Happy Birthday, Distilled Knowledge!

One year ago today, I became a published author.

Granted, the book had been finished for months, was already printed, and had been distributed to many of the folks who pre-ordered it in September, but the official date of publication was October 4th, and I had had my sights on that date for the better part of a year.

It has been strange to be an author, mostly in how not-strange it has been. There is very little fanfare from day to day. Even the things I do in my capacity as "Brian D. Hoefling, author of Distilled Knowledge" are often tied up in logistics and details. When shall we schedule this event for maximum attendance? Can we wiggle down the price and still serve drinks? And so on.

The recognition is always sudden when it comes, and generally brief but all-consuming. This summer I met an Australian couple who had read my book and were thrilled to discover that I was about to give a talk at the very same museum where they happened to be. That was awesome.

Sometimes it's as simple as seeing it on a shelf - in a bookstore, in a friend's home, in any case no different from any other book there, no less a book, no less real, and no less published. Or being asked to sign a copy and remembering, for whatever reason I happen to remember it that day, that there is something on this planet to which my signature adds value.

I'm still rather dumbstruck by the whole thing. I had really never expected to write this book. Even while I was working on it, I never really expected it to come out when it was done.

I've heard it said that it's a good sign for a relationship if you can keep surprising each other. If that's so, then Distilled Knowledge and I are in it for the long haul. That little book keeps surprising me just by being there.

You have my thanks, the lot of you. You know who you are. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them.

And now, because I haven't had quite enough sap yet today (wait for the pun), I'm going to mark the occasion with a cocktail broadly inspired by the one I concocted when my first book arrived last year, which was:

Publication Cocktail
1 1/2 oz. Rittenhouse 100º Rye
1 oz. Angostura Amaro
1/4 oz. Maple Syrup
2 dashes Crude Sycophant (Orange & Fig) Bitters
Shake with ice. Strain into a chilled coupe glass.

Today's shares the maple-fruit-herbal palate, which is one I enjoy quite a lot, but otherwise has little in common. It does, however, use ingredients that have some significance to me and to the last year in one way or another. Here you go:

Next Year in Salem
2 oz. Rhum Barbancourt 8-Year
1/2 oz. Cranberry Liqueur
2 tsp. Grade A Maple Syrup
2 tsp. Ferro China Baliva
1 healthy dash Crude Sycophant (Orange & Fig) Bitters
Stir with ice for a bit longer than you think you should. Double-strain into a rocks glass and serve without ice.

Cheers, friends.

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Cognac-Gin Cocktails and the "Millionaire" Cocktail

Something like seven years ago, I spent New Year's Eve at a lovely hotel in northern New Hampshire. It was one of the grand dames of the grand hotel era, and that evening in its ballroom was the first time I encountered an ice luge. (I find this odd in retrospect.)

Appropriately, it was a very impressive ice luge - more an ice sculpture, really, taller than a person and the length of a table, with an undulating tunnel from top-left to bottom-right that the drinks ran through with impressive speed. One did not do shots from this ice luge. On the contrary, the bartender placed a cocktail glass at the exit, got up on a stool to pour the cocktail into the top, and then watched as the wall of decorated ice placed it perfectly into the glass on his behalf.

I swear the ice luge isn't the point of this story, but once I remembered it I couldn't help but share it.

The drink that received this special treatment was, I was told, the Millionaire Cocktail, consisting of gin, Cognac, sweet vermouth, and grenadine. You may have heard that there are a whole bunch of drinks by that name, and there totally are. I've just never found one with that list of ingredients.

Not for lack of trying, mind you. This all took place before my journey of cocktail discovery really got going, and so the "Millionaire," whatever it was, was one of the drinks I sought out in my early research. Not only could I not find anything connecting that name to the recipe I'd been given, but the distinctive base - gin and Cognac, who'd a thunk it? - seemed not to have been used in any major recipes, period. Eventually I gave up, and moved on to other areas of inquiry.

But this week I stumbled upon a drink that brought this question roaring back into my mind. Here's the Stay Up Late (recipe adapted from Serious Eats):

Stay Up Late
1 ½ oz. London Dry Gin
½ oz. Cognac
3/4 oz. Lemon Juice
3/4 oz. 1:1 Simple Syrup
~4 oz. Club Soda to Fill

Shake gin, Cognac, lemon juice, and simple syrup with ice. Strain into a Collins glass. Top with club soda; garnish with a brandied cherry speared with an orange slice. 

I have a particular fondness for the counterintuitive. I love delicious cocktails, but if they also don't make sense on paper, I'll love them all the more. This is where my special affection for the Jungle Bird and the Twentieth Century comes from, to say nothing of my appreciation for the Kingston, which is essentially a Daiquiri with a mixed base of gin and aged rum. And so my old obsession with the Mystery Millionaire was easily reawakened. 

The cocktail journalism landscape has changed dramatically since the last time I looked into it; it's fascinating to research the same thing before and after an explosion of public interest in the field. There are now dozens of online references to the Stay Up Late, which is attested at least as far back as The Stork Club Bar Book in 1946, where before I couldn't find a single credible witness to the phenomenon of mixed-base gin-brandy drinks.

Looking for more examples led me to this lovely gin-ealogy post, evidently derived from a seminar at the second-ever San Antonio Cocktail Conference. There is yet another Harvard cocktail on that list, to my dismay (the "Harvard Veritas," consisting of gin, Cointreau, lemon juice, and a dash of crème de cassis, presumably for color), but that's OK, because it has also provided me with a drink variously called the Loud Speaker, the Announcer, or the Winchell, which also uses the Cognac/gin mixed base:

Loudspeaker Cocktail (That's the name with the most hits on Google)
3/4 oz. Gin
3/4 oz. Cognac
1 oz. Cointreau
½ oz. Lemon Juice

Shake and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist, or not at all.

Like the Between-the-Sheets, this is essentially a Sidecar with a split base of Cognac and a clear spirit. I haven't tried this recipe, but I expect it calls for about twice as much Cointreau as you'd actually want.

That page also reminded me that the Pink Lady exists, although to be fair, I already knew that one. It's often just made with gin these days, but the classic version is a mixed-base drink, with gin and apple brandy - not quite what we're looking for here, but further proof that gin and brown spirits can play nicely together (recipe adapted from Imbibe Magazine):

Pink Lady
1 ½ oz. London Dry Gin
½ oz. Applejack or Apple Brandy
Juice of ½ Lemon
2 dashes Grenadine
1 Egg White

Shake all ingredients without ice to unfold egg proteins. Then add ice and shake again. Strain into a coupe glass and garnish with a brandied cherry.

This one is absolutely a classic, and it's by far the closest, flavor-wise, to what I had in New Hampshire. But it definitely wasn't the drink I had. There was no foam in my Pseudo-Millionaire, which rules out the egg white (I also assume they wouldn't have put eggs through the ice luge). And I specifically remember being told Cognac and vermouth were in there somewhere; applejack may have been available, but it wasn't popular at the time, and I expect I would have remembered the difference.

There's one more gin-brandy drink I've found in my current round of research, and that's the Ampersand (recipe adapted from Serious Eats):

Ampersand
1 oz. Cognac
1 oz. Old Tom Gin
1 oz. Sweet Vermouth
2 dashes Orange Bitters

Stir well with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass. Do not garnish.

It's also in the right family flavor-wise, but I can guarantee there was no Old Tom gin in northern New Hampshire at the time I encountered this mystery cocktail. At the time "gin" and "London dry gin" were still coextensive categories in a lot of places, aside from the odd bottle of Plymouth here or there. Funnily enough, Old Tom gin is actually a more natural ingredient to pair with Cognac than London dry gin is, because it's sweeter and richer, but it definitely wasn't what was in this drink.

So it seems I've struck out again, but not as hard as the last time. Some people before the bartender at this hotel have tried blending brandy and gin, and it was a good enough idea that others picked it up. That makes me want to try to recreate what I had (and, for that matter, to see if I still enjoy it after years palate evolution).

So let's see what we can come up with, shall we? Based on the above and my memory, I think the base should be something like 2:1 brandy:gin; with no more sweet vermouth than gin and possibly less; and no more grenadine than sweet vermouth, and possibly quite a bit less - it had to flow, after all. So let's start with something simple, like 1 oz. Cognac, 1/2 oz. gin, 1/2 oz. sweet vermouth, and 1 tsp. grenadine.

This came out much better than I would have expected.

It's a simple drink, flavor-wise. You get grenadine, sweet vermouth, Cognac, and gin, in that order. The gin is mostly limited to the finish. It's the sort of drink where it's especially important to use decent ingredients, because none of them is going to hide from you in the slightest. My choices: Courvoisier, my go-to Cognac; Dolin, my go-to sweet vermouth; homemade grenadine; and Citadelle gin, which I've never owned a bottle of before today.

Citadelle is a solid neutral base for a gin cocktail, more juniper-forward and less earthy than my usual Plymouth. That turns out to be a good thing, because the ginny finish is the most interesting thing in the drink, which is otherwise a "Hey, bartender, what's like a Manhattan but sweeter?" I wanted more of that in there, and added a drop of Fee Bros. gin barrel-aged orange bitters. Yes, I know, that was also definitely not in the New Hampshire version, but if the Jack Rose Society can add Peychaud's to its eponymous cocktail, I think I can take some liberties with the Quasi-Millionaire before I send it out into the world.

A good first draft, but not good enough that I was ready to stop. The gin was the trick - the drink was a little flat until the moment it really hit. So, what if we reversed the proportions of gin and Cognac? Would that take it over the top?

Nope, wrong move. The drink came out harsh and weak-bodied by comparison with the brandy-forward version. I wanted to check all my boxes, but I'd had a suspicion from the get-go that a 50/50 split was where this was headed. It turns out I was right on the money: I and all available friends and neighbors preferred that one by a mile.

