Beginnings and Endings.

 Time travel is a weird thing. I haven't looked at the blog in years, much less written anything. Recently, events in my life has maneuvered me into having a bit of extra time and a bit of extra energy, so I thought I would travel nostalgia's road back to the cocktailquest blog. I found among several other unpublished drafts my "about me" post.  The opening reads, "Disclaimer One: I am not a bartender." And while that was certainly true when I wrote those words--it is so far from the truth now. I am a bartender. 

    Anything I write on these pages now is the result of a long, winding journey from barback to beverage director in six years. But ten years ago, I was sitting at a desk, working the proverbial 9 to 5, miserable and stagnating. My now-wife--who I had only been dating for a few months at the time--didn't think I was the kind of person who was willing to settle for miserable. She challenged me to be brave and take risks to follow a hint of a dream. Where it took me was anywhere close to dreamlike. Transitioning careers and trying to build a new one from scratch was hard--the hardest thing I have done in my life so far. Perhaps that means life has been easier on me, but experience has taught me that life is never really easy on anyone. Just harder on some, if that possibly makes any sense. 

    So there I was, waiting to hear of any opening that could allow me to escape the doldrums of a day job. After a few months, it came. But it is hard to convince a restaurant manager that hiring a 35-year-old legal editor, who has never seen the inner workings of a restaurant, for a barback position is a risk that will pay off. Entry level positions are usually reserved for those who are entry-level aged. I knew I had little chance of getting my shot. The results were as expected. But I didn't know how quickly time passes in the restaurant world.  

    I'm not trying to say that there wasn't a bit of luck present early on. Sometimes being at the right place at the right time is the foundation for opportunity. As this blog has shown, I spent a lot of my time in craft cocktail bars. During those years, a lot of cocktail enthusiasts could be found lingering at various cocktail watering holes in Seattle--Rob Roy, Zig Zag Cafe, Vessel, to name a few. One night I met a man who had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of classic cocktails. We struck up an easy friendship, bonding over our esoteric hobby and of course drinks themselves. And as luck would have it, bad luck that is, he found himself transitioning to working behind a bar soon enough. It was this friend who finagled me an interview that was not a success. But it was also this friend, who was promoted to bar manager when the previous bar manager moved on just two months later, who would hire me for my first restaurant job. If I had simply walked into a different spot on a different day--or sat in a different seat, for that matter--history might have been written differently. But the real story started here.

Back to Charles Baker: A Toast to the Cuba LIbre

And with a year a half sojourn from writing, back to Mr. Charles Baker. Let's ease back in with a tried and true quaff. The Cuba Libre is a nice easy little number when made right. But the wheels can easily fall off, if not paying attention. First off, what is the difference between and a rum and coke and a Cuba Libre. Well, to some there is no differentiation. For me personally, I make a rum and coke with a lime wedge, automatically, and no lime juice. But when I am making a Cuba Libre, I add lime juice to the drink, and include the lime wedge as a garnish. As a rum and coke is a high ball, it should be a harmonious creation shared between the two elements. Unfortunately in modern times as few restaurants, bars or homes boast proper high ball glasses, a rum and coke consists of more coke, with the rum in the background, if it can be tasted at all. A Cuba Libre should be balanced between more elements, as the lime becomes an important player. Making sure the drink is ice cold is just as important as the lime juice to keep the sweetness at bay. Thus, crushed ice works. The rum should be strong enough to really stand out and a dark rum does this better than a light one.

Cuba Libre (adapted from Charles Baker)

1 large jigger Bacardi d'oro (2 ounces Havana Club rum)
juice of a small lime (3/4 ounce lime juice, or to taste)
spent lime shell
Coke to fill (Mexican Coke)

Muddle lime shell, rum, and lime juice in a Collins glass (to get the oils from the peel)
Add crushed or cracked ice, top with coke.

I had never thought to actually keep the lime wedge in to help add space, thus naturally minimizing the amount of soda. And it creates a stunning look as well. All in all, using Baker's recipe helped me to rediscover the joys of the Cuba Libre--all molasses, but bright with lime juice.



