Enhancing the Flavor of Homemade Syrups: Lime Cordial, Gimlets and Batavia Arrack

Usually in the dead of winter, my cocktail cravings all have one thing in common: sweet vermouth. Whether it's a Martinez, a Palmetto, or even a simple Manhattan, chances are some variation will find its way into my glass. But this year, I have been dreaming of Gimlets. Gin gimlets, of course. If one spirit will make up 75 percent of my cocktail, please make it not vodka. But considering my love for all things brown, bitter and stirred, as well as my seasonal flirtation with sweet vermouth, I can easily admit that I was astounded. But then again, I do love gin. And Gimlets certainly are spirit-forward, strong and lacking in fruit juice--just like all of my other favorites.

The problem with Gimlets is that pesky Rose's Lime Juice, which is the main reason I had never tasted one until recently. When a friend of mine gave me a batch of homemade lime cordial last year, the first thing I made was a Gimlet. It seemed like a no-brainer. Freshly made with real limes, this syrup allowed me to discover just how wonderful a Gimlet really can be. (By the way, I'll have you know that I used every single drop of that lime cordial in Gimlets. And they were delicious.) So this year, when the cold temperatures came, and all of the rich food of December had been consumed, all I could think of was Gimlets. And since citrus is in season, the time was ripe for some lime cordial.

Making a lime cordial is not hard, and many recipes can be found on the Internet. I tend to use a more complicated method, and I'm sure that a similar result could be achieved faster. But then again, I do enjoy a nice weekend project. First of all, when I make citrus syrup, I don't use any water. Because limes, lemons, and oranges all contain this fabulous juice, why dulls its edge with water. Also, I like to use the oils from the peels to add that wonderful, almost floral fragrance. In order to do this, I make an oleo saccharum--a mixture of sugar and in this case, lime zest. Oleo Saccharum, translated roughly as oil-sugar, entered the drinking lexicon sometime in the seventeenth century and has been used to give punches an extra bit of depth. Though David Wondrich advises against using a lime oleo saccharum for a punch--lime oils are too sour--I find it works exceptionally well in a syrup.

Lime Syrup

Ingredients:
5 large limes
2 cups sugar
1-2 ounces fortifying agent

Notes on Ingredients: I always use fair trade natural sugar in all of my syrups. Because it hasn't been bleached it still has a bit of the sugar cane flavor. This results in a lime cordial that is not green--it will be brownish green. If you want a solely green lime cordial, use white sugar. I also use organically grown limes. 

Step 1: Zest the limes into a small bowl. I used a microplane zester. The limes were huge so I got quite a bit.

Step 2: Prepare the oleo saccharum by adding 1 cup of sugar to the zest and muddle. Cover with Saran wrap and let it sit for at least 6 hours on the counter. (I intentionally left it out overnight.)

Step 3: Juice the zest-less limes--note you'll want about 1 cup for this recipe. I also strained out the pulp using a tea strainer.

Even though I was actually preparing the syrup the following day, I was afraid that the limes would  become hard overnight without their skins. I used the Vacu Vin wine preservation system to "vacuum seal" the lime juice in a bottle. Hey, it works with wine, why not short-term storage for lime juice. Tupperware might also work. The most important factor is when you are actually making the syrup. The longer you wait, the dryer those limes are going to get. If they are too dry you may not yield a sufficient amount of juice.

Step 4: When you are ready to make the syrup, combine the oleo sacchrum and the juice in a medium sauce pan and heat on low, stirring to help the sugar dissolve. Add remaining sugar until you reach your desired sourness level. I used added 1 additional cup, and the lime cordial still has a nice tartness.

Step 5: Let the syrup cool for a short while and then strain it through a fine tea strainer. If the syrup is still warm, it will be easier because the liquid will be less thick. Optionally, the syrup can then be strained through cheese cloth to collect any smaller particles. Regardless of how finely you strain your syrup, allow it to cool completely before you bottle it.

Step 6 (optional): You do not need to fortify your lime cordial. The syrup will keep as is for about a month in the refrigerator. Fortifying will increase this time. If your syrup is destined for mocktails, Italian sodas, or anyone who shouldn't have alcohol, you are officially done. If you choose to fortify, measure the volume of the syrup to figure out how much fortifying agent to use. A general rule is 1 ounce of fortifying agent to 8 ounces of syrup. This recipe made 16 ounces of syrup.

