Imbibe! (30 page)
Authors: David Wondrich
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
If you can find the Spanish Anis del Mono brand, get it—it’s historic, and excellent. The absinthe is dealt out in ponies rather than wineglasses because it was, and still is, between 120- and 140-proof. For a
Frappé
, simply omit the anisette and bitters and, depending on whether you’re going for the simpler Eastern style or the more baroque California style, half or all of the water.
If you can find the Spanish Anis del Mono brand, get it—it’s historic, and excellent. The absinthe is dealt out in ponies rather than wineglasses because it was, and still is, between 120- and 140-proof. For a
Frappé
, simply omit the anisette and bitters and, depending on whether you’re going for the simpler Eastern style or the more baroque California style, half or all of the water.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
The water is trickled in so the customer can watch the absinthe louche up. Once you’ve seen the show a couple of times, you can speed things up. For a Frappé, there are two ways to go. The Eastern style is basically as above, sometimes without the water and with the receiving glass packed with shaved ice. The California style, according to Bill Boothby of the Palace in San Francisco, is to shake a pony of absinthe well with plenty of ice and no water and then pour it and the ice into a Julep strainer perched atop a highball-glass, topping it off with seltzer slowly squirted over the ice resting in the strainer. Odd, but fun to watch.
The water is trickled in so the customer can watch the absinthe louche up. Once you’ve seen the show a couple of times, you can speed things up. For a Frappé, there are two ways to go. The Eastern style is basically as above, sometimes without the water and with the receiving glass packed with shaved ice. The California style, according to Bill Boothby of the Palace in San Francisco, is to shake a pony of absinthe well with plenty of ice and no water and then pour it and the ice into a Julep strainer perched atop a highball-glass, topping it off with seltzer slowly squirted over the ice resting in the strainer. Odd, but fun to watch.
COFFEE COCKTAIL
Rumor had it that this suave and rich concoction came from New Orleans. I shouldn’t wonder. In any case, it clearly pushes the Cocktail envelope, as the anonymous compiler of the 1887 edition of Thomas’s book noted: “The name of this drink is a misnomer, as coffee and bitters are not to be found among its ingredients, but it looks like coffee when it has been properly concocted, and hence probably its name.”
(USE LARGE BAR-GLASS.)
TAKE 1 TEA-SPOONFUL POWDERED WHITE SUGAR
1 FRESH EGG
1 LARGE WINE-GLASS
[2 OZ]
OF PORT WINE
1 PONY
[1 OZ]
OF BRANDY
2 OR 3 LUMPS OF ICE
[2 OZ]
OF PORT WINE
[1 OZ]
OF BRANDY
Break the egg into the glass, put in the sugar, and lastly the port wine, brandy and ice. Shake up very thoroughly, and strain into a medium bar goblet. Grate a little nutmeg on top before serving.
SOURCE:
JERRY THOMAS’S BAR-TENDER’S GUIDE,
1887
JERRY THOMAS’S BAR-TENDER’S GUIDE,
1887
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
Use a decent ruby port and a lot more ice.
Use a decent ruby port and a lot more ice.
WIDOW’S KISS
Back when Fifth Avenue was still lined by millionaires’ mansions, George J. Kappeler was head bartender at the Holland House hotel, at Fifth Avenue and Thirtieth Street. A German like so many who inhabited the highest reaches of turn-of-the-century mixology (e.g., William Schmidt, Hugo Ensslin, Leo Engel, Louis Eppinger, Louis Muckensturm, and even the great Harry Johnson, who retired to Berlin), Kappeler had a true artist’s combination of effortless command of detail and willingness to transcend petty rules. A less elevated soul would have pondered the combination of apple brandy, Benedictine, yellow Chartreuse, and bitters and said, “No, too much!” With three out of the four ingredients being highly pungent and aromatic herbal tonics, that’s only sensible. But Kappeler said—well, we don’t know what he said, but he put the combination on his list, under the somehow bewitching name “Widow’s Kiss.” It made it into all the standard Cocktail books.
We don’t know if Kappeler had any particular widow in mind. If he did, she must have been something. As the
New York Herald
observed in 1897, “The combination, if taken in rapidly repeating doses, is said to be intoxicating”—and well it should: The drink is essentially all booze, with nothing in it weighing in at less than 80 proof except the ice. Now, the
Herald
claimed that “This fact is pointed to with pride by those who champion the fitness” of the drink. There were plenty of others who would’ve begged to differ. Not only because of its alcoholic strength, but also because of how that strength was imparted: “Properly made,” opined the
New York Sun
in 1900, “a cocktail should be a mild and harmless stimulant, but when cordials are added it is a thing to shun.”
