Boker's, but this is one situation where the presence of aromatic bitters far outweighs the brand choice. It aptly combines sweetness in a inoffensive way, especially in light of its strength--two ounces of brandy is nothing to shake a stick at. After all, it is an early variation of the Old-Fashioned. But no matter how much lipservice I dare give it, the truth is that the Japanese cocktail doesn't get made very much at my house.  

 Japanese Cocktail

2 ounces brandy
1/2 ounce orgeat
2 dashes Boker's Bitters

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

In spite of its sweetness, something about the Japanese cocktail calls to me. Perhaps I am a sucker for an ancient cocktail, or the fact that it is boozy without seeming boozy. Or maybe it's just that it is so damn velvety smooth. I have the same problem with the Bobby Burns--historically a Scotch Manhattan with a bit of Benedictine in the place of bitters. Every year as Bobby Burns's birthday rolls around I assemble one, enjoy it thoroughly, and then promptly forget it exists. Regardless of how I savor it at the time, I do not crave it. Thus, I never drink them. The Japanese and I have a similar relationship. I love the flavor combination, but almost every time I think of making one, I hesitate. Mood is everything and sometimes all that richness is a turn off. 

Then one day late in December, an idea popped in my head--why not make a loose variation to highlight what I love about the Japanese cocktail and downplay the sweetness? So, with a cabinet full of amari, I decided to use bitterness to allay the sweetness. But one amaro after another yielded less than spectacular results. Fernet was too bracing, averna too delicate, and the amer picon was too unbalanced and frankly brought too much orange. But when I tried the Santa Maria with a scant bit of rye, it all came together. As I learned from my adventures with aquavit, sometimes investing in the foundation helps bring a new drink together.

Bitter Japanese Cocktail

1 1/2 ounces brandy
1/2 ounce rye
1/2 Santa Maria Amaro
1/4 ounce orgeat
2 dashes Spanish bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Sazerac 6-year rye, Paul Masson VSOP brandy, and B.J. Reynolds orgeat.

Underused Ingredients: Aquavit

My first introduction to aquavit came a couple of years ago at House Spirits Distillery in Portland. And while it was their Aviation gin that inspired the visit, it was their caraway-flavored spirit with the heavy notes of anise that really caught my attention. Of course, I went home with a bottle. At the time, I didn't have a lot of experience with aquavit, and it sat in my liquor cabinet for quite some time untouched. But thankfully all that has changed, and aquavit, with its complicated flavors, is one of my favorite things.

Aquavit, like gin, gives distillers the freedom to express their creativity and thus formulate a signature flavor. Fortunately, the boundaries are only limited by each distiller's imagination. Caraway is usually the dominant flavor, but other flavors like fennel, coriander, citrus peels and anise commonly round out the blend. Strangely, many of these ingredients are also used in gin recipes. But the presence of the caraway, as well as other more savory ingredients like cumin, dill or even amber (tree resin is used in the production of Aalborg), give aquavit a flavor profile all its own.

The only unfortunate thing about aquavit is its availability. Considering that more and more bartenders are becoming interested in experimenting with its notoriously savory flavors, historically only three brands have been imported: Aalborg (Denmark), Linie (Norway), and O.P. Andersson (Sweden). This is just a tiny fraction of the aquavit produced worldwide. The arrival of a new aquavit on the scene, Aquavit New York (Sweden, only imported to New York), may represent a much needed shift.

On the flip side, a few American craft distillers have recently become infatuated with the challenges and intricacies of aquavit. Who can blame them? These American aquavits have helped bolster the popularity of the spirit, making it a more common sight on back bars. Like many craft-distilled gins, American craft aquavits can often be characterized by their big, bold flavors. Krogstad Aquavit, from House Spirits, is unlike Scandinavian aquavits in that it has a whopping dose of anise in addition to the caraway. These bold flavors make a dram of this spirit a wonderfully intense experience. These powerful flavors make Krogstad especially well-suited for cocktails, because it can stand up to other bold flavors.

While aquavit's presence on cocktail menus has certainly grown, there is still plenty of room for improvement. But the caraway flavor can provide quite a challenge. Use too little, and you don't know it's there, too much and the results can be overly medicinal, at best. And like gin, even picking the best aquavit for a cocktail can prove problematic. American aquavits can easily overpower other delicate ingredients, and the Scandinavian aquavits can play the wallflower. All of these issues together have kept aquavit from receiving its moment in the sun. Hopefully this is about to change. Here are some of my more recent aquavit cocktail discoveries.  