Since the next drink in Baker's compendium is linked to the Cuba Libre, why not handle two birds with one post. In Baker's drink, the main difference involves swapping out rum for sloe gin. I was skeptical at first, not only by pairing sloe gin and coke, but also by the proportions. Baker calls for a whopping three ounces of sloe gin. While he states clearly that an imported sloe gin is pivotal, who knows what that meant in the 1940s. And while we are lucky enough today to have dry sloe gins, countless sweet ones have dominated the market for years.

Cuba Reforme (adapted from Charles Baker)

2 jiggers sloe gin (3 ounces Plymouth sloe gin)
juice and spiral peel of a lime (1 ounce lime juice plus spent lime shell)
Coke to fill (Mexican Coke)

Combine lime juice spiral and sloe gin in a goblet (Muddle lime shell, sloe gin and lime juice in a large Collins or water glass)
Add crushed or cracked ice, top with coke.

In Baker's original he calls for a large goblet instead of a Collins. It makes sense--more ice means a colder drink and this one needs to be ice cold to stay balanced. It is surprisingly delicious--the way the tart sloe gin works with the sweetness of the coke, and the lime chills any lingering doubts about this being a sweet affair at all. Refreshing, with a subtle berry tartness, and yet the molasses comes still through. On a hot day, this would be a very refreshing bracer that is easy to make but different enough to stay interesting.

Reimagining the Lucien Gaudin Cocktail

I remember the first time I ran across the Lucien Gaudin cocktail. It was years ago now, when I first acquired my copy of Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails. I was newly obsessed with Campari drinks--not that this has changed over time--and this one seemed like one that I needed to try. I did, but the cocktail failed to make an impression. It was fine, just not memorable.

When people talk about the Lucien Gaudin cocktail, they usually focus on the man, Lucien Gaudin. Yes, he was a fencer, but not just your average fencer. He dominated the sport and is still tied as the record holder for best Olympics performance in French history for his performance in the 1920, '24, 1and '28 Olympics. While all of this is incredibly impressive and worthy of remembrance, I would wager that the reason why most cocktail writers focus so much attention on the man and not the cocktail is because the drink fails to impress on its own merits.

The Lucien Gaudin cocktail was first printed in an obscure French drinks manual, Cocktails des Paris, published in 1929. Its creation is credited to a man named Charlie of Cheval-Pie, who won the cup of honor for the drink in 1929. A couple tomes after that remember it, but not many. Until Ted Haigh brought it back, this drink seemed destined to be forgotten.

I have revisited the drink several times over the years. I have never been able to crack the mystery of why this drink has come back from the depths of cocktail history.  I have tried making it with different products to find that perfect harmony. I have swapped out the Campari for Luxardo bitter. I have utilized myriad gins and vermouth. I have even used different curacaos instead of Cointreau and changed the proportions. Nothing seemed to matter. The drink just falls flat for me, its flavors muddied. Recently I saw a variation online that made me want to revisit the Lucien Gaudin. Boy, was I glad that I did.

Lucien Gaudin (variation by Ken Gray, NYC)

1 1/2 ounces Old Tom Gin
1/2 ounce Luxardo bitter
1/2 ounce Giffard Curacao
1/2 ounce cocchi americano

Stir ingredients and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

The changes aren't really that monumental--a softer gin, and a bittersweet fortified wine. These two new ingredients alter the drink from forgettable to delicious. Instead of straying into the hard to conquer land of dry and herbal, the roundness of the combination of tom gin and cocchi makes the the Campari and orange liqueur pop. The end result is balanced and tasty--a drink worthy of remembering.

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.

Taming Kummel: Angel's Tears and Army of Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Army of Shadows (recipe by Ben Perri)

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

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

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

How About a Little Restraint with Your Bitter: The Bitter Padre

Bitter used to be my middle name. An order of brown, bitter, and stirred would have me rapt, watching the bartender like a hawk. Mere mentions of new amari online, had me scouring the city's back bars in search of a taste. And often this search would just lead to me procuring my own bottle. I experimented with adding bitters, digestive or aromatic, to every classic cocktails I came across, whether it was a daiquiri, the Japanese cocktail or even a Cosmopolitan. My obsession knew no bounds.

