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.

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. 

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.

Using Homemade Ingredients: Citrus Shrub

I love making homemade ingredients. All it takes is one idea--pepper syrup, rhubarb bitters, strawberry liqueur, lime cordial--and I'm off and running. And often when inspiration does hit, I end up knee-deep in four or five different projects simultaneously. Sometimes the bounty of goods at the farmer's market proves irresistible, sometimes it's just a spontaneous thought about a flavor combination. But regardless of the catalyst, as well as whether a project will take hours, days or even months to complete, the challenges always seem to spring up after the final results are in. Because homemade ingredients are often unique, finding interesting ways to use them can be the biggest obstacle. And time is not always on one's side. Bitters and liqueurs can change over extended periods. And while fortification and refrigeration can extend the life of most syrups, nothing contributes to future waste like lack of use.

Recently I ran into this problem after making two different kinds of vinegar-based citrus shrubs. Because a shrub is preserved with vinegar, it certainly has a longer shelf life than a fruit syrup. But when it comes to potential uses, this vinegar component can make success more difficult. Most fruit syrups can easily be incorporated into drinks where citrus juice or dry ingredients can balance the sweetness. More common shrubs, such as raspberry or blackberry, are challenging because of the vinegar component, but when citrus has been incorporated into the shrub, the options become even more limited. In the past, I have allowed experimental projects to languish in the back of my booze cabinet or even worse in the back of my refrigerator. But this time, I was more determined to find uses for these ingredients. 

Meyer Lemon Shrub
When starting from scratch, usually the best place to start is with something familiar. One of the first drinks I ever had that called for a shrub was a simple, elegant mixture of shrub and dry sherry. The bite of the vinegar's acetic acid pairs superbly with the almost savory dryness of sherry. Why not start there?  With the citrus element, and the inherent lightness of the sherry-shrub combination, gin seemed the natural choice for a base spirit. The bitters provided a necessary depth and contrast, but what really brought the entire cocktail together was quite surprising: salt.

Lemon Shrub Martini

1 3/4 ounces gin
1 1/4 ounces manzanilla sherry
1/2 ounce Meyer lemon shrub
1 dash Bitter Truth Creole bitters
1 pinch salt

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Oxley gin and Lustau manzanilla sherry.

Grapefruit Shrub
Every time I started thinking about how to use the grapefruit shrub, the Hemingway daiquiri kept popping up in my mind. The combination of lime, grapefruit and rum  has always been a winner. Finding a way to balance out all of that acidity, however, would be the challenge. Well, that is besides figuring out how to deal with that pesky maraschino liqueur that is so crucial to the Hemingway. In the end, I decided to keep it simple and just omitted the maraschino altogether. Instead, I found that the more neutral simple syrup  smoothed out all of the citrus and vinegar. The more basic daiquiri recipe allowed the shrub to shine, and the resulting beverage was interesting and refreshing. Again, salt really pulled the drink together and pushed the flavors to the hilt.

Grapefruit Shrub Daiquiri

1 1/2 ounce white rum
3/4 ounce lime juice
1/2 ounce grapefruit shrub
1/2 ounce simple syrup
1 pinch salt

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Cruzan white rum and a homemade 1:1 simple syrup.

The Mistake--Or, Two Shrubs in One Glass
Considering that even finding a recipe for a vinegar-based citrus shrub proved nearly impossible, I was skeptical of using the Internet--where I usually begin all my searches--to locate an appropriate cocktail recipe. For the most part my assumptions were correct, though I did find one. Earlier this year in Aspen, Colorado, a certain Nathan Harnish from Pacifica Restaurant and Oyster Bar won the Aspen, Colorado, Iron Bartender competition with a drink that included both lemon shrub and grapefruit shrub. Or at least that is what i thought. How providential it seemed at the time! Taking in the recipe as a whole, though, I was even further astounded. It was the strangest assortment of flavors I had ever seen. Of course I had to try it.

Spice Trader Punch (as reported by eatApsen.com localFeast and then further adapted)

2 ounces Batavia arrack
3/4 ounce Grand Marnier
3/4 ounce cognac
3/4 ounce meyer lemon shrub
3/4  ounce grapefruit shrub

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

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac and Batava Arrack von Oosten.