Nordic Reviver (created by Evan Martin, Ba Bar)

3/4 ounce aquavit
3/4 ounce lemon juice
3/4 ounce Cointreau
3/4 ounce Swedish punsch

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

Notes on Ingredients: I halved the aquavit between Krogstad and Linie and used homemade Swedish punsch.

Because of its herbal characteristics, aquavit can often often be substituted for gin, especially when the cocktail also includes fresh juices. In fact, like gin, aquavit can be easily be inserted in most vodka drinks to embolden the flavors.

This is one of my favorite Ccrpse revivers variations, though to be perfectly correct it is a variation of the Corpse Reviver 2a. In the original cocktail, Evan used Aalborg. I decided to blend a Norwegian aquavit, Linie, with an American one Krogstad, to bump up the flavors just a bit. The Linie differs from most of the other available aquavits as it has been mellowed for four and a half months in used Oloroso sherry casks. In the Nordic Reviver, the anise notes of the absinthe work exceptionally well with the caraway of the Linie, and the Swedish punsch adds a nice tannic, spice layer. I would think that the Krogstad would work equally well in this cocktail, though the absinthe rinse may not be needed.

[Unnamed Work in Progress] (created by Ben Philip Perri, Zig Zag Cafe)

1 1/2 ounces aquavit
1/2 ounce rye
1/2 ounce Punt e Mes
1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur
1 dash mescal


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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Linie aquavit, Rittenhouse bonded rye, and Maraska maraschino. I chose the del Maguey Minero for the mescal.

Aquavit also pairs exceptionally well with rye. The Old Bay Ridge, David Wondrich's aquavit-rye old fashioned, showcases just how well this works in the simplest terms; it is a traditional old fashioned but with the spirit allotment split in half between the rye and aquavit. In cocktails with herbal vermouths, aquavit's affinity for rye becomes incredibly important--just a bit of rye mellows out the aquavit's herbaceousness and makes blending two very different herbal ingredients that much easier. While this cocktail is a loose variation on the Red Hook, it highlights what can happen when caraway intersects with rye. I find that the dash of mescal provides that extra level of oomph that really pushes this drink for good to great. Substituting a peaty scotch for the mescal would probably work as well, though it would still be quite different.

From Norway to Sicily


1 ounce aquavit
3/4 ounce Averna
1/2 ounce rye
1/8 ounce (bar spoon) Benedictine
2 dashes aromatic bitters


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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Linie aquavit, Sazerac rye, and Angostura bitters.

Lately I have been kind of obsessed with adding amari to almost everything. So when I started thinking about aquavit, I thought, why not? Initially I was inspired to use Averna with its mild bitterness to match up with the mild Linie. Sweet vermouth was an option that I passed on. I really wanted to explore the intersection of the aquavit and the amaro. Using vermouth would have added a different feel, though it would have made the entire endeavour easier. Suffice it to say, the early attempts were ugly. Marley Tomic Beard of Sexton gave me some advice that led me to a perfect solution. Like in the above cocktail, the addition of rye really fixed this drink. Then the rest just fell into place. I am sure that further experimentation with aquavit and different amari would also yield really some really memorable drinks.

Untraditional Bitters Part One: Meat Hook

Cocktail history unofficially began when someone somewhere added bitters to his (or her, though unlikely) morning dram. But what exactly are bitters? We know the names. The ubiquitous Angostura. The classics, Regan's and Peychaud's. Brands such as the Bitter Truth, Bittermens, Scrappys and a host of others anchor the newer, more modern entries into the bitters catalogue. But what are they really, I mean, besides bitter? Usually, they consist of complex, unabashedly intense combinations of flavor where at least one element is just plain God-damned bitter--thus, the bittering agent. Quassia, Gentian, and Calamus are all examples of the extreme versions, though many other herbs are available that have varying strengths. Layered on top of these potent, sometimes even eye-watering flavors are the tasty elements one might actually like to encounter: grapefruit, orange, cloves, cinnamon, rhubarb, lavender, the list goes on and on and is expanded by the day. By combining a bittering agent with these more palatable flavors, you get bitters. And once you have tasted them straight, usually as a single drop or three, it is easy to understand why they are only used in dashes.

For a cocktail, bitters are transformative. In an Old Fashioned, the bitters add embellishment to slightly sweetened straight spirits. But over time as cocktails became more complicated, and a whole slew of ingredients were introduced to the barman's milieu, the role of bitters grew. No longer did bitters just add that zip of flavor to invigorate a glass of spirits and balance the sweetness. Indeed, they became the glue that pulled a drink together. One tiny dash could connect the dots among disparate ingredients and contribute a certain amount of depth. To boil it all down, bitters keep your taste buds in the game by keeping the whole experience interesting from first chilled sip to the last swig.