But then something happened. My girlfriend is not so into amari (shock and horror!). As I sought to make her cocktails that she liked, I found myself staring blankly at my liquor collection. Where would I even start? How could I make a cocktail without using a bitter ingredient? In trying to please her very developed palate, I had to think outside of my comfort zone. At first it was frustrating but I now believe that this was the best thing to happen to me. I was very far down the path to forgetting what a balanced cocktail tastes like. Just because a drink is strong and bitter, doesn't mean it is balanced.

Balance is the key factor in creating a successful cocktail. A great bartender can create a drink that is sweet and still balanced, tart and balanced, strong and balanced. Granted being able to make a drink to suit your audience is also important and should provoke creative individuals to think outside of their comfort zone. The hard part of this comes from the fact that your senses crave what you actually put in your mouth. Say you eat a lot of chocolate. You will then crave chocolate. If you eat bitter chocolate, you will crave bitterness. Too little awareness of this can create a palate that is hopelessly out of whack.

As I started thinking about this fact, it became a lot easier to make cocktails that were adjusted to my girlfriend's taste. The more I challenged myself to look beyond of the brown, bitter, and stirred category, the more I found that I liked different things. New flavor combinations came to mind easier. But most important, I regained my knowledge of where balance is.

Don't get me wrong, I still l love a big flavorful, and yes bitter, cocktail. It just has to ring with the right balance. Many go too far, and perhaps solely for bragging rights. The following drink may look like that on paper but it's not. Full of big flavor? Hell yes. But it is tempered, restrained. And it is in that restraint that success comes. Might it still make my girlfriend scrunch her face? Well yes, but even she agrees that it is balanced. And there is one secret ingredient that makes it all work: salt.

Bitter Padre (created by Nikki Worley, Witness)

3/4 ounce mezcal
3/4 ounce Cynar
3/4 ounce Campari
3/4 ounce Fernet Branca
pinch of salt

Stir all ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with an orange twist. 

Notes on Ingredients: I did not have Campari, so substituted Luxardo Bitter. I also used Fidencio mezcal. The original calls for del Maguey's vida.

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.

Maraschino Liqueur--To Have or Have Not

The Hemingway Daiquiri, or as is it more simply known, the Daiquiri No. 3, was created by Constante Ribalaiga Vert at the infamous El Floridita in Havana in the early years of the twentieth century. If you haven't been acquainted--and if you haven't, rectify this as soon as possible--this concoction is very closely related to the more traditional daiquiri (rum, lime, and sugar) except a bit of grapefruit juice and maraschino liqueur are added to the mix. As with every other cocktail that has been around for multiple decades, the exact recipe will change depending on the drinker. The original recipe calls for but a teaspoon of both the grapefruit and maraschino, with the lime and simple syrup decreased accordingly. More contemporary recipes increase the portion of grapefruit to as much as a 1/2 ounce, while the maraschino, itself contributing intense, often overpowering flavors, is usually capped at around 1/4 ounce. An old school Hemingway is bright and nuanced; more contemporary variations burst with flavor.

Legend has this daiquiri was introduced to Hemingway on a chance encounter--he had ducked into the bar in search of a restroom and on his way out, the illustrious barman was lining the bar with frothy, refreshing house daiquiris. A curious man, Heminway opted to try one and the rest is well, assumption and interpretation. While the famed author and drinker opted to have his daiquiris made without sugar and with a double pour of rum--a variation known as the Papa Doble--most people are happy enough with the original version.

Hemingway Daiquiri (Randall house variation)

1 1/2 ounces white rum
1/4 ounce lime juice
1 ounce grapefruit juice
1/2 ounce maraschino liqueur

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Chairman's Reserve silver rum and Maraska maraschino liqueur. 