It's not quite the drink I had back then, which I remember being sweeter and more brilliantly red (probably from using Rose's grenadine instead of the real pomegranate stuff), and just a tad tangier (maybe there was a bit of lemon juice or sours mix in there that they never mentioned?). It's also still not listed as a Millionaire in any book I've seen.

But it seems to be a reasonable craft-cocktail approximation of the mystery drink, and, more importantly, it's good. With a family as wide-open as the Millionaire's is, who's to say this isn't a distant cousin?

And so I present to you the:

White Mountain Millionaire
3/4 oz. Courvoisier Cognac
3/4 oz. Citadelle Gin
1/2 oz. Dolin Sweet Vermouth
1 tsp. Real Pomegranate Grenadine

Shake with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass. Optionally, garnish with a brandied cherry speared with a lemon peel.

The garnish is a guess, but I do think there were probably maraschino cherries (the bright red ones they put on ice cream sundaes, that is) decorating the original drink, and the lemon nods to the hint of tartness I think it must have had for me to keep swigging them all night (which I most definitely did).

This was the only version I tried that really tasted like it was more than the sum of its parts. The sip still started with grenadine and then hit you with the vermouth's herbal notes, and the swallow was still strong on the gin, but the blended base added an element of mystery to the middle that made this worth drinking again. If I ever put together a list of house cocktails - drinks that guests at my home are always welcome to ask for, other than the obvious ones - I think I'd have to include this one.

The Dead Eye Cocktail

Let it never be said that I was unable to admit being wrong. I owe an apology to Fernet Branca - their product is still foul on its own, but, credit where credit is due, I've finally found a drink that uses the stuff and actually manages to taste good. (I'm not counting the Hanky Panky, which treats Fernet as a non-potable bitters.)

I was in New York this week for the Harlem Whiskey Renaissance (highly recommended!). I figured I should check out the Harlem cocktail scene while I was in town, and I'd heard great things about a place called Caballero. They're new, and they're still way under the radar - they haven't got a web presence that I can find, and I'm not sure whether that's a deliberate choice or they're just still working on it - but in any case, you can find them at 119th and St. Nicholas.

Caballero is very tequila-forward and very, very good. They have a house-made salt blend to use in their Palomas, if that gives you a sense: they hand-grind crystals of what I'm told was Mexican sea salt, Hawaiian volcanic salt (which was red!), and Himalayan pink salt, along with smaller amounts of other salts from around the world. Just a pinch goes into each drink, but you can think of it like a bitters - it adds a bit of body, and a subtle hint of flavor that ties the whole thing together.

That Paloma, incidentally, also used a mixed base of blanco and reposado tequila and a dash of blood orange liqueur, and it was heavenly. But that's not why I'm here (it would be difficult to replicate without their house-made ingredients anyhow).

I'm here because it was a stunningly slow night - step up your game, New York! it was eleven o'clock on a Thursday! - and that gave me a chance to get talking with Nick the bartender. Somewhere along the way I asked him what he usually drinks after his shift, and he said he opts for a Fernet and cola. I'd had just enough to drink to share how I really felt about Fernet Branca.

He took that as a challenge. I was skeptical, but I always admire that impulse. And that's how I came to be drinking the Dead Eye, the only drink on their menu with Fernet in it, and a real doozy of a cocktail. The bet was that if I didn't like the drink, it was on him; but if I did, I'd have to eat crow on my blog (which I'd mentioned I keep) and share the recipe.

And, well, here we are:

Dead Eye Cocktail
2 oz. Añejo Tequila
1/2 oz. Fernet Branca
1/2 oz. Islay Scotch
1/4 oz. Cynar
Fill with ~2oz. India Pale Ale
Top with 2 healthy dashes of barrel-aged orange bitters
Garnish with a cilantro stalk

A few notes: the tequila was one I didn't recognize, and I don't recall the name; I'll see if I can get it from them and I'll post it if I do. The Scotch, I believe, was Laphroaig 10. The IPA was super hoppy, but I'm not sure which one it was. As for the bitters, they house-age them in mason jars with staves from old tequila barrels (they're on display behind the bar, which is really cool), but if you don't want to make them yourself at home, Nick recommended substituting the whiskey barrel-aged orange bitters from Eldritch Spirits in Rhode Island (unfortunately hard to find, even around here) or, in a pinch, one dash each of Fee Bros. whiskey barrel-aged aromatic bitters and gin barrel-aged orange bitters.

There's obviously a lot going on here - crazy bold flavors bouncing off each other in all directions. The smoke from the Scotch complements the low notes in the Fernet and the Cynar, and the wood notes in the tequila. The hoppiness in the beer plays off the Cynar's vegetal notes, the mint from the Fernet and the herbaceousness in the cilantro garnish. The orange can play in both sandboxes, and it, the cilantro, and the tequila form their own triangle. It's a loud, crowded drink, not subtle in the slightest, but it's remarkably good if you can handle it. And I'll be the first to admit that it just wouldn't work without the Fernet.

Unfortunately, I'd already put my camera away for the night, so I haven't got a picture of it. But Nick has an Instagram account, and he promised to put up a picture of the drink for me to link to. Check him out here, and happy holidays - it looks like Fernet Branca isn't that bad after all!

Speed Rack Northeast

This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the Speed Rack Northeast competition in downtown Boston. I say "pleasure" for three reasons:

  • This event is a ton of fun.
  • Aside from taking notes and pictures, I wasn't working while I was there, so I could enjoy it to the fullest.
  • Going made me realize just what a baller my friend Katie is, for placing second in the Chicago competition after just a year behind the bar.

And now I have the pleasure of writing about it, for the benefit of those (like me a few days ago) who don't really know what Speed Rack is or what it's all about.

What is Speed Rack?
A women-only speed bartending competition.

What's it all about?
Breast cancer. Specifically, fighting it.

How does it work?
It's a series of head-to-head competitions, judged by a panel of four experts. (In our case, they were Charles Joly, Nancy Batista-Caswell, Josey Packard, and Misty Kalkofen.)

Each round, each of the judges orders a drink. Both bartenders then prepare the same four-drink order for the judges' table (each has her own bar to work with). The preparation is timed, and the goal is to have the fastest time.

But! The judges can add penalties in five-second increments for errors or inadequacies in the drinks. As a competitor, you have a strategic choice between taking your time and being careful, aiming to minimize penalties; or going for broke on speed, trusting that you can put a big enough gap between yourself and your opponent that any penalties won't matter.

In either case, both competitors are making four craft cocktails to order, for professional judges, in the space of a couple of minutes.

That was confusing. Can't I just watch a video?
You can, and you totally should. Speed Rack has a very worthwhile YouTube channel - the video from Sunday isn't up yet, but you can see Katie's aforementioned appearance in Speed Rack Midwest here:

When and where does this happen?
Throughout the year, and all over the country. There are eight regional competitions, which started with Speed Rack Midwest in November and wrap up later this month with Speed Rack Southwest in Denver. Sunday's was Speed Rack Northeast, which covers New England (props to them for drawing the boundary of the "Northeast" at the Hudson River, like we do here in Boston).

Is there an overall winner who gets a cool title?
You bet! Each regional competition sends two people to the championship in New York in May: the winner, and a second competitor chosen by a combination of the judges' vote and a popular vote. Whoever wins in New York is crowned Miss Speed Rack [Year].

How did this come about?
You should ask the founders, Ivy Mix and Lynnette Marrero, but in brief: the idea was to create a competition that celebrated the work of female bartenders (check) and supported women both in and out of the industry (also check). They got started in 2011 and have been going ever since.

The Applelation Cider booth - apparently their cider is kosher for Passover.

The Applelation Cider booth - apparently their cider is kosher for Passover.

What's the vibe like?
Raucous, for a start. Everybody from Auchentoshan to Xanté was there as a sponsor - their booths lined both walls of Royale in the Theater District, if you know the space - and the drinks were free for ticketholders. That and the extremely danceable music played between rounds and during deliberations reinforced the...well, the feeling of being at a competition based on speed and booze.

I was impressed by how supportive the competitors were of each other, both in Boston and in the videos of past competitions that I may or may not have spent a lot of time watching since Sunday. Impressed but not surprised - the people who gravitate towards these kinds of events and this kind of hospitality, in my experience, know how to appreciate the success of their peers, even when they're competing.

An exemplary moment: just before the final results were announced, the emcee said to the two finalists, "I'm going to let you hold hands and celebrate each other." Naturally, they did.

How do I go to one of these?
Depends! If you're in Colorado and you're free on March 26th, check out Speed Rack Southwest - there's more information here, and tickets are available here.

There will also be the national championship in New York on May 21st! How one gets tickets to that is not yet clear to me, but the Speed Rack facebook page will probably be updated at some point between now and then with the necessary information.

How much money do they raise?
I don't know how much money they've raised in total, but they took in $69,000 in the first year and the thing's gotten a lot bigger since then. Tickets were $25 a pop, and there was a raffle on top of that, so I'd wager it's a lot.

This doesn't sound so hard - I bet I could do it!
Depends: are you a bartender (and a woman)? If so, you may want to compete next year! That process hasn't started yet, because this year's competition is still taking place; but if you're serious, you may want to bookmark this page.

If not, well, let's have no more armchair-bartending from you. Making four different cocktails in a minute and forty-three seconds is hard enough for most people, but making them to the standards of professional judges? Good night.