Of course upon further research, I discovered that this was not the recipe that won the contest. The real recipe is an actual punch, complete with juice and tea. And though Harnish's original recipe does include a grapefruit element and a lemon shrub, he calls for grapefruit juice and a non-vinegar based lemon shrub. The website I initially stumbled onto was just offering a sneak peak of the contest entries, so this mistake is of little consequence in the grand scheme. But that mistaken recipe resulted in a drink that was not only delicious but also multilayered, interesting and exceptionally balanced. Go figure. Sometimes using homemade ingredients can lead you to unexpected experiences.

A Champagne Cocktail Worthy of Happy Hour: Ile de France Special

I am a big fan of the champagne cocktail. For many years I would have said that there was no better way to drink champagne. Granted I didn't much like champagne, or any sparkling wine, for that matter. But my tastes have changed. Over time, I discovered other beverages that put bubbly to good use--and some of them I would opine, are far superior to the champagne cocktail. For example, the Morning Glory Cocktail, with necessary champagne substitution, the Seelbach, the Jimmie Roosevelt,and the Old Cuban all come to mind. I am also partial to a negroni sblagliato. But those all require more than just dousing a sugar cube in bitters and dropping it in a glass of champers. The champagne cocktail is simple and elegant. Like the Old-Fashioned, it is a drink I never get sick of. I mean sure, I could just drink a glass of sparkling wine, but I could also just drink a glass of whiskey. Time and place are important factors here. Just like certain circumstances call for a champagne over a champagne cocktail, certain circumstances require, a term I use loosely, a jigger of whiskey neat over an Old-Fashioned. And how weird to find ourselves back at that fuzzy place where craving becomes an issue.

A champagne cocktail is my go-to alcoholic beverage to accompany brunch. I know that the overwhelming majority tends to favor the mimosa. I also know some people who lean toward a Ramos Gin Fizz or a Brandy Milk Punch--and sometimes I like to lean with them. Their company is usually exuberant and filled with possibilities, though a mid-day nap might also be required. But as I am sure I have posted before, a nice champagne cocktail creates the illusion of luxury and relaxation--exactly what brunch should mean. The unhurried gorging of oneself over hours, belts and comfort be damned. The problem is that other than for this occasional indulgence, I never look to a champagne cocktail. For some reason, they have been limited to brunch only. Thank goodness for Charles Baker, though its no surprise that he is posthumously forcing me to expand my drinking horizons.

Perhaps the reason why I never have a champagne cocktail after about three p.m. is because I don't take it seriously as a cocktail. It is a rather light drink, considering that it is simply a mildly flavored glass of wine. I usually crave a little kick At least for me, I tend to favor cocktails with a bit more of a kick in the evening. That's what is so wonderful about almost all of the champagne cocktails in Baker: at least four out of five have a slug of brandy in them. And this doesn't only up the ante on the kick. A smooth richness of flavor comes through as well. As far as the Ile de France Special specifically, mingle the brandy with the usual suspects (sparkling wine, syrup and bitters) and a float of yellow chartreuse and you get a perfectly herbal beverage that totally is perfect as the sun is sinking down the sky.

Ile de France Special (as adapted)

1/2 teaspoon simple sugar
1/2 ounce cognac
3 1/2 ounces champagne
1 dash orange bitters
1/8 ounce (1 bar spoon) yellow chartreuse

Into a chilled cocktail glass or flute, add syrup, cognac, and bitters. Stir gently to incorporate. Top with Champagne. Carefully float yellow chartreuse.

When Is a Crusta Not a Crusta: Enter Charles Baker

The crusta will always, for me at least, symbolize nineteenth century bartending techniques and tastes. Or at least the best ones. The crusta also played an important role in the evolution of the cocktail, allowing it to become what it is today. Originally formulated with brandy, the crusta sprung onto the scene in the early 1850s in the great cocktail city of New Orleans at the hands of Joseph Santini who held court behind the bar at the New Orleans City Exchange. This esteemed drink spurred on the creation of other notable potations such as the Sidecar, the White Lady and the Margarita, but it would be impossible to completely trace its widespread influences. It could easily be argued that the crusta acts as a bridge connecting the original cocktail and the various sours.