Somewhere along the line, though, bitters changed. Not by name or definition, but instead by what could be used as bitters. Dashes of other stongly flavored ingredients were soon finding their way into cocktails to "finish" them and ensure balance. Absinthe is probably the most widely acknowledged classic ingredient to be used this way, though it is not the only one. Considering absinthe's high proof--most of them historically clock in at around 130 proof--it is not surprising that both the strength and intense bitter wormwood flavor allowed absinthe to be used in dashes to excellent effect, just like bitters. Even in small amounts, it has enough flavor to stand out and compliment all sorts of unruly cocktail ingredients.

But absinthe isn't the only strong flavor that can be used this way. Green chartreuse, scotch, mezcal, and even Fernet Branca have all taken their turn as bitters. Whether these untraditional ingredients are added in dashes to the shaker or employed as aromatic rinses, contemporary bartenders have experimented with these flavors to add an extra dimension to an original cocktail or twist a classic.

For a long time I overlooked this phenomenon. Even as I read Gary Regan's article in the San Francisco Chronicle touting smoky scotch's new role, I barely batted an eyelash. But this was all pre-Meat Hook. While visiting Vancouver, Canada earlier this year that I was lucky enough to try this delicious play on the Red Hook at L'Abbatoir. It took an Ardbeg-laced Manhattan variation to really make me sit up and pay attention to the possibilities. By practicing restraint with such a bold flavor, a new experience is uncovered. It was amazing. Thankfully, the recipe was easy to find thanks to a Drinker's Peace, a Vancouver drinks blog.

Meat Hook (adapted from A Drinker's Peace, original created by Shaun Layton)

1 1/2 ounces rye
3/4 ounce Punt e Mes
1/3 ounce Islay scotch
1 teaspoon maraschino liqueur

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Rittenhouse 100 proof, Ardbeg, and Maraska maraschino.

Now, it is true that the amount of scotch in the Meat Hook is certainly more than a dash. But this doesn't seem to buck any modern trends--it's become common for cocktails to call for more bitters. Where once 2 dashes was considered a hefty dose of those potent flavors, today's bartenders utilize ever greater amounts. Cocktails that call for 4 or even 5 dashes are full of flavor and ruffle no feathers. Of course, we shouldn't forget those cocktails that are based on bitters. But that is another story altogether.

Underused Cocktail Ingredients: Celery Bitters

In 2008, the Bitter Truth won the Spirit of the Year Award for their celery bitters, though in some ways you would never know it. While individually lauded as a cocktail ingredient and included as a staple on most back bars, you would be hard pressed to find menus that actually are pushing the complex, relatively polarizing ingredient. It is a shame. It really is a wonderful product. But because it really does have a very potent celery taste that is both herbaceous and bright, small doses even for bitters are usually the best way to go. In fact I have only seen one heavily bittered cocktail based on celery bitters--though I don't think many more will be forthcoming. The truth is that they don't work with everything. Even in old bar guides, drinks that call for celery bitters can be hard to track down. Though many of them are worth the effort of locating. More often than not, when I even try to  incorporate them into a cocktail, the result goes beyond bad. But when it works, oh my god does it work! Basically celery bitters are like the girl with curl: good means very, very good, bad equates to a sink donation.

While it may sound weird, unlike cranberry bitters and even rhubarb bitters, celery bitters have actually been around for a really long time. Popularized in the early 19th century for their alleged health benefits, celery bitters were actually sold as a health tonic. It is not surprising that they ended up in cocktails. Almost every liquid with potential health benefits has found their way into cocktails--because of course bartenders are really looking out for all of us. With the onset of Prohibition, all bitters were doomed. Though it is doubtful that any other type of bitters was so likely a candidate for becoming defunct than celery bitters. But thankfully, since the resurgence of interest in all things defunct as well as things just tremendously obscure, celery bitters are back. But, you might ask, what now? How do I use them? They are actually very popular in my house and I am always on the lookout for new uses. Here are some of my favorites.

Gin
It shouldn't surprise anyone that celery bitters go really well with gin, and all things juniper in nature. Gin very easily lends itself to more savory drinks, and thus all the botanicals tend to play nicely. It is probably the easiest way to use celery bitters.