For the love of all that is holy, get to the drinks, man!
Oh, fine. I arrived late, so I missed the early rounds. But I can tell you the menus for the semifinal and final rounds:

Semifinal I
Deanna vs. Jen
Charles: Lion's Tail
Nancy: Brainstorm
Josey: 20th Century (one of my personal favorites)
Misty: Jasmine

Winner: Deanna
 

Semifinal II
Clairessa vs. Andrea
Misty: Maximilian Affair
Josey: Tipperary
Nancy: Old Cuban
Charles: Paddy Cocktail

Winner: Clairessa

Final
Deanna vs. Clairessa
Charles: Dealer's Choice ("Refreshing")
- Charles described Deanna's as some sort of medicinal ginny thing
- And he described Clairessa's as crushed ice with Aperol and (apparently not quite enough) gin
Nancy: Morning Glory Fizz
Josey: Vieux Carré
Misty: Dealer's Choice ("Smoky and stirred, with the nuance of winter")
- Deanna's was Scotch, mezcal, green Chartreuse, and (apparently not quite enough) maraschino liqueur - a variation on the Last Word
- Clairessa's was Scotch, allspice dram, Cocchi di Torino, and simple syrup

Winner: Clairessa, Miss Speed Rack Northeast

Now this is how you celebrate a Speed Rack win!

Now this is how you celebrate a Speed Rack win!

Stray Thoughts and Fun Facts

  • They gave Clairessa and Deanna's times in the final round to two decimal places. The competitors' initial times get progressively closer to each other as they advance through the rounds, but, I mean, damn.
  • Misty has judged every single Speed Rack competition in Boston, as well as a bunch of others around the country.
  • The raffle prizes ranged from a bottle of Plantation 20th Anniversary Rum to a $100 gift card to Drink (they do gift cards!?) to a Chartreuse backpack. Basically every prize package came with a sampler of Hella Bitters.
Hell yeah indeed, good sir. Hell yeah indeed.

Hell yeah indeed, good sir. Hell yeah indeed.

The Martini Part II: The History of the Martin[x] Family

I promised some time ago that there'd be a follow-up post on the history of the Martini. I like to think of myself as someone who keeps all his promises eventually, so here it is at last. (If you're looking for a recipe guide or the Herzog Cocktail School's Official List of Martiniological Heresies, click here.)

My thanks and apologies to David Wondrich – his book Imbibe! is my primary source for what follows. If you'd like more detail on this story, I highly recommend it. It also contains far more historical recipes than this blog post will.

The story of the Martini, and of the dozenish related cocktails we'll need to discuss along with it, begins with vermouth. It made landfall in the United States in the middle part of the nineteenth century, and within a few decades it had been adapted to the existing American culture of cocktails.

At the time, that meant serving the vermouth iced, bittered, and lemon-peeled, and calling it a Vermouth Cocktail. This was a refreshing change of pace for people who found that 40-50% ABV Gin or Whiskey Cocktails didn't agree with them.

But the next step, crossing the one with the other, was inevitable. The endlessly inventive barmen of the nineteenth century would devise hundreds of variations on this theme, only a few of which have survived to the present day.

Primordial Soup
"The Martini is merely a geographical expression."
- Klemens von Metternich, probably

Of that enormous menu of vermouth-and-spirit drinks, the Martini and the Manhattan are by far the most famous today. They also seem like the natural winners of the bunch – in the same way that apple and cinnamon seem to have an innate bond, one might well say that both whiskey and sweet vermouth and gin and dry vermouth are simply complementary pairs.

Except for one thing: the Martini that we think of today - gin, dry vermouth, an olive or a lemon peel, and absolutely not one other godforsaken thing - was a later invention.

The "Dry Martini," it was originally called (I always assumed that people who ordered Martinis that way were saying they wanted the vermouth to be a rounding error, and that may be true for many of them, but it turns out they're in the right anyway, for historical reasons). It used dry vermouth and London dry gin specifically.

That's utterly unlike the first drinks to be called "Martinis," which appeared in the 1880s. They used sweet vermouth - the only vermouth available in the 'States at the time - and Old Tom gin, which is sweeter than London dry. It was a really sweet drink, is what I'm saying.

Some variations used Hollands or Plymouth gin, also still with sweet vermouth, before the London dry version came screaming onto the scene so loudly that we all just collectively forgot there'd ever been anything else. Wondrich dates the Dry Martini's ascent to the mid-1890s.

(Here's quick primer on gin styles, if you need one to follow all that.)

All of these drinks also called for bitters, generally orange ones. At the time, the presence of bitters was still part of the definition of “Cocktail” (and by the 1890s, really the only part left that would be unfamiliar today). Oh, and those first “Dry” Martinis could be as much as 50% vermouth.

The Gibson: Our Secret Patrimony
"The captive Gibson has captivated her uncivilized conqueror."
- Horace, probably

Which brings us to the roundabout history of the Gibson. Coming out of San Francisco around the turn of the twentieth century and known across the country by 1904, it, too, was a concoction of dry gin (London or Plymouth) with dry vermouth, and likewise a 50/50 drink. At the time, it was made without bitters, just enough to distinguish it from the Dry Martini.

It was also originally served without a garnish, the first on record being a hazelnut. Meanwhile Martinis were being garnished with citrus peels and the occasional olive, much as they are today. Somewhere along the way, somebody started using pickled onions, most likely as a quick visual cue that the contents of the glass were specifically a Gibson and not a Martini. The Negroni's orange peel replaced the Americano's lemon in the same way.

But as the twentieth century wore on, the bitters fell away from the main-branch Martini, too. The vestigial onion became the only difference between it and the Gibson – because the Martini had essentially become a Gibson. 

The Drying of the Dry Martini
"How about 73 Dry Martinis?"
- Ernest Hemingway, apparently

The breeding-out of the bitters is just part of the story, though. What started out as a 1:1 drink had become a 2:1 drink when the Savoy Cocktail Book was published in the 1930s; it could be as much as a 7:1 drink by the late forties, when David Embury was writing; and could at least satirically be a 20:1 drink when taxpayer money paid for this in 1974.

At some point it was decided by the Fashionable Set that it was proper to make a Martini with just a rinse of vermouth, or just an aerosolized spray of vermouth, or – God help us – no vermouth at all, just a bottle on the shelf to nod to or a solemn look in the general direction of France.

Footnote? Those mid-century miscreants drinking their Big Glasses 'o Gin and calling them "Martinis," appalled at the thought of fortified wine befouling the taste of juniper and alcoholism, are in my view no different from the people who order their meat burnt black. Yes, you probably have a higher tolerance for harsh flavor than the average person. Congratulations. You are still missing the point.

And this heresy begat another, paving the way for the Appletini and its unholy brood. It was the gin-drinkers who first declared that something that was certainly not a Martini could still be called one if it was served in a cocktail glass. The next generation of drinkers took notice, and when they cast off the stodgy straight gin of their parents, embarked on an admirable if depraved explosion of creativity, filling cocktail glasses with sour apple schnapps, literal coffee, or just plain ol' vodka and sour mix, and attaching at least a '-tini' to the end of each.

But I digress.

The Paths Not Taken
Remember that ur-Martini recipe, with the sweeter Tom gin and the sweet vermouth? It survives to this day, in the guise of the Martinez.

We treat the maraschino liqueur as an full-fledged ingredient in the contemporary Martinez, but that would have been absurd at the time of its invention. Nineteenth-century barmen used maraschino - and absinthe, and curaçao - the same way they used bitters: drops and dashes at a time. Swapping out, say, Boker's for maraschino was a much smaller change to them than it would be to us, even if they were using a full quarter of an ounce.

This means that the common narrative (for certain values of “common”) that the Martini descended from the Martinez is at best half true. They're related, sure, and the Martinez is attested first, but they both started out as sweet gin + sweet vermouth + some kind of bitters or bitters-like-thing= drink.

In fact, according to Wondrich, the Martini and the Martinez were bouncing around at the same time as the Martine, Martineau, Martigny, Martina, Martena, and so on: all names that got applied to that same sweet+sweet+[something] cocktail at various times in various places, most likely due to a giant, continent-spanning game of Telephone. In other words, these two are related by parallel and not by direct descent, each a grandchild of the Martin[x] cocktail concocted back in the 18somethings.

A family tree for all the branches of vermouth cocktails discussed in this post. Not pictured: cadet branches featuring other spirits, like the El Presidente and the Metropolitan; mixed-base cocktails like the Vieux Carré; and structurally-similar but independently-evolved drinks like the Negroni.

A family tree for all the branches of vermouth cocktails discussed in this post. Not pictured: cadet branches featuring other spirits, like the El Presidente and the Metropolitan; mixed-base cocktails like the Vieux Carré; and structurally-similar but independently-evolved drinks like the Negroni.

Certainly, they've both evolved since then, the Martini more dramatically but the Martinez noticeably as well, despite its reputation as a living fossil. Today, it's very frequently made with orange rather than aromatic bitters, the proportion of maraschino has tended to increase, the curaçao one might have seen in it in years past is nowhere to be found, and now and then one finds versions that are deliberately spirit-forward rather than 50/50.

Second Cousins, Once or Twice Removed
Having adjusted the taxonomy of the Martin[x] family, we can posit a similar close relationship for the Manhattan and the Brooklyn, the whiskey-based variations on this same theme.

The Manhattan, we all know, combines whiskey with sweet vermouth and aromatic bitters. The Brooklyn has a long and tortured history of its own but the version most commonly treated as canonical is Jacob Grohusko's from 1908, was originally made with whiskey, dry vermouth, maraschino, and Ameri Picon (a very old-school orange-flavored bitter aperitif).

If we think like nineteenth-centurymen and treat the Brooklyn's bitters and maraschino as interchangeable with the Manhattan's Angostura, the drinks differ only in the vermouth. And there were early variations on Grohusko's recipe that used the sweet stuff, too.

There were also early Manhattan recipes that called for maraschino or a dash of curaçao along with the aromatic bitters – in which case one might reasonably call the drink a Bittered Brooklyn.

The Brooklyn's evolution over time has some interesting similarities to the Martinez's. Its proportion of maraschino has tended to increase, and it's established itself as the quirky one in the family, more old-fashioned and less mainstream than its unambiguously classic cousin, even as it, too, has kept up with the times.

You've Been So Patient, Here's a Recipe
If you're like me, sixteen hundred words on Martiniological history makes you thirsty. Here's the recipe for the contemporary Martinez I just poured myself.