I have always loved this cocktail. A big part of it is the grapefruit juice--in the summer I am drawn to its floral, brightness. But I also love the interplay of th citrus with the unique floral, woody notes of the maraschino. Those flavors create the depth that signals that a drink has been well-crafted--that little bit of restrained flair that keeps you coming back. But then again, I have always enjoyed what maraschino liqueur brings to a cocktail. But not everyone appreciates what maraschino brings to the glass.

Maraschino liqueur's flavor is not the easiest to pin down. Originally created from the tiny sour cherries that grow along the Dalmation coast in Eastern Europe, the first maraschino liqueurs were supposedly created as a sort of "maraschino rosolio." Rosolios are often homemade rose-flavored liqueurs consumed as tonics, often sipped  after dinner. While simple rose-flavored liqueurs were made, more often other flavors were added to create complex liqueurs. In the same way that a mirepoix creates a base for many soups and sauces, the rosolio becomes a foundation for the more principal flavors. 

But the complexity of this liqueur only begins there. The pits and stems of the maraska cherries are separated, fermented and distilled, creating a sort of grappa. The cherries themselves are distilled as well, creating an eau de vie.  Then the two distillates are reblended and aged in ash barrels for two years. When the aging process is complete, the spirit is then diluted and sweetened, often with a blend of honey or cane sugar--the precise sweetener often varies depending on the house's style. The slightly almond-like notes that maraschino is known for comes from the inclusion of the cherry pits in the process. Those characteristic floral elements come mostly from the distilled fruit, though perhaps some of the original "rosolio" has made its way in as well. Naturally, most distilleries do not disclose all of their secrets.

Maraschino liqueur has long been a major element in mixed drinks. It's presence can be traced back to many of the early punches that were widely consumed in the nineteenth century. As the more efficient cocktail overtook the flowing bowl, maraschino played its role as an alternative sweetener that brought big flavor. It is not surprising to find that it had made its way into daiquiris.

For those who do not appreciate the flavors of maraschino liqueur, another cocktail exists that highlights the wonderful intersection of grapefruit and lime. Made with rum, lime, grapefruit juice, simple syrup and angostura bitters, the Nevada Cocktail is just as lovely as a Hemingway. The Nevada first appeared in print in Judge Jr.'s compilation Here's How, published in 1927. Instead of the funky yet floral notes of the Hemingway, the Nevada's recipe instead relies on the spicyness of aromatic bitters to flush out the fullness. Because the Nevada reverses the proportions of the citrus juices, any floral notes instead are contributed by the grapefruit.

Nevada Cocktail

1 1/2 ounces white rum
1/3 ounce lime juice
1/2 ounce grapefruit juice
1/4 ounce simple syrup (1:1)
1 dash angostura bitters

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Chairman's Reserve white rum and Angostura bitters. 

A Sour for Every Pisco: Mixing with Aromatic Pisco

Almost two years ago I was lucky enough to visit Peru. And while I spent most of the trip in Lima, I did travel to Ica and Lunahuana to further my pisco education. The trip was enlightening on many levels, and I made sure there were a few bottles of pisco in my luggage on the way home. Pisco is still primarily an undiscovered commodity here. While many bartenders are experimenting with its unique flavors, their efforts are limited by availability as only a small amount of the pisco that is produced actually reaches the border. During my time in Peru, I tasted as many kinds of pisco as I could get my hands on--all in the name of research--and learned that there is more to pisco than I knew. More than a handful of the new piscos that have entered the U.S. market in recent years are acholados, or blended piscos. Pisco puro, pisco that is made from only one grape variety, or even mosto verde, pisco that has been distilled with some of the sugar still remaining, seldom cross the border. I was lucky enough to try both of these more obscure styles.