Ephemeral (adapted from Chuck Taggert's recipe, created by Dave Shenaut)

1 1/2 ounces old Tom gin
1 ounce Dolin blanc
2 bar spoons elderflower liqueur
3 dashes celery bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Ransom old Tom, Bitter Truth celery bitters, and Pur elderflower liqueur.

Rum
Rum may seem more of a stretch and there are certainly plenty of rum drinks that would be utterly ruined with the addition of celery bitters. But rum and celery bitters are not mutually exclusive. Celery's potent vegetal aromatics mingle exceptionally well with citrus, a common ingredient in many rum drinks. Also the more vegetal rhum agricole pairs exceedingly well with the crisp bright flavors of celery bitters. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. For some reason the Daiquiri just popped in my mind when considering celery and rum. And lo and behold it works quite nicely.

Celery Daiquiri

1 1/2 ounces white rum
3/4 ounce simple syrup
3/4 ounce lime juice
1-2 dashes celery bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I usually use Cruzan white rum. A darker rum will definitely up the ante, though care must be needed to not alienate the celery. My simple syrups are almost always 1:1 with natural sugar. Bitter Truth celery bitters were used as well.

Aquavit
Aquavit is another of those ingredients that can be hard to find on menus, though this trend seems to be changing albeit slowly. It is hardly surprising that aquavit's polarizing caraway and anise flavors make it a bit harder to match things with. Yet, it is almost ironic how well it pairs with celery. With this cocktail, just a simple substitution and a little tweaking yielded wonderful results.

Aquavit Vesper

1 1/2 ounces aquavit
1/2 ounce vodka
1/4 Dolin blanc
1 dash orange bitters
1 dash celery bitters

Combine the ingredients in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain the contents into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Linie aquavit, Chopin vodka, Regan's orange bitters, and the Bitter Truth celery bitters.

Tequila
Tequila, and especially blanco tequilas, have a wonderful green, menthol flavor that matches very nicely with celery bitters. One of the best examples that I am aware of comes from Phil Ward, owner of Mayahuel and bartender extraordinaire. Pairing dry vermouth, blanco tequila and green chartreuse, among other things, creates a lovely herbal drink that both highlights the celery bitters and shows off how well they can play with others.

Loop Tonic (created by Phil Ward)

2 ounces blanco tequila
1 ounce dry vermouth
1/2 ounce Green Chartreuse
1/2 ounce simple syrup
3/4 ounce lime juice
1 dash celery bitters

Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a highball glass filled with ice. Garnish with a slice of celery.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Dolin extra dry, a 1 to 1 simple syrup and El Relingo tequila.

Whiskey
This cocktail is perhaps my favorite drink that uses celery bitters. This creation was introduced late in the nineteenth century, but is most notable for its inclusion in Charles Baker's Gentleman's Companion--one of his absolute home runs. There is just something about the way that a Manhattan is altered by the herbal notes of the celery that make it seem so massively different. But all that is added a dash. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the interplay between the sweet vermouth and the celery that is actually taking center stage. I think further experimentation is in order.

Fourth Regiment (adapted from Charles Baker's The Gentleman's Companion by way of Robert Hess's Small Screen Network episode)

2 ounces rye
1 ounce sweet vermouth
1 dash Peychaud's style bitters
1 dash orange bitters
1 dash celery bitters

Combine ingredients in a chilled mixing glass. Stir with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lime twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Rittenhouse rye, Punt e Mes, Angostura orange bitters, Bitter Truth Creole bitters, and of course, Bitter Truth celery bitters.

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.

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!

The Intersection of Gin and Rye: the Chauncey

Sometimes the most interesting cocktails aren't the ones that you discover on your own. In fact, many of my favorite drinks have come from the recommendations of others, whether that person is a bartender or just a friendly neighbor sitting on the next bar stool over. I often wonder whether the referral contributes in any way to my actual enjoyment. Sure, 95 percent of my decision depends on what is actually happening in the glass. But what about the other 5 percent? Perhaps that feeling of anticipation while watching the bartender pour out unknown measures and reach for unexpected ingredients somehow enhances the entire experience. It certainly adds context. And what about the spontaneity, could that be a factor as well? Could opting out of the decision-making process actual heighten an experience? Granted all of this supposition is inconsequential if that 95 percent is horrid. I do know that while letting a bartender just whip something up on the fly can be risky, especially if you don't know him or her very well, sometimes those risks are just worth it. You never know what you might end up with--it might be your new favorite.