Martinez
2 oz. Chesuncook Gin
1 oz. Dolin Sweet Vermouth
¼ oz. Luxardo Maraschino Liqueur
2 dashes Regan's Orange Bitters
Stir with ice and strain into a coupé glass. Or serve with ice in a rocks glass – you do you.

The Martinez, I hope you've gleaned by now, a is a Wild West of a drink. The combination of things we've settled on as standard for its current incarnation is a little arbitrary, and a little variable, but the general theme is gin with sweet vermouth, orange, and maraschino. And you can make a very tasty drink that way.

Don't go too dry on the gin – it'll just end up tasting like a weird Martini. I tend to think the drink benefits from a little earthiness, so I used the Chesuncook gin from Maine, which is made from a base of distilled carrots. (No, really.) If you've got a nice, malty genever on hand, give it a try. Plymouth would work quite nicely, too, and in general I recommend Plymouth as an all-purpose gin to keep on hand.

As for the cocktail, in this version, at least, the nose is juniper, an almost berrylike sugar, a hint of citrus, and the heathery Maine spices from the Chesuncook. The sip starts with earthy sweetness from the vermouth and maraschino, with a very noticeable, very rich mouthfeel. It dries out fast on the swallow, with a burst of citrus and those lovely Maine botanicals.

Man, it seems a long time since I've written out tasting notes for a cocktail. Feels good to be at it again. As much as I enjoy writing long history and opinion pieces, it's the drinks that matter most, right? Right.

Tune in next time, for the first in a three-part series on the muddled history of blue curaçao with extensive footnotes! (Kidding!)

((...maybe not kidding. We'll see.))

No Fernet, Never Fernet

It's a beautiful snowy day, which is a wonderful excuse to stay inside and put the finishing touches on a piece I've been working on. (Warning: strong opinions ahead.)

You see, I have a bone to pick with my friend Randy over at Summit Sips - whose posts are invariably excellent, but whose most recent, "The Ferrari: A Bartender's Handshake," contains the extremely questionable advice that one should ever, under any circumstances, drink Fernet Branca.

Of course, one should not. But it's not really Randy's fault. The whole world has gone mad over this stuff, and it's high time someone set them straight.

A wise man once said

"Fernet Branca is, in my view, the most foul drinking concoction yet conceived of by man. Yes, it's worse than Malort - and by a long shot. Yes, it's worse than Dr. McGillicuddy's peppermint schnapps. Yes, it's worse than plastic-bottle Popov vodka. It's like someone took a perfectly good bottle of Amaro Meletti and threw all three of those in there, with a little Aunt Jemima's for color. By what hanky-panky it has brainwashed so many otherwise-reasonable people into claiming that they like it, I have no idea."

Before adding:

"...don't get me started."

You may consider me thoroughly started. A shot of Fernet is described, in the Summit Sips post and elsewhere, as the "bartender's handshake," a sort of secret signal that you're in the club, you know your stuff, you're a real aficionado. It's not the only drink to have served in this role - the Negroni has, being similarly bitter and complex, but with the benefit of actually tasting good, which Fernet does not.

For those of you who have never had Fernet Branca, I commend you on your life choices. But if you want to know what it tastes like, try to imagine something that is, at once, far too sweet, far too bitter, and far too minty. A friend of mine (who claims, no doubt erroneously, to like the stuff) is fond of repeating the quip that it's "like mouthwash with delusions of grandeur." Others have likened it to motor oil, and who am I to say they're wrong?

Again, the bartender's handshake is a shot of this stuff. A shot of it. Knocked back, all at once, it's a bungee jump of a drink. It's often served with a chaser of Pabst Blue Ribbon, presumably to keep it down (or perhaps because satire has been obsolete since the seventies).

I have been served such shots by earnest, well-meaning bartenders with whom I'd connected and had a good conversation while at the bar. Bless their hearts, I don't blame them for it a bit. I seem like someone who would have drunk this particular Kool-Aid, which makes it a very kind and generous pour. But it also obliges me to do the damned shot with them, which rather takes the wind out of the sails of my gratitude.

In short, bartenders need a new handshake.

Literally anything else would be preferable. "Hey that was a nice conversation we had. How about a bracing shot of blue curaçao?" "Oh, yes, please - that sounds lovely!" "Have you tried our malt vinegar shrub? We make it with actual shrubs." "No, but I'd be delighted! A double, if you don't mind."

“Ah,” some at-once-smug-and-benighted soul will be saying about now, “But perhaps Fernet is simply too intense for you?” In a word, no.

Here is a non-comprehensive list of intense drinking experiences I've been known to enjoy:

  • Smith and Cross overproof Jamaican rum (my preferred sipping rum around the house until an acid reflux diagnosis put an end to that)
  • Jeppson's Malört
  • A Trinidad Sour
  • Grappa of dubious quality
  • Moxie
  • A Pink Gin made with the driest, Londoniest London Dry Gin available
  • Shots of dill- and horseradish-flavored vodka, drunk in the Russian style with an assortment of smoked, salted, and pickled fish and vegetables
  • Straight-up apple cider vinegar
  • Literally every amaro I've had that wasn't Fernet Branca. Meletti? Love it. Ferro China Baliva? Special ordered it from Italy before it was available in the 'States. Campari, Aperol? ¿Por qué no los dos? Letherbee Fernet? Pretty damned good, I have to say. Give me Strega, Cardamaro, Montenegro, Lucano, rucolino from Ischia, mamma mia, here we go: give me any herbal tincture you may care to procure, and I'll say “Give me more, but hold the damned Fernet.”

My favorite style of wine is the earthy, dry-as-a-bone, punch-you-in-the-face Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. My favorite style of rum is funky, flavorful Jamaican, with deep notes of molasses and the slightest eau de décomposition.

It's not me, it's the Fernet. I would eat that jumping-larva cheese from Sardinia before I'd shoot Fernet again. Unless I could shoot it with a gun, that sounds fun and would be fine.

For pity's sake, Fernet shots (and Malört shots for that matter – it's a good spirit, worth drinking, but no one in his right mind should ever shoot it) are the frat-bro “How many shots of PECTOPAH vodka can you do, pussy?” of the bartending world. I refuse to believe that anyone enjoys the flavor. People may enjoy the ritual, though I'd suspect most of them are either just pretending to or suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

It's a garbage drink. If I used it to clean my drain and poured myself a shot of drain cleaner I'm not sure I'd know the difference.

The very first time I went to Tales of the Cocktail, I sought out the Fernet table, thinking that surely it had to be my fault, and surely the people who made the stuff would know how to use it in a palatable way. Ever expect to be disappointed but hope to be pleasantly surprised, and then somehow end up even more disappointed when you're not pleasantly surprised? Because I sure have! There was not a worthwhile beverage at that table, with the possible exception of the ginger ale they were ruining by adding Fernet to it.

Have you ever wondered what vodka would taste like if you added sugar and left a menthol cigarette in it for six months? Yeah, now you know.

San Francisco drinks it, and they're welcome to it. We all know the people in San Francisco are out of their minds. Too close to the international date line and the San Andreas fault line. Too many lines, it gunks up the brain. They can be forgiven.

The Argentines, too, because they mix their Fernet with Coke, which is the third-least-bad way to use Fernet, after “two drops at a time in a Hanky-Panky” and “as weedkiller.”

The Italians, too, because if they're going to condemn us to this foolish spirit they had better be drinking it themselves. They're welcome to say that it tastes good. They're welcome to believe it. They might not even be lying – after all, can we ever really be sure we've understood someone whose native language is not our own? Does meaning always survive translation? Perhaps the boundaries of “good” are different for an Italian speaker, and encompass not merely what an Anglophone would call “good,” but also some things an Anglophone would call “an abomination against heaven and earth.”

But the rest of us? Red-blooded Americans who aren't high on kale and burlesque? We should know better. We. Should. Know. Better.

Dear friends, acquaintances, colleagues, strangers, and people with whom I will someday share a strong and lasting mutual hatred over this very issue, I offer you the following things to keep in mind if you do like Fernet:

  • You don't.
  • No, really, you've been brainwashed. Try to taste the Fernet next time. Maybe sip it instead of swallowing it in one gulp. Pay attention. You'll notice it's terrible.
  • If the people who invented it don't shoot it, you shouldn't either. This also applies to Malört and Jägermeister; it does not apply to Patrón or Fireball.
  • If you think you like Fernet, wash your lying mouth out with soap, and then try Amaro Meletti, which has all the flavors Fernet would have if they weren't being swamped by sugar, bitterness, and enough mint to numb your entire body.
  • If you think “minty herbal bitter delicious sweet thing” isn't a contradiction in several terms, crack a can of Moxie. You know who liked Moxie? Ted Williams, Calvin Coolidge, and E.B. White. You know who liked Fernet Branca? Nazis.
  • I'm not even kidding, Hitler's SS bodyguards used to sit around and drink Fernet Branca, and mess with the one guy who was injured and couldn't taste things anymore by giving him something else that was deliberately foul (as opposed to Fernet Branca, which seems to have stumbled upon foulness entirely by accident).
  • And isn't it interesting that somehow after you mix Fernet Branca with literal Nazis, the Nazis seem like bigger assholes than they did when the only thing you knew about them was that they were Nazis?

If you still like Fernet at this point in the post, there is a 67% chance that you, too, are an asshole Nazi. 

All non-Nazi friends, rejoice in your non-Nazitude, and join me in defeating this heinous miscarriage of drinking once and for all. This country is overdue for some Carrie Nation-style hatchetations, and I say we start by smashing the Fernet. Wherever it may be, however much or little of it there may be, crack, bludgeon, and bash in the bottles until there is nothing left but foul-smelling sticky liquid pooling on the floor. Then set the whole damned thing on fire. You will have done the world a great service.