Pisco by law can be made from eight different grape varieties: muscatel, abillia, italia, torontel, uvina, quebranta, mollar, negra criolla. These are then categorized according to their relative aromatic qualities--the first four comprising the more aromatic, floral grapes, and the last four the non-aromatic. Many pisco distillers use the qualities of both non-aromatic and aromatic grapes to create a signature flavor profile. These acholados are usually very mixable and the go-to spirit for pisco sours. In recent years, however, many bartenders have turned to pisco puro made from quenbranta grapes to form the foundation of the pisco sour. The more delicate aroma of the quebranta grape makes it very mixable. Aromatic grapes create piscos that has a strong floral, almost perfumey aroma that make them that much harder to use in cocktails.

I have been trying for two years to figure out the best way to use the bottle of pisco that I brought back from the Rivadeneyra bodega. This pisco puro is made from Italia grapes. I tried it in a pisco sour, but the flavors didn't quite work. Then one day the solution came to me when I remembered the delightful pisco sours I drank in Ica. Of all the pisco sours I drank on that trip, they were the most memorable. I don't know if they actually added Peruvian bitters to the mixture, but they all seemed to be laced with cinnamon. Then I started thinking more about how the floral notes of the cinnamon might work with the more perfume-y flavors of the Italia grapes. It seemed worth a shot, but it turned into a delicious experiment.

Canela Sour

2 ounces pisco
1 ounce lime juice
1 ounce cinnamon-honey syrup*
1 egg white

Shake the ingredients once without ice. Add ice and shake again and strain into a chilled old-fashioned glass. Garnish with several drops of Peruvian bitters swirled in the foam. 

Notes on Ingredients: I used Rivadeneyra pisco.

*To make cinnamon-honey syrup, heat 2 ounces of water with 2 ounces of honey. Once combined, take off the heat and add three cinnamon sticks that have been broken into smaller piece. Cover and let cool. Strain and refrigerate. Makes about 4 ounces.   

Looking Inside the Cooler: Charles Baker's Colonial Cooler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Non-Dairy Aged Egg Nog Featuring Almond Milk: Part 1

I absolutely love egg nog. The holidays just aren't the same without it. In fact, the entire winter season would not be the same. I can easily recall my first taste of fresh egg nog, not that vile imitation sold by the cartonful in grocery stores. It was happenstance, an impromptu attendance at a holiday party, and the punchbowl was filled to the brim, dusted with nutmeg. In recent years, a new style of egg nog has gained prominence--aged. And while it is a different animal entirely, aged egg nog is also delicious. Many may be wary of aging something with raw eggs in it, but it is safe enough considering the amount of alcohol.

For many, the eggs are the least concern. Most egg nog calls for cream, milk, or both. Thus, not everyone can appreciate its wondrous flavor, and this sadly includes my girlfriend. But for a time a solution eluded me. How to create a situation that would allow her to share the lovely taste with me? The answer came from a friend of mine who thought of almond milk as a viable substitute. But as most egg nog recipes call for a combination of milk and cream, this potential solution hit the wall. Almond cream does not exist. The eureka moment came when my friend, a staunch cocktail enthusiast in her own right, decided to take the matter in her own hands. As with many obscure cocktail ingredients, we have found that if you can't find it, make it. So with an ingenious idea of thickening almond milk into almond cream with almond paste, or marzipan, we set out to replicate an aged egg nog to mark the season. And what a lovely creation it was. After only six weeks, the flavors had developed and mellowed leaving a beautiful almond-flavored nog. Most egg nogs that are aged with dairy require about three months to age to achieve the same levels of depth and mellowness.

Almond Milk Egg Nog (Stage 1) (recipe printed with permission of twosheetsinthewind)

2 ounces + 8 ounces almond milk
2 tbsp marzipan (almond paste)
3 egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
2 ounces rum
4 ounces bourbon
4 ounces brandy

In a clean glass container that can be sealed, combine rum, bourbon and brandy.

In a small saucepan combine 2 ounces almond milk and marzipan. Cutting up the almond paste ahead of time will speed up the process. Stir constantly over low heat until most of marzipan is absorbed.

Beat the eggs and sugar with a hand blender in another bowl until well combined.

Add the "almond cream" to the egg-sugar mixture, followed by the almond milk. Stir to combine.