New York Herald
observed in 1897, “The combination, if taken in rapidly repeating doses, is said to be intoxicating”—and well it should: The drink is essentially all booze, with nothing in it weighing in at less than 80 proof except the ice. Now, the
Herald
claimed that “This fact is pointed to with pride by those who champion the fitness” of the drink. There were plenty of others who would’ve begged to differ. Not only because of its alcoholic strength, but also because of how that strength was imparted: “Properly made,” opined the
New York Sun
in 1900, “a cocktail should be a mild and harmless stimulant, but when cordials are added it is a thing to shun.”
In part, the
Sun
can be excused by the novelty of the cordial Cocktail; aside from maraschino, curaçao, and perhaps a little crème de noyeaux, cordials were little used in American mixed drinks until the 1880s, when mixologists, seeking to expand their palettes of flavor, began little by little incorporating the more complex herbal liqueurs into their drinks. But I like to think the
Sun
’s man (perhaps Don Marquis or Clarence Louis Cullen, both adepts who knew their tipples), had he tasted one of Kappeler’s Widow’s Kisses, would’ve made an exception: an astonishingly harmonious and yet intriguing drink, wherein all the usually warring ingredients are somehow held in a state of détente.
Sun
can be excused by the novelty of the cordial Cocktail; aside from maraschino, curaçao, and perhaps a little crème de noyeaux, cordials were little used in American mixed drinks until the 1880s, when mixologists, seeking to expand their palettes of flavor, began little by little incorporating the more complex herbal liqueurs into their drinks. But I like to think the
Sun
’s man (perhaps Don Marquis or Clarence Louis Cullen, both adepts who knew their tipples), had he tasted one of Kappeler’s Widow’s Kisses, would’ve made an exception: an astonishingly harmonious and yet intriguing drink, wherein all the usually warring ingredients are somehow held in a state of détente.
A mixing-glass half-full of fine ice, two dashes Angostura bitters, one-half a pony
[½ oz]
yellow chartreuse, one-half a pony
[½ oz]
Benedictine, one pony
[1 oz]
of apple brandy; shake well, strain into a fancy cocktail-glass, and serve.
[½ oz]
yellow chartreuse, one-half a pony
[½ oz]
Benedictine, one pony
[1 oz]
of apple brandy; shake well, strain into a fancy cocktail-glass, and serve.
SOURCE: GEORGE J. KAPPELER,
MODERN AMERICAN DRINKS
, 1895
MODERN AMERICAN DRINKS
, 1895
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
For the apple brandy, see under the Jack Rose (page 225). If you can only get the green Chartreuse, make something else: The green is an entirely different product, and far too concentrated to work here. Do not substitute B&B for Benedictine. This drink is a balancing act, and if one thing is out of whack, everything is.
For the apple brandy, see under the Jack Rose (page 225). If you can only get the green Chartreuse, make something else: The green is an entirely different product, and far too concentrated to work here. Do not substitute B&B for Benedictine. This drink is a balancing act, and if one thing is out of whack, everything is.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Normally, a drink like this should be stirred. But Kappeler says to shake, and since he’s not one of those “I shake everything” types, I’m inclined to follow his advice.
III. CRUSTAS AND COCKTAIL PUNCHESNormally, a drink like this should be stirred. But Kappeler says to shake, and since he’s not one of those “I shake everything” types, I’m inclined to follow his advice.
You know how hard it is in America to keep things apart that belong apart. If it’s not churches running political campaigns, it’s peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwiches; if it’s not hillbilly rhythm-and-blues, it’s reality television. Establish a boundary, and we just want to cross it. This holds as true in the field of mixology as it does everywhere else. Cocktails were short drinks with bitters, Punches were long drinks with citrus. Shouldn’t be too hard to keep them apart, if you wanted to. But really the only surprising thing is that it took so long for them to get naked with each other.
BRANDY, WHISKEY, OR GIN CRUSTA
Just like drinkers of the 1990s who liked the Martini more for its glass than for the strongly alcoholic mixture of gin and vermouth that it contained, there were plenty of drinkers in the middle of the nineteenth century who appreciated the newly popular iced Cocktail more for the idea of a quick, short blast of something cold than for the strongly alcoholic mixture of spirits, bitters, and sugar that made it flesh. Some thought that perhaps a little lemon juice in that Cocktail might be just the thing; who cares if, by some arbitrary system, that kind of makes the drink a Punch. Some might kick about it, but it’s a free country, so it’s really none of their business, right?