And for all those ever inclined to seek out or offer a bartender's handshake: broaden your horizons beyond Fernet Branca. I have faith in you. You can do so much better than this crap.

Bostonian Society Rum Punch

Earlier this year, the Bostonian Society (stewards of the Old State House and operators of the museum of colonial Boston therewithin) held a rum history and tasting event featuring local distillers. I had the pleasure of delivering a short talk on the history of rum and rum production around Boston, and the perhaps-even-greater pleasure of putting together a punch to go with the tasting.

The goal was to offer something historically-oriented, either using or based on punch recipes from the 1700s. And the rum I had to work with was the Liberty Tree from Astraluna, a distillery in Medfield that I hadn't heard of before.

Their rum is fascinating. There are notes that seem like Cognac, others that seem like whiskey, and bits of raisin, honey, vanilla, and the nutty smell of toasted olive oil. I knew right away that it'd be a good fit for a punch recipe with eighteenth-century overtones. Those punches often used a mixed base of brandy and rum (the storied Philadelphia Fish House Punch being the most famous example), and the Liberty Tree's flavor profile flirts with both of those roles.

Long story short, the punch came out great. In fact, the Bostonian Society elected to use it again for their annual holiday party last night. By request of several of the guests at that event, I'm publicizing the recipe to make at home. There's been a lot of demand for the Liberty Tree rum this holiday season (it's really a perfect rum to have around Christmas), and I know it's sold out in a couple of places, but I recommend picking up a bottle if you can find one. And, y'know, giving this recipe a try:

Bostonian Society Punch
12 parts. Tea-Infused Liberty Tree Rum*
3 parts Oleo Saccharum Mixture**
2 parts Lemon Juice
1 part Honey
Combine all ingredients in advance and allow them to marry. Serve in small, elegant cups full of ice, from a large, ornate punchbowl full of ice.

*Tea-Infused Rum (Scale to Volume Needed)
2 oz. Liberty Tree Rum
1 bag Twining's English Breakfast Tea
Combine and steep mixture for ten minutes, then discard the tea bags. (Beyond that point, the bitterness increases much more rapidly than the tea flavor does.) Don't worry if you end up with more than you need: the mixture won't go bad.

**Oleo Saccharum Mixture (Scale to Preferred Size)
1 Whole Lemon
2 oz. Sugar
Warm Water
Peel lemons. Toss peels with sugar and let them sit for 2-3 hours; this will extract the lemon oils. Add enough water to dissolve any remaining sugar (no more than 2 oz. per lemon), then strain the lemon peels out of the resulting mixture. Use the peeled lemons to provide the juice for the main recipe.

In practice, both times it's been made we've put some of the lemon peels back into the bowl once all the ingredients were combined. This isn't necessary, but if you like your punches lemony, go for it; it's a forgiving enough process that you're unlikely to overdo it.

One other thing I've noticed: This is a strong drink, and many people will prefer to cut it down with something. A bit of water would be entirely reasonable. Last night some people were asking for it topped with ginger ale or prosecco; I didn't try either, but I can see how both would work. If I wanted to cut it down, personally, and wanted something more interesting than water, I might try it with a bit of sparkling cider.

Liberty Tree is normally available at the Roche Bros. in Downtown Crossing (that's right, they have a liquor license!), but was out of stock at last check. It is, however, in stock at Gordon's in Waltham as of a quarter to five on Friday the 2nd. Give the AstraLuna folks a call at (844) 289-5862 to see if it's being sold in your neighborhood. Distribution is just in Massachusetts for the time being.

Those of you who live out of state but still want to try this recipe might try substituting a 1:2 mixture of your preferred Cognac or blended brandy and your favorite amber mixing rum – Privateer, Appleton, and Mt. Gay come to mind – for the Liberty Tree to get a similar result. Be sure to let me know how your punches turn out!

 

Distilled Knowledge Cocktails: Choose Your Own Adventure

I promised to get these recipes up here for fans of Distilled Knowledge, but I haven't managed to devote full posts to all of these yet. In the interest of keeping my readers happy, here's a quick-and-dirty rundown of some of those recipes with photos. And don't worry - they'll get proper individual posts soon enough!

Mint Julep
2 oz. Four Roses Bourbon
Drizzle of Simple Syrup
Shake vigorously with ice. Strain over crushed ice in a silver julep cup. Garnish with an enormous sprig of mint, smacked two or three times against your hand to release the oils.

Boston Sour (a.k.a., "Whiskey Sour with Egg White")
2 oz. Rittenhouse 100º Rye
1/2 oz. Lemon Juice
1/2 oz. Simple Syrup
Egg White
Shake without ice to unfold egg proteins. Add ice and shake again. Serve in a coupé glass and garnish with a maraschino or brandied cherry.

Mojito
1 1/2 oz. Privateer Silver Rum
Juice of 1/2 Lime
2 Sprigs Mint
Heavy Drizzle of Simple Syrup
2 oz. Seltzer
Muddle lime and mint in shaker. Add rum, lime juice, and simple syrup, and shake. Strain into a highball glass and top with seltzer. Garnish with a wedge of lime.

Vodka Tonic
1 oz. Tito's Vodka
6 oz. Tonic Water
Combine in a highball glass with ice. Garnish with a vodka-soaked lime, squeezed and dropped in.

Hemingway Daiquiri (Recipe adapted from Speakeasy, by the folks at Employees Only)
1 3/4 oz. Privateer Silver Rum
3/4 oz. Luxardo Maraschino Liqueur
3/4 oz. Grapefruit Juice
1 oz. Lime Juice
Drizzle of Simple Syrup
Shake and double strain into a coupé glass. Garnish with a maraschino cherry.

Monkey Gland (Recipe adapted from Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails, by Ted Haigh)
1 1/2 oz. Gin
1 1/2 oz. Orange Juice
1 bsp. Grenadine (Homemade or a nice pomegranate syrup like Monin's)
1 bsp. St. George's Absinthe
Shake. Strain into a coupé glass.

Due to equipment limitations, I'm going to defer for now to the Columbia Room's Matt Ficke on the subject of the Blue Blazer, and to Simon Ford and Liquor.com on the topic of the Absinthe Drip. (Stay tuned for more on Milk Punch and Hot Schnappsolate, the final drinks in the series.)

Distilled Knowledge Cocktail: The Martini

Damn if I haven't tried to write this post more than once. But we all have our Things, and the Martini is one of mine. And there's a lot to be said about it.

Let's start with the recipe, because I know I have a handle on that. When I sat down to make a Martini for this post, it so happened that I could make a delicious version using just ingredients from Portland, Maine:

Martini
3 1/2 oz. Aria Portland Dry Gin
1/2 oz. Sweetgrass Dry Vermouth
Stir with ice and strain into - what else? - a Martini glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon.

Note for the home bartender: "Garnish with a twist of [fruit]" means take a strip or a small medallion of the peel of that fruit, twist it over the glass to express the oils into the drink, run it around the rim of the glass, and then drop it in. It occurred to me as I was writing that that it often shows up in recipes without explanation, and could easily be confused for, "Drop a piece of lemon peel into the glass," which wouldn't be quite as effective.

Ordinarily, Martinis are garnished with a lemon twist or a cocktail olive (the latter sometimes accompanied by some of the olive brine to make a Dirty Martini). It's easy to overlook garnishes when making cocktails at home, but if you won't take my word that you should avoid doing so in general, please at least take my advice and avoid it here. The Martini is disproportionately defined by its garnish, to the point that one variation - the Gibson - is distinguished today entirely by being garnished with a cocktail onion. There's more to that story, but...well, we'll get there.

I'm a twist man, myself. That little bit of lemon sharpens and highlights the citrus notes already present in the gin; the resulting cocktail is crisp and bracing. To my tastes, the olive garnish slows down the drink - and the drinker - with that heavy, salty/savory flavor. There's certainly nothing wrong with that, and I've enjoyed an olive Martini from time to time. I recommend trying both and seeing which one you prefer. Honestly, that's a good rule of thumb whenever you have a choice between two cocktails.

I also tend to like my Martinis on the dry side, as, it seems, do most Martini drinkers. But just as it's possible to have too much of a good thing, it's possible to have a Martini that is too dry, usually by preparing one without any vermouth whatsoever.

In fact, let's take a moment to review all the ways in which people insist on soiling the Martini's good name, shall we?

The Herzog Cocktail School's Official List of Martiniological Heresies

  1. Serving a "Martini" that's just gin, or gin with a garnish. Often cutesily accompanied by a "solemn look" in the direction of France, Italy, or the vermouth bottle; equally often served on the rocks in a cocktail glass. Even worse if you do this with vodka.
  2. Failing to assume that gin is the standard base spirit unless otherwise specified. If someone asks you for a Martini, respect them enough to assume that they'd have asked for a Vodka Martini if they'd wanted one. If you ask for a Martini, respect the bartender enough to assume they'll make it with gin; if you want vodka, ask for it specifically. "Gin Martini" should be as necessary a phrase as "Whiskey Manhattan" or "Rum Daiquiri."
  3. Assuming that anything served in a cocktail glass can be called a "Martini." For pity's sake, I see menus all the time that list the Sidecar or the Cosmopolitan under the heading, "Martinis." In fact, I can't count (or conceive of!) the number of times I've seen a "Martini Menu" on which not a single drink contained gin, vermouth, or any other kind of fortified wine.
  4. Ever applying the "-tini" suffix to a drink. Ever.
  5. Shaking your Martini without a very good reason. It won't "bruise the vermouth," as is often claimed, but it will dilute the drink needlessly and take away some of the delightful crispness the Martini naturally possesses. Unless you're drinking a Vesper, can explain why I made an exception for the Vesper, or are James Bond, stir.

But why all these rules, and what's the deal with the Gibson, anyway? Well, all that history is part of what makes this such a complicated drink to write about. But with thanks and apologies to David Wondrich, who covers a lot of this in more detail in Imbibe!, I'm going to give it a shot in a second Martini post (I did tell you I had a lot to say, didn't I?). Stay tuned for Part II!