Empty the contents of the bowl into the glass jar. Stir or swirl to combine. Cover and keep in the fridge for at least 6 weeks. Shake about once a week.

                     

Rouge Anyone? Repurposing Oxidized Wine

My liquor collection is a monstrosity. Over a year ago I changed apartments and discovered that I had amassed a collection that filled over 35 liquor boxes. And that is not counting the assorted glassware, tools, spare bottles, and cocktail books that I own. Unfortunately, there are pitfalls of growing such a collection--a fact I was made aware of when I started packing up bottles. In the very back of one cabinet I discovered an open bottle of Lillet rouge. The bottle was dusty and who knew how long it had been sitting there in that dark corner, oxidizing steadily with each passing hour. Obviously, it was ruined. In the haste of packing I simply shoved it into a box to be dealt with later. But when I was unpacking I rediscovered it, and for some reason I chose not to dump it down the drain. Perhaps it could still be useful.

Inspiration arrived soon enough. While out on the town one night, I overheard someone referring to the New York Sour. This drink is just your basic whiskey sour with a float of dry red wine--usually a Syrah or a Malbec. At that moment, however, I thought back to my poor ruined Lillet. And while there was no way to use the product as is to top off a sour, I started wondering what would happen if I made the Lillet rouge into a syrup? Then I started wondering how it would taste if I mulled the wine first to help cover up the oxidized flavor. If a wine-topped whiskey sour works so well, and it does, why not use a spiced wine syrup instead of the wine and simple syrup components? I wasn't sure if the Lillet would even make a good syrup, oxidized as it was. An experiment seemed to be a better solution than just dumping the contents. And I am glad that I did.

Acela Sour

2 ounces of bourbon
1 ounce lemon juice
1 ounce Lillet syrup
1 scant dash simple syrup
1 egg white

Dry shake ingredients with the coil of the Hawthorne strainer. Add ice and shake again. Strain ingredients into a chilled old-fashioned glass.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Buffalo Trace bourbon.

Cocktail Geekery: In truth this is really a cross between the Boston Sour and the New York Sour. Boston Sours are notorious for their inclusion of egg whites. They can of course be left out, just make sure to double check the sweet-sour balance before adding the egg whites. The creaminess of the whites tames sourness. if more sweetener is required, correct, if necessary, with plain simple syrup. The Lillet syrup is dryer and more bitter and will only further upend the balance.

Mulled Lillet Syrup

3-5 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
1 large orange peel
1 cup Lillet
1 cup sugar
1 ounce overproof vodka

Crush cinnamon sticks and cloves. In a small saucepan add spices, peel and Lillet and heat over low for about an hour. Strain Lillet into a measuring cup. Add sugar in equal measure. Whisk until no granules appear at the bottom of your bowl. Let resulting syrup cool to room temperature, and add vodka (or other overproof spirit) to preserve. Store in the refrigerator.

Change Is the Only Constant

I started this blog in 2009 and over the past four years it has been the only constant in my life. Regardless of the ups and downs and challenges that have been presented to me, I always returned to writing here, though not always as often as I would have preferred. I started blogging very early in my cocktail and spirit education. I remember boring everyone in my life with esoteric details about cocktails, spirits, bitters, syrup production, watching their eyes glaze over with the onslaught of miscellaneous data. Being able to express those thoughts here saved many friendships. Over the past four years the blog grew alongside my own knowledge and experience.

Though it still chronicles my current interests and tastes, it has grown to encompass so much more. Instead of having my own experiences guide the content, creating content for the blog began guiding my experience. As the topics that excited me became ever more complex, the amount of time I spent constructing blog posts increased. Regardless of the errant typos that still crop up no matter how many times I proofread a piece, it usually take at least a week for me to finish an entry, though often it takes much longer. Over the years the amount of time required, the depth of research necessary, and the breadth of topics that I wanted to cover grew exponentially. But my life beyond the blog was changing dramatically as well. I tried for a long time to dedicate the same amount of time and energy, regardless of the distractions of real life. In the end, in order for the blog to continue to grow, its role in my life must change.