Fortifying

Usually at this stage, and especially when a recipe yields a substantial volume, I add a fortifying agent to extend the "shelf life." Without it, the syrup may show signs of bacteria in about a month. Though I cannot predict how long a syrup will last once it has been fortified, it is usually much longer. Vodka is what I usually use  chiefly because it won't affect the flavor. After all, if my goal is to have a lime-flavored syrup, why would I want other flavors getting in the way? But if the goal is simply to make something interesting and tasty that is primarily lime-flavored, why wouldn't I want to add a subtle layer of flavor for increased depth?

I have considered this before, but in this case it seemed exceptionally relevant. Though Gimlets are yummy, they can still be pretty one note. The idea seemed to get more interesting the more I thought about what I might want to add. Absinthe? Banks 5 rum? Scotch? When all was said and done, the answer seemed obvious--batavia arrack. Smoky and funky in all the right places, its  flavor was just made for being used subtly. Whether this experiment would be a success was up in the air--considering the small amount, would the flavors even be recognizable? At least on the nose, the arrack makes itself known. When mixed into a cocktail, though, both the aroma and the taste are only laced with the smoky, funky notes. I was quite happy with the results and am now trying to think of other ways to use secondary, spirit-based flavors in my homemade syrups.

Gimlet

2 1/2 ounces gin
1/2  ounce lime cordial

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Beefeater gin and my batavia arrack-laced lime cordial.

Drinks Abroad: Harry's New York Bar, Pink Gin and Some History

In October, while Tracy and I were spending a wonderful two weeks in Paris, I was hell bent on visiting  Harry's New York Bar. With such guests as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Coco Chanel, and George Gershwin, who wouldn't yearn to pass through its saloon style swinging doors. But for me, the draw was always Harry. Author of at least two cocktail recipe books, and self-proclaimed creator of the Monkey Gland, French 75 and the Sidecar, Harry MacElhone is one of the most famous bartenders to ever work behind the stick. According to bar legend, Harry's is also the birthplace of the Bloody Mary. And that is exactly what Tracy wanted when we visited on our very first full day in Paris. Who could blame her?  I wanted something easy, classic. My thoughts first ran toward an Old Fashioned, my in-a-pinch go-to drink. But then I remembered how quickly an Old Fashioned can be transformed from a boozy sipper to a bourbon-laced fruit punch, complete with mangled fruit and club soda. It was then that I noticed a framed cartoon just off to the side. Its subject was the Pink Gin.

Like many drinks of the distant past, there is no creation story for the Pink Gin. Like the Old Fashioned, these drinks were not "created," per se, they just sort of evolved. It really is the most straightforward conclusion. The first cocktails were probably not thought of as innovative at the time, simply an efficient way of dealing with a life of hard drinking. A little hair of the dog for the head, and a bit of bitters for the stomach. I like to think that these primarily spirit-and-bitters combinations came into the world like Athena, who sprang fully formed from Zeus's head. The Pink Gin, like Ancient Greece's grey-eyed goddess, had an almost immediate and widespread following--though in the case of Pinkers, as Pink gin was often called, this was because of its status as the drink of choice among British naval officers during the days of empire building. From the mid-nineteenth century until the Pink Gin lost its place to the Horse's Neck in the 1960s, if you were in an officers' wardroom, the Pink Gin was the ultimate booze delivery mechanism for all that ailed you--or at least perhaps seasickness or an upset stomach.

Over the years, Gin and Bitters followed closely behind the Royal Navy, and thus we see the rise of the Gin Pahit, yet another alias, on the Subcontinent. As the English population grew in this area of the world so too did the dominance of Pink Gin. Unfortunately, its fate was inextricably wound with that of the British Empire. As its colonies threw off the shackles of Imperialism, the Pink Gin's popularity waned. By the 1970s, the Pink Gin came to symbolize the tiresome nostalgia for the lost days of the Empire. But even considering the ups and downs of public opinion, the Pink Gin never truly succumbed to obscurity. It can be found lingering in Charles Baker's Gentleman's Companion (1946), David Embury's Fine Art of Mixing Drinks (1948), Ted Saucier's Bottom's Up (1951),  as well as even more recently in Stan Jones's Complete Bar Guide (1977).