    Distilled Knowledge Cocktail: The Old Fashioned

    I'd planned to finish this series between now and October 4th - I had friends over so I could bang out a bunch of the book's recipes at once - but, well, Christmas came early yesterday. I don't want to leave my preorder readers in the lurch, so I'm accelerating the Distilled Knowledge recipe series and pulling back the curtain on the full list here.

    I started with the [Felodipine] Greyhound, in part because "Does grapefruit juice get you drunker?" was one of the ur-questions that led me to write Distilled Knowledge. But I can't go any further without covering the Old Fashioned, the first drink to bear the name "cocktail."

    Let's talk about that name for a moment, because I remember how much it blew my mind the first time I learned where it came from.

    The first record we have of what a "cocktail" is comes from 1806. In The Balance and Columbian Repository of Hudson, New York, editor Harry Croswell defined the cocktail as:

     "a stimulating liquor, composed of spirits of any kind, sugar, water, and bitters"

    (There's a scan of this available via Wikipedia, because we live in the future.)

    In those days, and for much of the nineteenth century, drink names referred to preparations that could be applied to a variety of base spirits, rather than to specific recipes. We do this occasionally today - one might order a "Brandy Manhattan" or a "Vodka Martini" and expect to be understood - but the standard assumption is that drink names are proper nouns, uniquely identifying the drinks they describe.

    Two hundred years ago, the names of drinks were descriptions. You'd give the base spirit you wanted and a word that indicated your preferred preparation. So you might, for instance, order a Brandy Julep, or a Gin Sour, a Rum Cocktail, etc.

    The story of how "cocktail" came to refer to the whole category of mixed drinks is a long and subtle one. David Wondrich covers it brilliantly in Imbibe! For our purposes here, all you need to know is that by the end of the nineteenth century, many things more complicated than the drink Harry Croswell described were referred to as "cocktails."

    But there were old-time cocktail drinkers who found this frustrating. How was one to order a stimulating liquor composed of whiskey, sugar, water, and bitters, when "whiskey cocktail" could now refer to a dozen different things?

    And so it was that this drink came to be called the "Old Fashioned Whiskey Cocktail." One can hear the conversation that led to this standard. It must have happened scores of times:

    "What'll ya have?"
    "A whiskey cocktail."
    "What kind of whiskey cocktail? An Improved Whiskey Cocktail, or a Fancy Whiskey Cocktail, or a Manhattan Cocktail, or - "
    "No, no, none of those things. I want an old fashioned whiskey cocktail."

    In time, we shortened the name to "Old Fashioned," as the number of people who cared about the old meaning of "whiskey cocktail" dwindled. Even in the early twentieth century, we were interpreting "old fashioned" pretty liberally, with muddled fruit of various types finding its way into the drink (beginning an argument that endures to this day).

    I prefer my Old Fashioneds simple and, well, old fashioned. Whiskey, sugar, bitters. A little citrus twist as a garnish is about as extravagant as it gets.

    Old Fashioned
    Place a sugar cube in an Old Fashioned glass. Soak it completely with Angostura bitters and muddle until the sugar is fine or completely dissolved. Stir in two ounces of whiskey. Optionally, place one very large ice cube in the center of the glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon.

    I've presented this as a set of instructions rather than as an ordinary recipe for a few reasons. The first and most boring is that this is how I actually make them, and I'd like to be honest. More philosophically, I think the ritual is an important part of the pleasure in this case, and it seems appropriate to give this most ancient of cocktails a paragraph rather than bullet points.

    For an Old Fashioned in this style, you should use a base spirit you'd be content to drink on its own. I used Gunpowder Rye from Portland, Maine, an excellent whiskey that fully embraces the natural spiciness of rye. I haven't seen it further south or west than Boston, but if it's available in your area, I recommend it very highly as a sipping whiskey.

    If you must muddle fruit into it, you have about a hundred years of precedent. Add a (pitted) maraschino, brandied, or bourbon cherry and a slice (not a twist; you want the juices in the flesh) to the glass and muddle them along with the sugar and bitters. The drink will be messier and offend some sensibilities, but it will still taste good.

    Soda water, on the other hand, has no place in this drink. People have been drinking the darned thing without it for two hundred and ten years. Take the hint.

    That'll do it for the Old Fashioned, at least for now. Stay tuned for more updates: there'll be one every couple of days from now until we've finished the list!

    It's Really Real!

    The books have begun to arrive! I have delivery confirmations from two states so far (Massachusetts and Florida), and Amazon is now listing Distilled Knowledge for regular orders rather than pre-orders. Christmas came early this year!

    If you've bought a copy already, thank you! If you haven't bought a copy yet, you can order one online and have it in the next few days.

    You can also wait until the official publication in October and come to one of the release events! Starting on October 6th, there will be more of these than you can shake a stick at (Northeast only, so far). Those events will be added to the official HCS calendar and listed on the Distilled Knowledge summary page as soon as we have registration information available.

    In the mean time, if you want to be sure you get all the Distilled Knowledge updates, you can sign up for the mailing list here!

    It's Real

    Ladies and gentlemen, I can confirm that the book has taken physical form: my copy of Distilled Knowledge arrived this weekend!

    I spent months trying to imagine what this moment would feel like. I gave up (often), because I really had no parallel for it. I would often joke that seeing my name on the cover would make me certain that someone had made a mistake, that my name had gotten slapped onto somebody else’s book somehow. I say, “joke,” even though some part of me probably thought that might happen. I really, really had no idea what to expect.

    I’m very happy to report that the feeling I actually experienced when I opened the box and saw my copy of my book was absolute, unbridled joy. Have you ever hugged a book? Literally hugged it. Squeezed it into your chest like it would dissolve into your body. I have. Books are harder than people, but it still works.

    I could ramble on about this forever, but I won't. Instead I'll answer some of your possibly-burning questions, after which I'll give you the recipe for the cocktail I devised the night I found out my copy of Distilled Knowledge was in the country and on its way to me.

    Does this mean I can get a copy now, too?
    Not yet! Unless you're reviewing Distilled Knowledge for a publication or something like that. This is a small initial order for reviewers and people who worked on the book.

    OK, so when and how do I get a copy?
    October 4th is still the landfall date. If you want to pick up a copy at your local bookstore, it should be available from then on.

    If you want to order a copy online, you can do that now, although it still won't arrive before 10/4. Distilled Knowledge is available for pre-order through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

    What if I want a signed copy? Where can I order that?
    You can't order a signed copy per se. If you order a regular copy or buy one at your local bookstore, I'll be happy to sign it whenever you, I, and it are all in the same room.

    You can also come to a book signing, and either buy a book there or bring one for me to sign! Our schedule of promotional events isn't out just yet, but I can say we're planning to focus on Boston and New York, where we'll be doing a bunch of events from October until the last drop of interest has been squeezed from those cities' populations. Other events throughout the Northeast are reasonably likely but have yet to be scheduled.

    If you live in other parts of the country (or in other countries), I hope we'll be able to do events near you, but it will depend to some degree on how well the book is doing, and I don't expect we'd be there before 2017.

    How do I know when promotional events are happening, and where, and whether they're signings or cocktail lessons or something else entirely?
    Sign up for the Herzog Cocktail School Mailing list! That is, by far, the surest way to get information about upcoming events. You can even choose to just receive information about Distilled Knowledge.

    Sign up here: http://www.herzogcocktailschool.com/contact/

    Is there, like, a one-stop shop where I can get any Distilled Knowledge information I could possibly need at once? That will be regularly updated as new information comes in?
    You bet! It's right here: http://www.herzogcocktailschool.com/distilled-knowledge/

    You said something about a cocktail?
    Frequently, yes!

    Here you go:

    Publication Cocktail
    1 1/2 oz. Rittenhouse 100º Rye
    1 oz. Angostura Amaro
    1/4 oz. Maple Syrup
    2 Dashes Crude "Sycophant" (Orange & Fig) Bitters
    Shake with ice. Strain into a chilled coupé glass.

    Note: This drink is definitely inspired by Angostura's Waffle Shots, which I encountered at Tales of the Cocktail last summer (and which are the primary reason I own Angostura Amaro in the first place). Waffle Shots consist of Angostura Rum, Angostura Amaro, and maple syrup, mixed together in a wide-mouth cup, with a quarter of a waffle dusted in powdered sugar and dunked into it. I can think of no better breakfast item for a tailgate, ever.

    The Waffle Shot is a richer, heavier drink than the Publication, which ends up being very whiskey-forward thanks to the Rittenhouse and gets a nice bit of brightness from the bitters. The drinks are also distinguished by the presence or absence of waffles.

     

    Bastille Day Cocktail Recipes

    Thanks to everybody who came to the lesson at Vanderbilt last night! Here are the official Herzog Cocktail School recipes for the drinks we covered:

    French 75
    1 1/2 oz. Gin
    1/2 oz. Lemon Juice
    1/2 oz. Simple Syrup
    Fill with Champagne (about 3 oz.)
    Shake all ingredients except the Champagne. Strain into a flute and top with the bubbles.

    Monkey Gland
    1 1/2 oz. Gin
    1 1/2 oz. Orange Juice
    Dash Grenadine
    Dash Absinthe, Absinthe Substitute, or Pastis
    Shake with ice, strain into a cocktail or coupé glass.

    Stay tuned for a longer recap with pictures!

    Distilled Knowledge Cocktail: The Greyhound

    (Not sure what the title means? The Distilled Knowledge announcement should fill in the gaps.)

    I'm counting down the days to publication with a series on the cocktails mentioned in Distilled Knowledge. They're an odd bunch, I'll grant, but each serves a purpose in the narrative.

    Pride of place goes to the Greyhound, the cocktail that taught us not to mix grapefruit juice with medicine.