I have never before felt that I should apologize or make excuses for the infrequency of posts, nor did I think I should congratulate myself for pumping out posts at other times. I am not attempting to do either here. I offer details merely to explain where this blog must go in the future, how its position in my life must change. You see, a few months ago I started working as a bar back. This addition has severely limited the amount of time I have available, well, for anything. Because I love writing this blog and wouldn't give it up for anything, the role of this blog needs to change. Though I would love to offer up great diatribes dedicated to the history and evolution of the Brandy Crusta, to the ways to use syrups made from wine or vermouth, to the intricacies of pisco production, I just don't have the energy and time at present. So shorter, less dense pieces will be more the norm around here. I would rather give up word count than quality. But please bear with me. It is often hard to see where the path is taking us while traveling on it; pit stops, where we can catch our breath, are far more illuminating. Thank you for reading thus far and have no fear,the journey is far from finished.

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. 

Barrel-Aging Cocktails: The Caneflower

Though it is a sad fact, barrels don't last forever. Only a limited amount of flavor can be drawn out before the environment becomes effectively neutral. Of course, it still operates as a natural oxidation filtration system, with the wood still breathing with the changes in temperature. After all of the flavor is extracted, a barrel can still be useful, just not in the same ways. Oxidation and thus, mellowing can still occur long after the wood has stopped being an active participant. As I drained the last bits of the Claridge cocktail out of my barrel, I knew that I was going to have to choose very wisely. After aging two spirits and two cocktails, I was nearing the end of the barrel's life cycle. and there might not be many more opportunities for experimentation. The pressure only grew when I realized that not only would I need to choose an appropriate cocktail to follow the dry, fruity Claridge, but I would also need to determine the time frame for the next cocktail.

With each new batch, the amount of time necessary to age a cocktail grows. It makes sense--less of the barrel's flavors are present. Some friends who are very experienced at barrel-aging advised me to wait at least a year. This sounded extreme. The previous cocktail had only been aged for 3 months. In the end I decided to aim more for 6 to 9 months. As the oak was relatively slight in the Claridge I thought doubling might add more barrel flavor. Perhaps the extra time would correct for my barrel's age.

Choosing a recipe was easily solved when I discovered a 1.5-liter bottle of cachaca sitting in the back of my cabinet. I had received it two years ago as a gift and had never gotten around to using it. After a quick Internet search, I ran across a perfect choice--the Caneflower. This cocktail, created by Jeffrey Morgenthaler, is a variation of a Negroni variation, the Comte du Sureau, originally created by Gonçalo de Souza Monteiro. The Caneflower's elderflower and slightly bitter Aperol seemed a logical choice to follow the dry, apricot flavors of the Claridge. 

While cost and ease were the most important factors in why I chose the Caneflower, I was still exciting about the new adventure this drink represented. Before, I had only aged cocktails that included a wine-based product, such as vermouth, that would oxidize during the process. On top of that, most of the barrel-aged cocktails I had tried in bars also included vermouth or a quinquina. As the Caneflower has no vermouth or even a wine-based product, I could not guess the results. This prospect was very enticing. How would the ingredients react over time? Would the presence of the oxidized vermouths in the barrel affect the outcome? And then there was the question of time. Would the lack of vermouth change the speed of the process? But in the end none of these things really mattered. Life intervened and a careful tasting of the contents was not in the cards. More plainly said--I totally forgot about the barrel.

Caneflower

1 1/2 ounces cachaca
3/4 ounce Aperol
1/4 ounce elderflower liqueur

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pur Likor, elderflower liqueur.

Over one year later, I looked up and saw the barrel. I hesitantly tasted it and after determining that the contents hadn't been ruined, I emptied the barrel. Remarkably, what had gone in as 2 liters in volume came out at a mere 750 milliliters. The barrel was indeed hungry. Upon first taste, the Caneflower was intensely concentrated with flavors. However, oak wasn't one of them. It wasn't until I actually diluted the contents into a cocktail that I could find the oak notes at all. But boy did it need a lot of dilution. To find the balance, I had to stir it more than twice as long. Then, there was the oak. While this was not my best effort at barrel-aging, it did provide me with valuable information--don't fall asleep on the job.