It wasn’t the hard-drinking Yankees who first crossed that line. Not surprisingly, as far as we can tell it was the Epicurean Creoles, to whom “the fiery cocktail” had always been a little suspect. Sometime around 1850, one Joseph Santini took over management of the bar and restaurant at New Orleans’ City Exchange, right in the heart of the French Quarter. There he invented the Crusta, a fancy variation on the Cocktail that introduced citrus juice into the list of things that could go into the drink. This was purely a local drink until Jerry Thomas, who must have met Santini and/or had his drinks when he was in the Crescent City in the 1850s, put the Crusta in his book. This isn’t to say that the Crusta was a huge hit; it was always a cult
The proper way to present a Crusta. From
The Bon Vivant’s Companion
, 1862. (Author’s collection)
drink, one with few but fanatic devotés. But it planted a seed. That seed would remain dormant until the 1890s, when suddenly everyone stared putting lemon juice, lime juice, even orange juice into their Cocktails. From the Crusta, evolution brings us the Sidecar, and life without Sidecars would be very dreary indeed. If Santini hadn’t done it first, they still might have done that anyway, but at least they had someone in the dark backward of time shining a flashlight for them to show them the way. Mr. Santini, we salute you. (And besides, there are few drinks as purely delightful as a properly assembled Brandy Crusta.)The Bon Vivant’s Companion
, 1862. (Author’s collection)
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
Crusta is made the same as a fancy cocktail, with a little lemon juice and a small lump of ice added. First, mix the ingredients
[1 tsp gum syrup, 2 dashes bitters, 2 oz spirits, ½ tsp orange curaçao, 1 tsp lemon juice]
in a small tumbler, then take a fancy red wine-glass, rub a sliced lemon around the rim of the same, and dip it in pulverized white sugar, so that the sugar will adhere to the edge of the glass. Pare half a lemon the same as you would an apple (all in one piece) so
[1 tsp gum syrup, 2 dashes bitters, 2 oz spirits, ½ tsp orange curaçao, 1 tsp lemon juice]
in a small tumbler, then take a fancy red wine-glass, rub a sliced lemon around the rim of the same, and dip it in pulverized white sugar, so that the sugar will adhere to the edge of the glass. Pare half a lemon the same as you would an apple (all in one piece) so
that the paring will fit in the wine-glass, as shown in the cut, and strain the crusta from the tumbler into it. Then smile.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
Although Thomas also includes a gin version (use Hollands, of course) and a whiskey one, the only Crusta one actually hears of people drinking is the brandy version. Later in the classic period, the curaçao got displaced by maraschino liqueur, which works quite as well. But let’s talk lemon juice. How much is “a little”? Thomas’s indeterminacy left a good deal of room for interpretation, and mixologists are all over the map on the question. Modern drink-mixers—well, the few who bother with things like Crustas—tend to splash the stuff around pretty liberally, going so far as the juice of half a lemon. Back in the day, though, it’s clear that the drink was conceived differently—not as a Sour, but a true Cocktail, with the lemon juice serving as merely an accent. Thus the experts of the period suggest everything from no lemon at all to a quarter of a lemon (about
1
/
3
of an ounce), with a decided preference for less rather than more. In my view, 1 teaspoon will do it.
Although Thomas also includes a gin version (use Hollands, of course) and a whiskey one, the only Crusta one actually hears of people drinking is the brandy version. Later in the classic period, the curaçao got displaced by maraschino liqueur, which works quite as well. But let’s talk lemon juice. How much is “a little”? Thomas’s indeterminacy left a good deal of room for interpretation, and mixologists are all over the map on the question. Modern drink-mixers—well, the few who bother with things like Crustas—tend to splash the stuff around pretty liberally, going so far as the juice of half a lemon. Back in the day, though, it’s clear that the drink was conceived differently—not as a Sour, but a true Cocktail, with the lemon juice serving as merely an accent. Thus the experts of the period suggest everything from no lemon at all to a quarter of a lemon (about
1
/
3
of an ounce), with a decided preference for less rather than more. In my view, 1 teaspoon will do it.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Use a vegetable peeler on the lemon; your life will be easier. For the business with the peel to work, you really need a shallow, 3- to 4-ounce small wineglass. A visit to the thrift store might be in order.
Use a vegetable peeler on the lemon; your life will be easier. For the business with the peel to work, you really need a shallow, 3- to 4-ounce small wineglass. A visit to the thrift store might be in order.