Recently Tracy and I ventured out to the Rob Roy to sit across the bar from a couple of visiting bartenders from Portland, Dave Shenaut and Sean Hoard, before heading to the opera. After having a very tasty cocktail from their special event menu, I decided to place myself at the mercy of the bartender. After discussing such fundamentals as preferred base spirit (rye) and style (spirit driven, of course), the stage was set. What I received was wonderful and surprising, and therefore exactly what I wanted, though I would have never known it: the Chauncey. After I found out it was a classic, I just had to discover the whole story.

Originally published in the Old Waldorf-Astoria Bar Book in 1935, this curious little tipple certainly never jumped out at me. Even had I noticed it, I would have instantly discounted it. Combining old tom gin, rye, sweet vermouth, and brandy in equal parts, I would have doubted its flavor and its balance. Many old drinks just aren't that good, and maybe this explains its lack of popularity. The recipe for the Chauncey is not going to talk you into drinking it. But it is exceptionally tasty and smooth despite the fact that it is really just a big glass of booze. When I made it at home, I found the cocktail to be enjoyable enough, though a bit sweeter and richer than I usually care for.   

Chauncey (Waldorf-Astoria)
1/4 old tom gin (3/4 ounce)
1/4 rye (3/4 ounce)
1/4 brandy (3/4 ounce)
1/4 sweet vermouth (3/4 ounce)
1 dash orange bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Ransom Old Tom gin, Paul Masson VSOP brandy, Pikesville rye, Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth, and Angostura orange bitters.

This version, from the Waldorf-Astoria, is not what I had at Rob Roy. It was obvious upon tasting. In addition to the Waldorf-Astoria, the next source I found the it in was Esquire's Handbook for Hosts, where its recipe was the same. Another recipe for the Chauncey is available on the Internet at cocktaildb.com, which means it was collected in Stan Jones Complete Bar Guide. It is mostly the same but with different proportions. I could not trace it anywhere in the intervening years. So at some time between the late 1940s and the late 1970s, as American tastes dried out, so did the Chauncey.

Left: Waldorf version; right: cocktaildb.com

Chauncey (cocktaildb.com)

3/4 ounce gin
3/4 ounce rye
1/2 ounce brandy
1/2 ounce sweet vermouth
1 dash orange bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used the same as above except that the gin called for was London Dry, and so I used Plymouth.

This Chauncey was much dryer, and the taste of the herbs of the gin and the orange bitters were much more dominant. As it is a much crisper drink, its flavors pop.  But this recipe still did not match my memory of Dave Shenaut's Chauncey. The cocktail I remembered was in fact dry, but also extremely smooth and rich. So after I found a video where Mr. Shenaut actually constructs his version of the Chauncey, I could finally remake the drink at home.

Chauncey (Dave Shenaut version)

3/4 ounce rye
3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
3/4 ounce gin
1/2 ounce brandy
2 dashes orange bitters

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

Over time the Chauncey went from  rich and slightly sweet to dry and crisp, to finally end up smooth, full- flavored and balanced. This path mirrors the ways that American tastes have changed. Bold cocktails that were rich or more on the sweet side during the Golden Age either became obsolete or were adapted to fit newer dryer tastes. Look at the martini--it was originally made with a ton of vermouth and a couple of dashes of orange bitters, and over time all of its flavor was stripped away until it was just a cold glass of slightly diluted gin. And then, as if rock bottom weren't low enough, it became a cold glass of slightly diluted vodka. But the pendulum has shifted, and bold flavors are back, though without the sweetness. Bartenders are re-fitting the classics, sometimes by just reintroducing the original proportions and sometimes by re-tooling them so they appeal to modern tastes. Thus, a historically sweet cocktail can be refashioned as dryer without sacrificing its big flavors. Dried out cocktails can reappropriate their stolen flavors. Dave Shenaut's version of the Chauncey highlights both of these trends and the result is a bolder cocktail, not too sweet or too dry. This Chauncey exists somewhere in between and yet somewhere completely new.

A Not So Suprising Pair: Rye and Aquavit

Nostalgia and cocktails go hand in hand. I can't count the times I have witnessed it. Sitting next to a stranger, you watch as this faraway look creeps over his face, his tone shifts to somewhere between excitable and reverent, and the memories of that first Sazerac or first sip of whiskey pour out. The emotions are palpable, as are the details, both inconsequential and vague, as his mind is pulled inward stretching back to grasp those last little vestiges of experience. To experience it all again. To be present in that past. And then gone. Without a warning, the thinnest thread has run out and we are jerked back to the now with one foot still in the memory, as if frozen in midair after the rug has been yanked. It takes a minute to adjust, even for a casual listener. Who knows what the body and mind have experienced in that moment. Each sensation new and old, felt and then lost. Proustian indeed.