The differences between the crusta and the original cocktail--our old fashioned--are slight, but notable. Looking at those changes sets the tone for how cocktails changed and were transformed at the hands of bartenders as they adapted their craft to current tastes, innovative tools, and newly imported, or discovered ingredients. The first innovation to change the old fashioned revolved around the sweetening agent. For example, why not substitute a bit of orange-flavored liqueur or maraschino liqueur for the gomme syrup. This simple alteration changed the plain cocktail to a fancy cocktail, though it didn't really alter the landscape of the cocktail--too much. The resulting drink is still composed of a spirit, bitters, a sweetening agent and some form of water. And sure by this time some of the techniques had changed (shaking or "throwing" had been introduced) as well as some of the tools (shaking tins, hawthorn strainers), but this was essentially a very minor step.

One of the next important innovations came when Santini decided to add a dash of lemon juice to the basic cocktail framework. Until then, cocktails had never contained citrus juice. Sours, fixes and daisies--all prevalent during the mid-nineteenth century--certainly contained citrus, but not the cocktail. And it was this move from a lemon twist to a quarter ounce of lemon juice that changed the face of cocktails.

The addition of juice to the fancy cocktail notwithstanding, the defining characteristic of a crusta is its presentation. It is just one of those drinks that is immediately recognizable. With its sugared rim and coiled lemon peel just peeking out of the glass, the crusta is a study in the lost art of over-the-top garnishing. The amount of time and skill it takes to properly assemble a crusta speaks of its old-fashioned roots. (And let me tell you, it is not as easy as it sounds to pare the entire peel from a lemon in one continuous piece.) The lemon juice was an innovation that influenced the future of cocktails. But it is the garnish that firmly situates its presence in the past. 

By the 1930s lavish, ornamental cocktail garnishes had mostly disappeared and the introduction of juice to the cocktail was no longer a novelty. The crusta was almost a hundred years old after all and must have been looking a bit long in the tooth. Cocktail culture, then as now, has always revolved around what's new and different, even when a recipe is simply a rediscovered gem. Though the crusta was still bumbling around the continent, as evidenced by its inclusion in Robert Vermiere's Cocktails and How to Mix Them (1922) and Harry McElhone's Barflies and Cocktails (1927), given the voluminous number of cocktails available, its popularity may have been on the wane.

But the crusta was still around in 1939, when the Gentleman's Companion was first published, and it is curiously included in bar books through the 1950s not to mention afterward. Despite its lavish garnish, the crusta was not forgotten like so many of its contemporaries, or those cocktails that had been created later. Therefore, it is not terribly surprising to find the crusta hidden in a section dedicated to champagne drinks in a tome dedicated to unearthing worthy libations from all over the world. And it is really not surprising that Charles Baker uncovers it while journeying through China in the years of the French Concession of Shanghai in the early 1930s. What is curious is that what Baker calls a crusta hardly resembles the original crusta at all. For starters, the lemon juice, which always stood out to me as one of the defining elements of a crusta, is not present in the recipe for the Imperial Cossack Crusta. And while the sugared rim is included, and then subsequently exaggerated as the recipe calls for the entire interior of the glass to be sugar-coated, the famous lemon peel is missing. The only part of this champagne crusta that recalls the classic crusta is he sugar. If I had looked at the recipe without knowing its name, I would have never have pegged it as a crusta-style drink. 

Imperial Cossack Crusta (for two)

1 1/2 ounces cognac
3/4 ounce kummel (5/8 ounce aquavit, 1/8 ounce Benedictine)
2 dash orange bitters
champagne

Using a thick slice of lemon, coat the entire inside of a champagne flute with juice, as well as the outer lip 1/2  to 1 inch. Pour in sugar, creating a thin coating. Place glass in the freezer for a half hour. In a mixing glass, combine cognac, kummel and bitters with ice and stir. Strain liquid into the sugar-coated flute and top with champagne.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Paul Masson VSOP brandy, Krogstad Aquavit, Chateau Ste. Michelle Sparkling Wine and Regan's orange bitters. Here I also went against my better judgment and used four ounces of sparkling wine.

Ah, the problem of kummel rises again. What to do when a recipe calls for a liqueur I don't have and can't get easily. In the past, I have followed Erik Ellestad's example and just substituted aquavit and a bit of simple syrup. But on this occasion after talking to my friend Dayne, he told me that I should use Benedictine in place of the syrup to get closer to the actual flavor of kummel. Because I have never tasted kummel I have no idea how well this worked, but this little tipple was delicious. The flavors were herbal and complex. A certain sweetness was present, but the dryness of the champagne and the bitters provided balance. Because of the sugar-lining a certain amount of sugar puddled in the bottom of the glass, which caused bubbles to continuously rise through the glass as a result of each sip. The effect is much like what happens when you add the sugar cube when making a champagne cocktail. The Imperial Cossack Crusta was a very surprising cocktail that we will definitely revisit in the future.