BRONX COCKTAIL
If, at the very end of the twentieth century, the Cosmopolitan made it safe for a nice, middle-class person to have a cocktail before a meal, it was just repeating what the Bronx Cocktail did at the century’s very beginning. Either unknown or practically so in 1900, by 1910 this simple mixture of gin, fresh orange juice, and two kinds of vermouth was being served at charity dinners and banquets of state.
As with most famous drinks, its origin is unclear. In 1931, Albert Stevens Crockett, former press agent of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, claimed that Johnnie Solon, one of the hotel’s bartenders, threw it together for a customer and named it to honor both the famous zoo and the “strange animals [the customers] saw after a lot of mixed drinks.” On the other hand, in 1921 the
New York Times
reported on the closing of one Peter Sellers’s café on Brook Avenue in the Bronx, noting that “it was said to be the place where the Bronx Cocktail had its inception” and that Billy Gibson’s Criterion Restaurant, another Bronx bar, “also claims that distinction.” We may never know.
New York Times
reported on the closing of one Peter Sellers’s café on Brook Avenue in the Bronx, noting that “it was said to be the place where the Bronx Cocktail had its inception” and that Billy Gibson’s Criterion Restaurant, another Bronx bar, “also claims that distinction.” We may never know.
Whoever concocted it, the Bronx was certainly in existence by 1904, when the
Police Gazette
included it in a list of new Cocktails, and perhaps four or five years earlier, since it also appeared in a menu in the collection of the New York Historical Society from around 1900.
6
As usual with new drinks, it took a couple of years to reach general popularity. Its breakthrough came in 1907, when suddenly the Bronx Cocktail was everywhere. That didn’t mean everybody was satisfied with it, though. The most common criticism was encapsulated in this zinger from Zoe Atkins in her 1913 play
Papa:An Immorality in Three Acts
(don’t ask): “He looks as weak as a Bronx cocktail.” The problem wasn’t the gin, or even the vermouth. It was—you guessed it—that damned orange juice. Put enough in that you can taste it, and the drink is weak; leave it out, and you’ve got nothing more than a Perfect Martini. People tried everything in the way of dashes of juice, orange bitters, and orange peel to effect a compromise, but ultimately it was a case of you pays your money and you takes your choice. Myself, I like my Bronx with a fair amount of Florida sunshine in it, accepting the weakness—which is, after all, relative: The drink is no weaker than, say, an Aviation. But people were used to lemon juice in their drinks. Orange juice, however, was a different story. Before the Bronx, it was not an acceptable Cocktail ingredient; after, it was, although there were still dissenters well into the twentieth century who could be called upon to rant and rave about kiddie drinks and fruit punch and what the hell is the world coming to when a perfectly good Martini is going around with breakfast squeezings in it (the story is much the same with cranberry juice and the Cosmopolitan).
Police Gazette
included it in a list of new Cocktails, and perhaps four or five years earlier, since it also appeared in a menu in the collection of the New York Historical Society from around 1900.
6
As usual with new drinks, it took a couple of years to reach general popularity. Its breakthrough came in 1907, when suddenly the Bronx Cocktail was everywhere. That didn’t mean everybody was satisfied with it, though. The most common criticism was encapsulated in this zinger from Zoe Atkins in her 1913 play
Papa:An Immorality in Three Acts
(don’t ask): “He looks as weak as a Bronx cocktail.” The problem wasn’t the gin, or even the vermouth. It was—you guessed it—that damned orange juice. Put enough in that you can taste it, and the drink is weak; leave it out, and you’ve got nothing more than a Perfect Martini. People tried everything in the way of dashes of juice, orange bitters, and orange peel to effect a compromise, but ultimately it was a case of you pays your money and you takes your choice. Myself, I like my Bronx with a fair amount of Florida sunshine in it, accepting the weakness—which is, after all, relative: The drink is no weaker than, say, an Aviation. But people were used to lemon juice in their drinks. Orange juice, however, was a different story. Before the Bronx, it was not an acceptable Cocktail ingredient; after, it was, although there were still dissenters well into the twentieth century who could be called upon to rant and rave about kiddie drinks and fruit punch and what the hell is the world coming to when a perfectly good Martini is going around with breakfast squeezings in it (the story is much the same with cranberry juice and the Cosmopolitan).
A la Billy Malloy, Pittsburgh, PA
One-third
[1 oz]
Plymouth gin, one-third
[1 oz]
French vermouth and one-third
[1 oz]
Italian vermouth, flavored with two dashes of Orange bitters, about a barspoonful of orange juice and a squeeze of orange peel. Serve very cold.