Unexpected Nostalgia and the Kill Devil Cocktail

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

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

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

Kill Devil

2 ounces rhum agricole

3/4 ounce green chartreuse

1/4 ounce simple syrup

3 dashes Angostura bitters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shake well and strain in chilled 4 ounce glass.

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

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

West 58th Street 

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

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

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

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.

Bitter from the Start: Rediscovering the Japanese Cocktail

Ever since I stumbled on heavily bittered cocktails, I have been hooked. I do very much love bitters. Not only am I known for ordering my soda and bitters with extra bitters, but also for sending said drink back  because it's not opaque enough. Orange juice, lemonades and even soups and fruit compotes are not safe. I  have coerced strangers into accenting their 7 and 7s with a dash or two of Angostura--much to their delight I might add. For me, this almost obsession with bitters all started with the Alabazam. When I first read about it on Jamie Boudreau's blog a few years ago, I was instantly intrigued. And while that cocktail's teaspoon of Angostura bitters pales in comparison to such heavily bittered drinks as the Trinidad Sour and the Stormy Mai Tai, with their whopping ounce and ounce-and-a-half pours of Angostura, respectively, it certainly was the drink that set the stage. Leo Engel first published the recipe for the Alabazam in a time when cocktails called for at most three to four dashes of bitters. Imagine my surprise when I tripped over a cocktail that predates the Alabazam and includes a still impressive half teaspoon of bitters.

It's not what you think. This isn't some often overlooked cocktail that I discovered in the pages of an obscure tome. Not at all. The Japanese cocktail is pretty well known, even if the most recognizable contemporary recipes drastically revise the amount of bitters. First published in Jerry Thomas's Bartender's Guide in 1865, the Japanese cocktail heavily resembles the old-fashioned, comprising a healthy slug of brandy, a sweetener, bitters and lemon peel. It has also been one of my go-to cocktails. The recipe is practically etched in my brain and has been for years--or so I thought. What I never recognized was that the Japanese I knew and loved started out as perhaps the heavily bittered cocktail of its day.

Japanese Cocktail (Jerry Thomas 1865)

1 table-spoonful of orgeat syrup
1/2 tea-spoonful of [Boker's]* bitters
1 wine-glass of brandy [2 ounces]
1 or 2 pieces of lemon peel

Fill the tumbler one third with ice, and stir well with a spoon. [Strain into a chilled cocktail glass or old-fashioned glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.]

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac and B.J. Reynolds orgeat.

* Original recipe carries a typo, Bogart's for Boker's.

While it is hard to know exactly what happened in the intervening years, by the 1887 edition of Jerry Thomas's guide the recipe had already been altered, severely decreasing the amount of bitters. By 1916, the recipe no longer called specifically for Boker's bitters as it had fallen out of production some time in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Certainly, it would be difficult to fashion an 1862 Japanese cocktail without Boker's. Angostura became the natural second choice. However, as Angostura and Boker's bitters are  both considered aromatic style bitters, they are certainly not the same animal. Boker's bitters is less concentrated than Angostura as well as more mellow. Thus, a smaller amount of Angostura can balance out the orgeat. In the years when Boker's was unavailable this all made perfect sense. But what happened between 1862 and 1887 to warrant the change? While this may remain a mystery, perhaps it is time to reconsider the original recipe.

Last year I became enamored with the idea of increasing the amount of bitters in classic cocktail recipes. I had recently acquired several new bottles of digestive bitters and I was keen to play. Considering that the contemporary recipe for the Japanese cocktail calls for such a scant amount of bitters, it just seemed like the perfect candidate. How interesting to find out that after all this time the Japanese was initially envisioned to withstand more bitters. While the extra Boker's bitters does create a more intense experience, the resulting cocktail still tastes very much like a Japanese cocktail, albeit less sweet. Sometimes,history is full of pleasant surprises.