It's All About the Process: The Jimmie Roosevelt

After I first received my copy of  the Gentleman's Companion a couple of years ago, I flipped through the pages and landed on the Jimmie Roosevelt--a champagne cocktail spiked with cognac and topped with a green chartreuse float. It blew my mind. So, of course, when we had some friends over later that month, it instantly popped into my mind. What better occasion for a fancy champagne cocktail? And, since I knew that all of my guests were comfortable with green chartreuse, easily the most controversial ingredient, what could possibly go wrong? Mind you, this was before I had ever tasted, or even heard of, drinks like Firpo's Balloon Cocktail and the Adios Amigos, before I had learned about Baker's borderline obsession with cocktails that have large amounts of absinthe. At that specific moment in time, I still harbored a certain naivete and, I'm not afraid to admit it, infatuation with all things associated with Charles Baker (except perhaps the man himself). I was only aware of the successful creations, like the tasty Remember the Maine,  and knew nothing of the abject failures. Like so many others, I had been caught in a web of flowery prose, exotic locales and the ethos of the 1930s world traveler and adventurer.

But in this case, the ingredients were not my downfall. As most people know, ingredients are only half of the equation. It is the process of making a cocktail--that learned ability to actually construct a drink properly--that truly separates the novices from the amateurs and the amateurs from the professionals. That is where the magic of well-crafted cocktails lies. Though the actual method is hardly given any space on a menu, that is where the mystery and suspense lie, because what a drink tastes like actually does depend on how its made. When constructing a cocktail at home, this process is guided by vague instructions that require some amount of interpretation and the resulting drink's success will depend, heavily, on the home bartender's skills and experience. So, at this particular point in time, I was doomed.

Champagne Cocktail No. II, which with Modestly Downcast Lash We Admit Is an Origination of Our Own, & which We Christened the "Jimmie Roosevelt"

Fill a big 16 oz thin  crystal goblet with finely cracked ice. In the diametrical center of this frosty mass went a lump of sugar well saturated with Angostura, then 2 jiggers of good French cognac, then fill the glass with chilled champagne, finally floating on very carefully 2 tbsp of genuine green chartreuse--no pineapple, no mind sprig, no cherry garnish.

Considering my drink crafting skills two years ago, this cocktail was a bit over my head. Sure, I could perform the tasks, but doing them well, or even doing the right thing at the right time, that was more iffy. Even picking out appropriate glassware seemed difficult--I don't have 16-ounce goblets. And then came the cracked ice, which is when I started to worry about what I had gotten myself into.  I have never to this day had another champagne cocktail over cracked ice. (Cubed ice? Yes. That is our preferred way to drink French 75s. But not cracked ice.) Everything seemed to go down hill from there. Second step: add the bitters-soaked sugar cube to the "diametrical" center of the ice. Note, this is not easy in a champagne flute that is very tapered at the top. Pour in cognac and top with champagne. Finally, float the chartreuse. When the opening of your glass is the same size as your barspoon, floating anything is pretty much impossible. Or at least it was for me. Baker makes it sounds almost easy, but it is easily one of the most involved champagne cocktails I have ever made.

I have heard that when a Jimmie Roosevelt is made correctly, with expert precision and, I must add, confidence, such as at the Pegu Club in New York City, it will knock your sock garters off. When properly made, the flavors should transform and evolve as you drink, ensuring that you receive multiple flavor combinations over course of the drink. Unfortunately, I was not making drinks then with either expert precision or even confidence. What I remember of that first Jimmie Roosevelt is the glorious herbal aroma of chartreuse mixing with the champagne. I remember how annoying it was trying to drink through cracked ice.  And finally, I remember the disappointment--after all the steps and all of the mess, the cocktail wasn't all that exceptional. In fact, I believe the word we chose was "weird." And I would now also add forgettable, as I have no recollection of the flavor.