Nostalgia doesn't have to directly correlate with the contents of the glass. Almost any memory could be stirred up, a person, a place. The human mind is ever so complicated. Though modern usage has associated nostalgia with a reverence for an idealized past, the word also communicates feelings of loss, of yearning. The original Greek defines nostalgia as an ache or pain associated with a homecoming or returning home--a sort of homesickness, where home is a specific place at a specific remembered point in time. But as we all know, nothing is quite the same as we remember it and those past moments are hopelessly out of reach. Ah, the familiar echoes of melancholy--another emotion so interlaced with nostalgia.

It was the Old Bay Ridge that did me in. This variation of the old fashioned was created by David Wondrich to honor the original Irish and Scandinavian settlers of that neighborhood situated along the southwestern edge of Brooklyn abutting the Upper Bay of New York Harbor. Recently, I have been making a lot of my old favorites, and old as they are memories always seem to be attached to them. It's the season, you see. Winter has become a time for self-reflection, and I am no stranger to the bittersweet pull of nostalgia.
I first encountered the Old Bay Ridge last year, during winter, while looking for cocktail recipes with aquavit. Happily I stumbled across the recipe in a blog about all things Brooklyn. To be honest, the nostalgia started there before I had even opened a bottle.

About eight years ago--my how time has passed--I lived in Brooklyn, on the top floor of a three-story walk up on the edges of Park Slope and Gowanus. If I am completely honest, it was was closer to Gowanus. Every time I reminisce about those two years I feel the familiar jolt of the bittersweet, that twinge of  melancholy. It doesn't really make sense, but each year it seems to get stronger and more strange. Back then, I had a wonderful job, a terrible commute, and friends nearby. But in no way was I happy there; the city's relentless energy urged me to look west. Sometimes I felt urged to look in any direction. In hindsight, I was counting down the days before I knew the destination. But as I sit looking out at the cloudy night sky, the entire experience seems like it was a rite of passage, a necessary obstacle that needed to be hurdled. But what does this have to do with rye and aquavit, a bit of syrup, some bitters, a chunk of ice and a sliver of lemon peel--I have no idea. Ah, melancholy and winter. I think it's time for a drink.

Old Bay Ridge (adapted from David Wondrich)

1 ounce Rittenhouse bonded rye
1/2  ounce Linie aquavit
1/2 ounce Krogstad aquavit
1 tsp simple syrup
3 dashes Boker's bitters

Combine syrup and bitters in an old-fashioned glass. Add ice and spirits. Give a quick stir to mix and garnish with a lemon peel.

Notes on Ingredients:  If you can't find Rittenhouse, another high-proof rye, even Wild Turkey, would work here. The original recipe calls for one ounce of aquavit. I find the Krogstad, with its intense anise notes, too bold for this drink on its own. The Linie is softer, with a more striking caraway flavor, but its still too mild to stand up to the overproof rye. To find balance, I like to split the difference. But to each her own: for a more caraway-driven experience, use the Linie, for anise, the Krogstad.

Underneath the lemon oils wafting up from the surface lies the faint smell of an undecipherable herbal aroma. I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly where it was coming from but it was obviously associated with the aquavit combination. The caraway and anise of the warring aquavits welcomed me into the glass. But there was also a nice taste of grains from the rye and the Linie. The heat from the overproof rye was also apparent at the beginning though it smoothed out with the ice melt. The bold rye flavors showed up most on the end of each sip. The most active part of the sip occurred somewhere in between, though, when the spirits were busy overlapping, each striving for attention. What a natural pairing rye and aquavit make! The cinnamon and clove from the bitters came across late in each sip. But as the drink progressed, the spices in the bitters and the rye formed the foundation of the drink and the lemon oils, caraway and anise dominated the aftertaste.

Sazerac

The moment I first tasted a Sazerac something inside clicked and I knew nothing would ever be the same. Even though several years have passed, I know exactly where I was and the circumstances. It is the same for many people. The Sazerac just does that to people.

On a Christmas Eve many years ago, when I was just starting to delve into all things cocktail, Tracy's dad was telling me about a magical drink he had consumed once upon a time in New Orleans. In his tale, a bartender expertly flipped Herbsaint into the air to coat a cocktail glass before adding the brilliant pink-tinged whiskey. Such a presentation certainly influenced him, as I am sure it did many others. The bottle of Herbsaint now residing in his liquor cabinet is a testament to the drink's impression. That is how I first heard of the Sazerac. But there is more—with classic cocktails there is always more.