So as I sat on a bar stool at Harry's and watched the bartender clad in his white coat meticulously rinsing a cocktail glass with the dark red of Angostura bitters, I knew that I was in for an old school Pink Gin. After all Harry's is an old fashioned kind of place. But I must admit that I was a bit surprised when he reached into the well and filled the glass with gin and brought it over. At least, he also gave me a glass of water and a warning: "This is a very strong drink." The water was handy, but the warning was hilarious. Now, had I done a bit of research this action wouldn't have struck me as odd--it is after all the traditional method of making Pink Gin. I wasn't completely prepared for a warm, undiluted Gin and Bitters in the early afternoon. Thankfully I was up for the task, even considering the unexpected temperature. Result: it was delicious.

To chill or not to chill is the dilemma that the Pink Gin poses. And temperature isn't the only thing at stake--dilution plays an important though indirect role as well. But which way is correct? The earliest recipe I can find in my limited library is in William Boothby's American Bar-Tender (1891). Considering that Gin and Bitters had already been around for many year by this time, it may seem curious that it wasn't included in earlier tomes. Because Pink Gin's earliest adherents were British, and the first cocktail books were written by Americans, perhaps it was simply a question of audience. Perhaps Gin and Bitters were not as popular among Americans, simply because their choices weren't limited to what an ocean-going vessel could carry. Regardless, Boothby's instructions on the preparation of Gin and Bitters are as follows:

Rinse the interior of a small bar glass with a dash of the desired brand of bitters (Boonekamp is generally used with gin), hand the customer a bottle of Holland gin, allow him to help himself and serve ice water on the side.

Moving past the fact that in 1891 San Francisco Holland gin and Boonekamp bitters defined a Gin and Bitters, the drink itself was served at room temperature. By 1930, as described in the Savoy Cocktail Book, a Pink Gin was shaken with ice. Both William Tarling (Cafe Royal Cocktail (1937)), Crosby Gaige (Cocktail Guide and Ladies' Companion (1941)), and Ted Saucier (Bottom's Up (1951)) call for adding ice as well. Charles Baker, though, in the Gentleman's Companion (1946) takes his Pink Gin warm. Stan Jones (1977) gives the bartender the option to serve it with ice water or on the rocks. As far as current authors go,  Robert Hess (2008) and Dale DeGroff (2002) proscribe ice. But David Wondrich over at Esquire describes the original Pink Gin as being a warm drink, though he adds that "Americans and other utterly wet types may add an ice cube or two." Even with all of this information, it seems that nothing has been resolved. Who is right? Only the taste buds of the individual can determine the outcome.

Pink Gin

1 dash of bitters
1 1/2 ounces gin

Procedure 1: Combine ingredients in a mixing glass with ice. Stir and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Serve with ice water on the side.

Procedure 2: Rinse a rocks glass with bitters. Add gin and a cube of ice.

Procedure 3: Rinse a rocks glass or cocktail glass with bitters. Add gin.

Notes on Ingredients: In this case, I used procedure 1 with Beefeater gin and Jerry Thomas's Decanter Bitters though Plymouth gin and Angostura are the historical standards. But it seems that every type of gin has found its way into a Pink Gin over time, so if you're in the mood for Genever or Old Tom, who am I to stop you. Also, the choice of bitters is also up in the air, which just means more versions are available. So get cracking!

Before my experience at Harry's, I would have stated that not only did Pink Gin taste better chilled, but also that serving it cold was the proper way to make it. The issue of "proper" here, as in many other scenarios, is highly suspect. Over the years, times change and tastes follow suit. What was "correct" in 1900 may well have seemed exceedingly outlandish by 1930 and then come back into vogue by 1950.  Yes, relativism rears its ugly head.

For what it's worth, here are my two cents. During a summer heat wave, a chilled Pink Gin would hit the spot--at least I certainly wouldn't turn one away. Even adding some tonic or soda to lengthen the drink wouldn't be a bad idea. But, and I am surprised to say this, a warm Pink Gin (made with Plymouth and Angostura) is pretty unbeatable--regardless of the weather.