    As you may have heard, it's a bad idea to drink grapefruit juice if you're on any kind of prescription drugs. It has a tendency to lead to higher-than-intended blood concentrations of your medications, with consequences that range from "mildly inconvenient" to "literally fatal."

    You may not know that we learned this entirely by accident.

    Researchers were studying the effects of ethanol on a blood pressure medication called felodipine. It was important for the experiment's success that the subjects not know whether they'd been given booze or not, so the researchers tried a variety of mixers (for science!) and concluded that the taste of the alcohol was best masked by grapefruit juice. 

    In the course of the study, they found that their subjects' blood felodipine levels were higher than expected across the board. Imagine their surprise when they realized they'd made a major scientific discovery "following an assessment of every juice in a home refrigerator one Saturday evening."

    Distilled Knowledge Greyhound
    2 1/2 oz. Double-Strength White Grapefruit Juice
    1/2 oz. Vodka
    Stir with ice. Serve on the rocks.

    If what you're looking for is a drink with the taste of the booze completely hidden, mixing five parts grapefruit juice with one part vodka is a surefire way to get there. It is not, however, the way the cocktail is ordinarily served; merely an approximation of the concoction the felodipine researchers were using.

    Note that if you'd like to add felodipine to this drink and make a Felodipine Greyhound, do not do so under any circumstances. Did you know that it's possible for your blood pressure to be too low? It is, and you don't want to find out what that's like.

    On the other hand, there are many other versions of the Greyhound that don't threaten your health nearly as much. These days, it's commonly made with a 3:2 or a 2:1 ration of grapefruit juice to vodka. Personally, I prefer the former; grapefruit juice can be quite a lot when it's the majority of a drink by volume.

    Contemporary Greyhound
    3 oz. Fresh Grapefruit Juice
    2 oz. Vodka
    Prepare as above.

    I still advise stirring, because shaking a drink that's mostly juice by volume just seems excessive. Note that a fresh grapefruit will yield about 3 oz. of juice, and the Greyhound needn't be a particularly exact drink; if you'd like to remember the recipe as "two ounces of vodka and a grapefruit," I won't stop you.

    With a pinch of salt and more around the rim, this becomes the Salty Dog, which I assume is so called because "salty Greyhound" doesn't have the same ring. 

    With a gin base instead of a vodka one, it becomes...the Greyhound. Yes, this is one of the (many) cocktails that got its start as a gin drink and evolved into a vodka one as tastes changed.

    It's first attested in the Savoy Cocktail Book, where it's mentioned as a variation on the older Grapefruit Cocktail, a concoction involving grapefruit jelly. In any case, it was a gin drink, and it would be some years before vodka came into vogue this far west.

    Savoy Greyhound

    "Take three and a half glasses of Gin and the juice of   1 1/2 good-sized Grapefruit. Sugar to taste, plenty of ice. Shake and serve."

    Near as I can figure, that works out to about seven ounces of gin, four and a half ounces of grapefruit juice, and sugar to taste. This would have been a batch, with each drink closer to three ounces total. Still boozier than the modern version, and much ginnier-tasting. 

    Once introduced to vodka, the Greyhound ran off with it and never looked back. And honestly, I can't blame it; I say this very rarely, but I think this drink makes more sense with vodka. It's a simple cocktail. It hits a few notes (sour, bitter, ethanol) and it hits them hard. Tossing juniper in there seems more distracting than enhancing in this case, and I expect most people who Really Like Gin will prefer not to cover its flavor with an even larger dose of grapefruit.

    That'll do it for the first installment. Stay tuned for more!

    200 Years of Frankenstein and the Vampyre: A Corpse Reviver Cocktail Lesson

    Announcing the next public cocktail lesson, celebrating two centuries of two great icons of horror!

    Lord Byron, Mary and Percy Shelley (though technically she was Mary Godwin at the time), and John Polidori were staying at a Swiss villa together, in June 1816, the "year without a summer." One night Byron proposed to his companions that they should all write ghost stories.

    Polidori wrote The Vampyre, the first story of an aristocratic vampire hiding in plain sight; in the process, he founded an entire genre, of which Bram Stoker's Dracula is the most famous example. 

    Mary Shelley, meanwhile, wrote Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, inspired in part by a terrifying nightmare she had on June 16.

    In honor of the two hundredth anniversary of Byron's challenge and Shelley and Polidori's classic creations, we're having a cocktail lesson on - what else? - the Corpse Revivers, Nos. 1 and 2. Join us on Thursday, June 16, to learn more about the history of these drinks and these stories! Appetizers and a full-sized sample of each drink will be included with the price of admission.

    Get your tickets here!

    Distilled Knowledge

    No more teasing hints: this is the real deal, the big announcement you've been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen, friends, colleagues, subscribers, clients, and bitter rivals, I'm pleased to announce that I'm writing a book!

    Or, more to the point, I've written a book. That's the current draft of the cover up there. It's called Distilled Knowledge, and it's coming out on October 4th of this year. I know, I know, that's a long time to wait. But I'll have a lot of interesting things to share between now and then, beginning with this list of answers to the questions you might be asking right now:

    Whaaaat!?!?
    I know, right?

    What is this book about?
    Scientific topics that relate to drinking. If you've ever wondered why we age our spirits in oak barrels, how drinking makes you dizzy, or whether carbonated mixers really help you get drunker, you'll find the answers in this book.

    What makes this book different?
    You can read it straight through or use it as a reference equally easily. The information is broken down by topic, so you can get the answer to your question in a few hundred words and then resume drinking. 

    Wait, so it isn't a cocktail guide?
    Nope! Cocktail guides are a dime a dozen. Even good ones are relatively easy to come by these days. 

    Where did you get the idea for this book?
    I found myself trying to find hard scientific answers to random alcohol questions one too many times. It occurred to me that somebody should put all this information in one place; I just figured that somebody would be somebody else.

    How did you come to write this book?
    Timing and good fortune, and I'll never pretend otherwise. It's amazing what can happen when you run your mouth in front of the right people. But being the one with the idea and having a background in spirits didn't hurt.

    How can I get a copy of this book?
    It will be available for purchase at bookstores around the country and online. Boston and Cambridge have a great culture of local bookstores promoting local authors; to return the favor, I'll have a dedicated page on the website that lists local shops carrying Distilled Knowledge (along with other information about it).

    OK, I mean, that's cool and all, but is there a way I can get a copy and go drinking at the same time?
    Oh hell yes. There are going to be so many parties, signings, and promotional whoop-de-dos that you might even get sick of hearing about them. If you haven't already signed up for the HCS mailing list, do that right now to get invited to the launch party in Boston and hear about other upcoming events.

    Aw, man! I don't live in Boston - will there be a tour? Can you come to my city if there is?
    I hope so! But it's hard to say right now, particularly for places outside the Northeast. If you think your town is full of people who'd like this book, and you have some idea how to reach them, send me an email!

    What if I do live in Boston, and I think my town is full of people who'd like this book, and I have some idea how to reach them?
    You should email me, too! And if you'd like me to come do a talk or a signing at your company, club, bar, shop, neighborhood watch meeting, etc., we can probably arrange that!

    You promised me that you'd have a lot of interesting things to share between now and October 4th, and I'm bored. When do we get to the fun stuff?
    Thank you, my patient friend! Distilled Knowledge isn't a cocktail guide, but a lot of cocktails do come up in passing. From now until October 4th, I'll be publishing recipes for all the drinks I mention, with little tidbits about the sections they're in. I'll also be writing up some of the things that are now apparently part of my world, like my recent trip to the Book Expo of America.

    You'll be able to review all of those posts (including this one!) at the site's new Distilled Knowledge page.

    This is so exciting! What else can I do?
    Tell your friends and family and everyone you meet! This book is unlike anything currently on the market, and I'm very proud of it. Spread the word.

    Oh - I'll be offering special rates to mailing list subscribers in honor of the announcement. If you haven't yet, now would be a good time to sign up!

    Bar Staples

    What are the workhorse spirits for a basic cocktail bar? What can you buy inexpensively enough to drink in quantity, that will reliably make decent cocktails?

    I've flirted with the idea of a blog series dedicated to this problem, but that's as far as I've gotten with it. My own bar is very idiosyncratic these days, a combination of my poor self-control when faced with a truly novel beverage, my desire to stay on top of local spirits production, and my friends' assumption that unusual spirits are the best gift to bring to any social gathering at my house (they're not wrong, but it means I can find myself with, say, three Maine gins with weird botanicals in my house at once, and no bourbon).

    There's also my love of rum, which I've allowed myself to indulge in appropriate disproportion for the last year or two. I've probably got ten or so different kinds on hand right now, depending on how you count it. I could actually tally them up right now, but that might discourage me from getting other rums in the future, and we can't have that.

    In any case, I've come back to the idea of a series on workhorse spirits because my own personal list is outdated. I can remember a time when Bulleit and Bully Boy were reasonable choices for general-purpose whiskey mixing: pretty darn good and reliably available for thirty bucks, sometimes less. Not so anymore.

    Whiskey, in particular, has gotten a lot more expensive in a relatively short time. I don't begrudge the distillers their success one bit, mind you. I adore sipping a nice glass of Whistlepig or Gunpowder, and I believe they're worth every one of the many pennies they cost. But sometimes you want to throw a party, and for that, you need a decent knockaround base spirit that isn't chasing the high-end sipping market.

    To that end, I'll be doing a series on spirits that hit the sweet spot for me. How actionable this intelligence is will depend very much on your tastes and where you live. I'll try to stick to brands that are at least theoretically available outside of greater Boston, but there are weird local price fluctuations that may make my recommendations unreasonable (or unnecessary) in other parts of the country. Myers's rum, for instance, is pretty reliably more expensive than Gosling's or Rhum Barbancourt at liquor stores near me, which has to be some kind of Cambridge Triangle effect.