A myth proclaims the Sazerac the very first cocktail, though this is not true. However, though the Sazerac was popularized sometime in the 1850s in New Orleans, it is actually a variation of the original cocktail, now known as the Old Fashioned, consisting of a spirit, bitters, sugar, and some water (usually as ice). The early Sazerac (cognac, sugar, Peychaud's bitters), notably without the absinthe rinse, firmly fits into this category. The bitters made it unique. Antoine Amedie Peychaud, Sr. brought his secret family recipe for the bitters with him when he fled Haiti. But it was his son, Antoine Amedie Peychaud, Jr., who made them famous. By the late 1830s, Peychaud was producing his bitters just down the street from what would become the Sazerac Coffee House, where the house cocktail was the Sazerac, thus named because it used Sazerac-de-Forge et Fils cognac.

In the 1870s when the phylloxxera epidemic essentially wiped out the vineyards in Europe, cognac became hard to find. Americans' tastes were forced to change to the local, more readily available rye, and so it became the base of a Sazerac. As absinthe became more fashionable, the absinthe rinse was introduced. When absinthe became illegal in 1915, pastis was used as a substitute. But after Prohibition, a new anise-flavored spirit Herbsaint, created and manufactured by New Orleans natives, became a key ingredient.

Of course I knew nothing about the cocktail's long history as I prepared for our next visit to Tracy's parents' house. I came equipped with a recipe and a fresh bottle of Peychaud's bitters and Sazeracs were on the menu (although, I had no plans to toss Herbsaint in the air). If you have no idea what you are doing, Sazeracs are quite complicated. With my cocktail glasses packed with ice, I remember muddling the bitters and sugar with the back of a butter knife. Then I added Bourbon, probably Maker's Mark of all things, and ice. I stirred and strained this into my Herbsaint-rinsed martini glasses and inexpertly broke several lemon twists before plopping them in. I can hear the purists cringing at my beginner's mistakes, which were many. But there is a lesson
here . . . even though I made a barely recognizable Sazerac, it was still the best thing I had ever tasted.

Now, looking back on those early days in home bartending, I have to smile. We all have to start somewhere, and I know that the importance lies on whether what ends up in the glass tastes good. I am no purist. I believe that a recipe can change, that substitutions are sometimes necessary, and that expensive booze isn't always the best way to solve a problem. But there are some things that just taste better the old way, and taste is everything. And the truth is, at least in our house, rye is better than bourbon, syrup is easier than sugar, and if you want more lemon oils in your drink, throw that twist in. And the glass, well if it is clean, use it. But if it's not pretty, don't take a picture.

Sazerac

2 ounces quality rye

1/2 ounce simple syrup

2-4 dashes Peychaud's bitters

Herbsaint

In a mixing glass, stir rye, syrup and bitters. Rinse a chilled whiskey glass, or rocks glass, with Herbsaint and add rye-syrup-bitters mixture. Express the oils from a strip of lemon peel over the drink and coat the rim. Lose the twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Templeton Rye and Herbsaint Legendre.

Grand Street

Recently, Tracy and I were on vacation in NYC and we went to Death and Company. It was a night to remember, and one of the fabulous cocktails I had was called a Grand Street. I knew as soon as I saw it on the menu that I had to order it. Gin, Punt e Mes, Cynar and maraschino—a whole lot of my favorite things all in one glass. But as the night wore on, and more drinks were ordered and relished, I forgot to ask about proportions. This is especially sad because after all, I was sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender, and she was really nice. So now weeks later, I am home, wishing I could have a Grand Street. And the search begins.

Well, let me tell you, dear reader, the recipe is not on the Internet—I checked. I could throw my hands up and say, oh well and move onto something that would be reminiscent, like a Hoskins or a Fin de Siecle. So I thought to myself, I have all of the ingredients, why not try to figure it out . . . it might even be fun. Staring at the ingredient list, I began looking for any similarities with the classic cocktails I am familiar with. A lot of contemporary cocktails start as riffs on classics. And lo and behold a lightbulb went off, I saw spirit, vermouth, amaro, and liqueur. You see, my favorite cocktail is the Brooklyn: rye, dry vermouth, amer picon, maraschino. I at least had a place to start.

Brooklyn Cocktail (adapted) 

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

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

So here is what I came up with for my interpretation of the Grand Street:

Drink Inspired by the Grand Street

2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce Punt e Mes
1/4 ounce Cynar
1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur

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

Notes on ingredients/method: I used Bellringer gin, though any London dry would work.  Plymouth would also work well. I used the Maraska maraschino as that is what I had on hand.