[1 oz]
Plymouth gin, one-third
[1 oz]
French vermouth and one-third
[1 oz]
Italian vermouth, flavored with two dashes of Orange bitters, about a barspoonful of orange juice and a squeeze of orange peel. Serve very cold.
SOURCE: WILLIAM T. “BILL” BOOTHBY,
WORLD DRINKS AND HOW TO MIX THEM
(1908)
WORLD DRINKS AND HOW TO MIX THEM
(1908)
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
It should be noted that Plymouth Gin was an advertiser in Boothby’s book, although it does indeed make a toothsome Bronx. But so does Tanqueray, or Beefeater, or any other good London dry gin. As for the proportions: Mr. Malloy is a trimmer, trying to have both the orange and the strength. His recipe—the first on record—is not a bad drink, but for the full Bronx experience I suggest waiting for a very hot day and then mixing ’em up as Johnny Solon of the old Waldorf bar did: 1½ ounces of gin, half that of orange juice, and 1 teaspoon each of French and Italian vermouth. No garnish. When I want a stronger drink, I’ll fix myself a Sazerac and be happy. But when the heat is oppressive, a nice, cold Bronx prepared thus is a fine thing.
It should be noted that Plymouth Gin was an advertiser in Boothby’s book, although it does indeed make a toothsome Bronx. But so does Tanqueray, or Beefeater, or any other good London dry gin. As for the proportions: Mr. Malloy is a trimmer, trying to have both the orange and the strength. His recipe—the first on record—is not a bad drink, but for the full Bronx experience I suggest waiting for a very hot day and then mixing ’em up as Johnny Solon of the old Waldorf bar did: 1½ ounces of gin, half that of orange juice, and 1 teaspoon each of French and Italian vermouth. No garnish. When I want a stronger drink, I’ll fix myself a Sazerac and be happy. But when the heat is oppressive, a nice, cold Bronx prepared thus is a fine thing.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Shake well with cracked ice; strain and serve.
Shake well with cracked ice; strain and serve.
JACK ROSE COCKTAIL
I spent many years believing that this drink, one of only two classic applejack cocktails (for the other, see the Star, page 253), was named after “Bald Jack” Rose, one of the yeggs involved in the notorious 1912 Becker-Rosenthal case (in which Police Lieutenant Becker eventually went to the chair—probably wrongly—for hiring Rose to put out a hit on gambler “Beansy” Rosenthal; see the Metropole, page 249). In part, this belief was wishful thinking of the kind all mixographers indulge in. Alas, the facts say different, or at least the
Police Gazette
does, which is not always the same thing. In this case, however, the evidence seems pretty straightforward: According to a squib the
Gazette
published in 1905, “Frank J. May, better known as Jack Rose, is the inventor of a very popular cocktail by that name, which has made him famous as a mixologist.” This May/Rose fellow was apparently employed at Gene Sullivan’s Café on Pavonia Avenue in Jersey City—and indeed, it’s worth noting that applejack is the state spirit of New Jersey. A less glamorous back story, to be sure, but most likely a factual one. As for Bald Jack, according to a widely reprinted newspaper squib from the end of 1912, his notoriety put such a dent in the drink’s popularity that some bartenders took to calling it a “Royal Smile” instead. Perhaps.
Police Gazette
does, which is not always the same thing. In this case, however, the evidence seems pretty straightforward: According to a squib the
Gazette
published in 1905, “Frank J. May, better known as Jack Rose, is the inventor of a very popular cocktail by that name, which has made him famous as a mixologist.” This May/Rose fellow was apparently employed at Gene Sullivan’s Café on Pavonia Avenue in Jersey City—and indeed, it’s worth noting that applejack is the state spirit of New Jersey. A less glamorous back story, to be sure, but most likely a factual one. As for Bald Jack, according to a widely reprinted newspaper squib from the end of 1912, his notoriety put such a dent in the drink’s popularity that some bartenders took to calling it a “Royal Smile” instead. Perhaps.
1 JIGGER
[2 OZ]
APPLEJACK
[JUICE OF] ½
LIME
¼ JIGGER
[½ OZ]
GRENADINE SYRUP
[2 OZ]
APPLEJACK
LIME
[½ OZ]
GRENADINE SYRUP
Shake well.
SOURCE: JACQUES STRAUB,
DRINKS
(1914)
DRINKS
(1914)
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