    I'll try to incorporate general advice as well, since the particular contents of any list like this will change over time. I'm also creating a new sub-page under "Spirits" where I'll be keeping track of the most reliable workhorses I come up with. Happy drinking!

    (This is, incidentally, not the exciting announcement I teased in the Patriots' Day post. It is merely an exciting announcement, and quite unrelated to that one, which is still pending.)

    Patriots' Day Recap: Boston Cocktails

    I did promise to put up these recipes, didn't I? Well, I'm a man of my word. Enjoy the two most Bostonian of all Boston cocktails!

    Ward Eight
    2 oz. Rye Whiskey
    3/4 oz. Lemon Juice
    3/4 oz. Orange Juice
    Grenadine to Taste
    Shake, strain, and serve up. Garnish with a tiny Massachusetts flag stuck through a maraschino cherry, if you can find such a thing.

    Periodista
    1 1/2 oz. Dark Rum
    1/2 oz. Orange Liqueur
    1/2 oz. Apricot Liqueur
    1/2 oz. Lime Juice
    Shake, strain, and serve up. Garnish with a lime wheel, a lime wedge, or nothing at all (there's quite a bit of lime in there already).

    These drinks are "Bostonian" in very different ways - though both, in my view, have a better claim to that title than the I-guess-technically-it-counts Boston Sour, Boston Sidecar, and so on. I've not been able to find any information on the pedigree of those old drinks to bear out the choice of namesake. These two, on the other hand...

    The Ward Eight has been around for more than a hundred years, and was probably invented at Locke-Ober. There is some disagreement on whether or not to include the orange juice, and on whether or not to add seltzer on top. There is some speculation that its alleged date of invention was too early for grenadine to have been readily available; there is counter-speculation that the scarcity of the signature ingredient was precisely what made the drink so special when it was first concocted. There is the awkward fact that the man in whose honor the cocktail was invented, and after whose ward it was named, tried and failed to get people to call it something else for years afterwards. 

    In short, there is a lot of mystery surrounding this drink. But that's as it should be. Old drinks, if they're good, tend to acquire myths. If you're interested in a deeper dive into the history, I highly recommend Stephanie Schorrow's (extensive) treatment in Drinking Boston.

    For our purposes, what matters most is that the Ward Eight has stood unchallenged as Boston's emissary to the cocktail-drinkers of the world for something on the order of a century. It's definitely ours, and it's what we're best known for. My preferred recipe matches this one from David Wondrich, but particularly in light of the drink's muddled history, you should feel quite free to play around with the proportions.

    As for the Periodista, its history is in many ways quite the opposite. It's a young recipe, celebrating its twenty-first birthday this year (presumably by ordering a few rounds of itself). We know that it was invented at Chez Henri in Cambridge. It's a local drink, ubiquitous in greater Boston but unknown to the rest of the world. Our delicious little secret.

    There's a lot more to the story, but I won't spoil the fun here. Devin Hahn, the man who first figured out where this drink came from, has written a gorgeous narrative of his journey to the truth in twenty-three parts. You can binge your way through it in an hour or two; if you're even slightly considering that, I promise you it's worth it. The story begins here.

    My sincerest thanks to everyone who came to the Patriots' Day party for an in-person lesson on these drinks! Stay tuned for more announcements of public events! (And one other major announcement coming soon - mysterious, eh?)

    "Funky" Rum

    Personally, I'm a dark rum guy. There-is-rum-in-my-veins is a distinct feeling, simultaneous with ordinary intoxication but quite different from it - almost as if rum and alcohol were separate drugs entirely. It is a reset for the mind, a brief detachment from the body followed by a hurtling-back-into-it that heightens your sense of everything around you; a glimpse, perhaps, of the sublime.

    People who drink at a certain level often acquire these kinds of tastes. Most of my friends who are anything-people are whiskey-people, some are gin-people, and all of them are surprised to find out that I'm a rum-person. There aren't a lot of rum-people, at least not around here, and finding one is always a bit like meeting another Red Sox fan in New York City: you're friends right away, regardless of everything else about you.

    If you're into dark rums, at some point you've probably heard the siren song of so-called "funkiness," a trait associated with Jamaican rums in particular. I'll be honest, I kind of like this description. For me, a funky rum is one with a bunch of unexpected and hard-to-place notes: floral maybe, or fruity, but not perfectly either of those; still somehow clearly organic. It's at once fun to play the what-is-this game, and liberating to know you'll never have all the answers. Like going to a conceptual party at an artistic stranger's house. Funky.

    There is, however, a more technically-appropriate word available for this trait, "hogo," which I've just learned today. Paul, of The Cocktail Chronicles (and founder of Mixology Monday before handing it off to our local friend Fred Yarm), has an old post about it that I happened to stumble upon.

    And what a post! With a call-out to Boston's own contemporary classic, the Periodista; an old recipe from Eastern Standard that uses four of my favorite ingredients; and a (fond) description of the rum I keep for sipping purposes, Smith and Cross Jamaican, as "cane-spirit fetish porn where hogo is concerned." Honestly, this post is mostly an excuse to reprint that line - I started writing it before I'd even finished reading Paul's.

    So what is hogo, really? Apparently, it's a corruption of "haut goût," an old French cooking term for the distinctive flavor of a game meat that has been slightly and deliberately decomposed. (This, by the way, is me citing Paul citing David Wondrich's Punch, in which he quotes a West Indian planter character from a nineteenth-century novel by Grant Allen. So if you repeat this information, y'know, be sure to cite your sources.)

    Why would we want our rum to taste like rotting meat, then? Well, we wouldn't, exactly. At least, I assume we wouldn't - I've never had any sort of haut goût meat, to the best of my knowledge, and I can't say for sure what it tastes like. But human beings have gotten pretty good at massaging the decomposition process to produce desirable results. That is literally what fermentation is, and we wouldn't have yogurt, vinegar, leavened bread, or any kind of alcohol without it.

    In other words, "hogo" seems to be that set of flavor notes best described as the taste of fermentation itself, rather than the notes we'd pick out by association as banana or violet. In practice, the yeast is responsible for all of these, but it's those flavors most unapologetically its own - the "gamey, squirrelly, glandular musk," to borrow one more phrase from Paul - that come through as the hogo or funky notes.

    Why on earth have I been looking into all this today, in particular? Because I'm gearing up for a special Patriots' Day lesson on Boston cocktails, including the Periodista, and boning up on my rum facts. If you'd like to hear more rum facts, whiskey facts, or Boston facts, come to the lesson!

    Prohibition Cocktails

    Finally getting around to putting up the recipes from our Repeal Day party - which, in case you're wondering, went very well:

    We'll definitely be using the model again, so keep a look out for announcements on other holidays. In the mean time, here are the recipes we covered:

    Hanky-Panky
    1 1/2 oz. Dry Gin
    1 1/2 oz. Sweet Vermouth
    2 dashes Fernet Branca
    Twist of orange or dash of orange bitters
    Stir with ice and serve neat.

    The first patron to consume this drink is said to have downed it in one gulp, and then exclaimed, "That is the real hanky-panky!" At that time, and in Britain especially, which is where it was invented, the phrase would have meant something like "black magic," and the whole sentence roughly, "That's so good I can't believe it." Its *ahem* other connotations, particularly in the United States, didn't exactly hurt the drink's popularity during Prohibition, when speakeasy bartenders were serving titillating drinks like the Between-the-Sheets and the Monkey Gland. (In our age of Screaming Orgasms and Slow, Comfortable Screws Against the Wall, it all seems a little quaint and innocent, doesn't it?)

    Those who know me know that Fernet Branca is, in my view, the most foul drinking concoction yet conceived of by man. Yes, it's worse than Malort - and by a long shot. Yes, it's worse than Dr. McGillicuddy's peppermint schnapps. Yes, it's worse than plastic-bottle Popov vodka. It's like someone took a perfectly good bottle of Amaro Meletti and threw all three of those in there, with a little Aunt Jemima's for color. By what hanky-panky it has brainwashed so many otherwise-reasonable people into claiming that they like it, I have no idea.

    Having said all of that (and much more besides; don't get me started), I have to compliment the Hanky-Panky Cocktail, for being the only drink I have ever had that uses Fernet Branca well. It adds a suite of interesting flavors, including its signature menthol, saffron, and bitter bite, all of which are able to contribute without overpowering one's senses because there are only two drops of the stuff. Perhaps the secret to using Fernet Branca well is to treat it as a non-potable bitters, and never use more than a dash. In any case, it and the little, remarkably essential bit of orange oil are enough to pull this cocktail's flavor profile far away from the sweet Martini it would otherwise be.

    Scofflaw
    1 1/2 oz. Rye Whiskey
    1 oz. Dry Vermouth
    3/4 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice
    3/4 oz. Pomegranate Grenadine
    Shake with ice and serve neat.

    Another Prohibition drink-naming style is the "laugh about how illegal all of this is" school. The Three-Mile Limit falls into this category, named after the distance one had to travel off the coast before reaching international waters and legal hooch. So does the Twelve-Mile Limit, invented shortly after that distance was quadrupled.

    The Scofflaw is another such funny case. I assumed for a very long time that "scofflaw" was a general old-fashioned word for a ne'er-do-well, but it actually referred to scoffing at one law in particular. The Boston Herald held a contest, to see who could coin the best term to describe all the people flagrantly and frequently violating the Volstead Act; "scofflaw," submitted by two different people, was the winner. So, in a purely technical sense, one could argue that the teetotaling '20s kingpin Arnold Rothstein was less of a scofflaw than the average speakeasy patron.

    As for the drink, which is somewhat similar to its cousins the N-Mile Limits, this is a nice case where what you see is what you get. It's sweet and it's tart, and it's a bit smoother and more complex than it would be without the vermouth. The end result is what you would get if a Brooklyn and a Jack Rose met up for a little law-scoffing and ended up with a little hanky-panky.