The grapefruit was very strong in the aroma, as it should be with all of those oils glittering on the surface. Underneath, I could just make out the bittersweet fragrance of the Cynar and the Punt e Mes.  With the grapefruit still lingering in my nose, I dove in to find, in addition to the grapefruit, the dry juniper flavors of the gin mingling with the richness of the Cynar and Punt e Mes. There were definitely a lot of herbal elements floating around in there. The strength of the other ingredients tempered the funky cherry sweetness of the maraschino and rounded out the flavors. The bittersweet flavors of the herbs and the dryness of the gin lingered long after each swallow. In combination, the slightly bitter sweet vermouth, the slight sweet amaro, the dry gin and sweet maraschino all seemed to balance one another in a very complex way. The grapefruit twist provides just enough brightness, to the eye, nose and mouth,  to make drink really sing. 

Now, I am not quite sure that I have re-created the Grand Street as it is at Death and Company. But I am happy to have created something very nice that was inspired by something equally very nice.

Ode to Bitters: Trinidad Sour

Continuing our poem to heavily bittered drinks, I could not pass up the chance to try the Trinidad Sour. To date it is the most heavily bittered drink I have ever tried (though there may be one to surpass it in the immediate future). I first came up on this creation when Paul Clarke blogged about it last summer during his mad dash to post 30 times in 30 days. The drink initially caught his notice because of the whopping full ounce of Angostura bitters. I have to admit that it made me do a double take as well.  The drink is the original creation of Giuseppe Gonzalez of Painkiller in NYC.

Trinidad Sour

1 ounce Angostura Bitters

1 ounce orgeat syrup

3/4 ounce lemon juice

1/2 ounce Rittenhouse rye

Shake ingredients in an ice-filled shaker. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Notes on ingredients/method: The orgeat syrup that I used was not homemade, but a Monin product. The rule of the house is no making new syrups until the old ones are used up because of space constraints. Well, unless they are totally gross--we do have standards.

Like the Alabazam, the high amount of bitters are apparent in the drink's color, opacity, and pink foam. The reddish hue, however, is much darker. Cinnamon, allspice, and cloves dominate the aroma. And it tastes exactly as it smells, a glorious combination of spices, like liquid Christmas. The lemon flavor is more apparent mid-sip with the almond syrup's sweetness providing the appropriate balance. The finish is dry and full of the more astringent aspects of the Angostura. Complex and balanced, this drink is a really interesting take on what a sour is. The almond flavors make an especially nice touch. And despite the ridiculous amount of bitters, the refreshing qualities make is one excellent summer cocktail.

Interlude

Sometimes when the rain is coming down and the temperatures outside can't find their way out of the fifties, only certain cocktails seem appealing. Here in Seattle, that kind of weather is an inevitable part of spring. It's funny how the weather can so affect one's cravings. When the sun is shining, even if it is still only in the fifties, give me a bright sour, or something with grapefruit juice and color, or muddled basil. But with the rain and wind, I crave the warmth that only a nice boozy tipple with lots of backbone and flavor can provide. This is a job for whiskey. On such a Saturday, I was searching my favorite cocktail blogs looking for inspiration and came across this drink, the DuBoudreau, on Jamie Boudreau's blog. The drink was origianlly created by Jim Meehan of PDT in NYC. I had the Toronto Cocktail in the back of my head, and I am not completely sure why I didn't just make that delightful drink.  In any case, this drink spoke to me and I guess I just had a hankering for Fernet Branca. Alas, I have no regrets.

DuBoudreau Cocktail

2 ounces rye (Rittenhouse bonded)

3/4 ounce Dubonnet

1/4 ounce Fernet Branca

1/4 ounce St. Germain

Stir ingredients in an ice-filled glass.

Strain into a chilled cocktail glass
Garnish with a lemon twist

The nose is dominated by the distinct, sharp herbal aroma of the Fernet. The lemon oils are present as well, but they seem to be acting as a sidekick. The drink opened with the distinct taste of rye mingling with the lemon oils on the surface. The Dubonnet and St. Germain mellow out the more robust flavors and add a touch of sweetness and a bright herbal complexity to the drink. The finish is long and pleasant with the combination of the spiciness of the rye and the mint and menthol flavors of the Fernet. This drink is complex, balanced, and very drinkable, which is a feat considering the powerful elements at play. The Fernet is tempered, the rye is mellowed, and the St. Germain's sweetness is kept in check. The result is a minty, refreshing drink that is reminiscent of a Toronto or a Manhattan but still very much an individual creation that can stand on its own.