But I didn't give up. My initial fascination with the Jimmie Roosevelt never really disappeared. So a year later, while reading cocktailvirgin's interview with Brian Rea, what did I find at the end shimmering like a beacon but a variation of the Jimmie Roosevelt. No "diametrical center." No crushed ice. No floats. All of the ingredients that initially sparked my imagination were present, and, best of all, it didn't sound hard to make. And it wasn't. We enjoyed this cocktail last fall, and it was exactly what I had hoped for--bubbly, herbal and dry with a little spice and richness. In short, absolutely delicious.

Jimmy Roosevelt (Recipe by Brian Rea, originally posted at cocktailvirgin.blogspot.com)

1 1/2 ounces cognac
3/4 ounce green chartreuse
2 dashes Angostura bitters
champagne

Shake cognac, chartreuse, and bitters with ice. Strain into a chilled coupe. Top with champagne.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Masson VSOP brandy and Chateau St. Michelle sparkling wine [I suggest 2 ounces].

This is still one of my absolute favorite champagne drinks. The differences are tiny enough--just the omission of the sugar cube and an increase in green chartreuse. The chartreuse's sweetness surely balances out this change. The proportions are also very similar, except that the Baker version is twice the size. Of course, in both recipes the amount of champagne is unspecified, but considering sixteen-ounce goblet specified, using seven or eight ounces of champagne is what Mr. Baker has in mind. As I usually cut all of Baker's recipes in half, Brian Rea's recipe made a lot of sense. And it is just so tasty his way.

A Champagne Cocktail with a Kick: The Maharajah's Burra-Peg

We have reached the champagne cocktail portion of the Gentleman's Companion. I will admit that I am quite excited--ah, the joy of sparklers. French 75s (and all the other numbers), Seelbachs, Airmails, Morning Glory Royales, Old Cubans, the list goes on and on. Champagne, or any sparkling wine (when used properly, of course), adds pure magic to a cocktail. Some call it bubbles. Others might say it's the dryness or acidity. They are wrong--champagne is pure fairy dust, aka magic. So when I flipped to the introductory statement for the five ensuing champagne cocktails, I almost did a jig. Almost--for I know that these sparklers are still arriving via Mr. Baker and thus will include some hidden surprises. But in my book a scary champagne cocktail is always more exciting and less risky than a scary absinthe and cream cocktail.

Charles Baker came upon this spiked champagne cocktail when his travels took him to India. He explains that a "burra-peg" translates to a large drink, or a double--and that in turn, at least in colonial times, usually meant a double scotch and soda. Rudyard Kipling, in his short story, "At the End of the Passage," also notes the existence of another variation of the Burra-Peg, something called a "King's Peg," where the whisky is swapped out for cognac, and the soda water is transformed into champagne. It may seem that the terminology shift from a "king" to a "maharajah" is the most significant change that this drink undergoes in the forty years between Kipling's story and Baker's time in India. And while it is impossible to separate the politics of colonialism and imperialism that imbue that specific place and time, reading too much into this difference masks the change that is most relevant to this blog and to other contemporary drinkers: the size. After all, Kipling does not refer to a  "King's Burra-Peg."

When Baker calls the drink large, he is not kidding. One would need 6 ounces of cognac and a whopping 18 ounces of champagne to construct two of these drinks as written. That is almost an entire bottle of champagne for two people. Well, let's just say that no one will every accuse Mr. Baker of not knowing how to party. I have learned from experience, though, that when Mr. Baker calls for a 14 to 16-ounce glass, it is prudent to cut the recipe in half. At least until I have tasted it.

Other than being huge this drink is really not that out there. It is simply a bulked up champagne cocktail, and  I'm a big fan of the traditional champagne cocktail. And what's not to like: a bit of sugar and bitters added to a glass of champagne. (A healthy slug of brandy isn't going to make me like it less, either.) I have always thought of the champagne cocktail as the perfect brunch beverage, regardless of how revered the mimosa has become. For me, the entire idea of brunch revolves around decadence. Partaking in great food, great drinks, great company, and preferably some sunshine for a couple of hours, pretty much requires sacrificing at least an entire afternoon for the pleasure of inactivity. It is almost impossible to be productive after so much relaxation and indulgence. I can't imagine a better way to spend such an occasion than with a glass of champagne tinged pink with bitters, sparkling in that imagined sunshine. What a treat it would be to stare down a Maharajah's Burra-Peg over brunch--I don't think I would be able to worry about anything at all.

Maharajah's Burra-Peg (as adapted)

For Two:

3 ounces cognac

1/4 ounce simple syrup

3 dashes Angostura Bitters

champagne

Stir cognac, syrup, and bitters in an ice-filled mixing glass for 10-15 seconds. Strain into a chilled champagne flute. Top with champagne (I suggest 3 ounces each, maximum). Garnish with a lime twist.

Notes on Ingredients: I used Pierre Masson VSOP brandy, a 1:1 simple syrup, and Chateau St. Michelle sparkling wine.

Generally for a champagne cocktail that includes spirits, I will not add more than three ounces of "champagne," maximum. In fact, less is usually better, though it depends on the specific ingredients. In the past, when I have followed a recipe that called for more than three ounces, balance was quickly lost as the dryness of the wine took over. Now, with sparklers that do not include spirits, each drink must be evaluated individually. I found that adding three ounces of sparkling wine to the Maharajah's Burra-Peg worked very well. 

As far as how this champagne cocktail tasted, it was delicious. It almost makes you remember why Charles Baker drinks can be exceedingly popular. The lime twist really elevated the drink and brought it together in an unexpected way. Over time the alcohol pulled more of the essence out of that little sliver of peel and that just added to the development of the flavors in a really pleasant way. Not only did I find this Baker recipe acceptable, with the tiny, though necessary adjustments, I am positive that we will actually have it again. We may even serve it to guests.

Ode to Bitters: Alabazam

You know that you are a confirmed cocktail geek--a state beyond that of mere cocktail enthusiast--when you hear yourself repeatedly saying, "You should add bitters to that." (I am sure Tracy can tell you the other warning signs, but this is my personal benchmark.) Any spirit and tonic, add bitters. Seven and Seven, add bitters. Club soda with a slice of lime, add bitters. They have become my go-to garnish! Bitters are wonderful and can enhance the other flavors in the glass like nothing else. In celebration of all things bitters, I will post recipes for cocktails that are all about the bitters, where the bitters gain standing as a real ingredient as opposed to being relegated to a trifling dash. So on with our quest to find drinks with heaping amounts of bitters.

The Alabazam is a drink that was rediscovered by Jamie Boudreau in late 2008 in response to a Mixology Monday where the theme was nineteenth-century cocktails. It was the original creation of Leo Engels, an American expatriate from New York City who tended bar at the Criterion's American Bar in London when it first opened. The recipe is collected in Engel's American and Other Drinks, published in 1878. And though Engel liberally lifted many drinks from Jerry Thomas's tome, How to Mix Drinks, this recipe seems to be an original. This drink has traveled the cocktail blogging circuit, but not a lot more has been introduced about the man behind this wonderful little tipple. (On a side note, William Schmidt, the Only William, also includes a drink by the name Alabazam in his book, The Flowing Bowl: What and When to Drink, published in 1891. His Alabazam, though remarkably similar, does not contain that one ingredient that sets Engel's drink apart, the aromatic bitters. His drink contains a jigger of brandy and 2 dashes of curacoa that have been stirred with a lemon/sugar mixture. )

Alabazam

1 1/2 ounces cognac

2 teaspoons Cointreau

1 teaspoon Angostura bitters

1 teaspoon simple syrup

1 teaspoon lemon juice

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

As you can see, those bitters make the drink quite a deep shade of red and it is almost opaque. It is incredibly luscious looking, kind of like liquid velvet. The Angostura's cloves dominate the aromas, though a hint of citrus is barely detectable through the fog of spice. A drink with an amazing nose is always a good sign, and the taste does not disappoint. The cloves surge through the other flavors almost threatening to blanket them completely. It is only with subsequent sips that the cognac, lemon and mild orange flavors appear. But as my mouth became accustomed to the effervescent taste of the bitters, I noticed the other flavors were layered on top, waiting to be unearthed. This drink is wickedly complex and challenging for the palate. I even thought I detected a slight taste of cherries that I think might have been yet another flavor that the bitters contributed. The texture is smooth, and perhaps is due to the copious amount of Angostura. (As we explore other heavily bittered cocktails, maybe this will come up again.) The drink is very dry at the end, another consequence of the bitters, and the cinnamon and clove flavors linger long after the swallow. All in all this is an awesome cocktail.