3-Ingredient Cocktails
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1 tablespoon pickling spice
1 pound pearl onions, peeled
In a saucepan, combine the champagne vinegar, filtered water, sugar, and salt, and mix until completely dissolved. Set aside.
Pour the pickling spice into a sachet of cheesecloth and place in the vinegar mixture. Add the onions to the vinegar mixture, making sure they are completely covered with liquid, and bring to a boil for only 1 minute (it’s important to limit the boil; otherwise, they will lose their crunchy texture).
Remove from the heat and separate the onions from the brine until the brine cools to room temperature, about 15 minutes. Transfer the onions and liquid to a clean glass jar and refrigerate. Cocktail onions can be kept refrigerated for up to 2 months. Once they start to turn dark, it’s time to make a new batch.
Chrysanthemum
The Chrysanthemum is a fair flower indeed. This is a rare drink in which that typical supporting player, dry vermouth, plays a starring role. Massively underrated, the Chrysanthemum is perfect at the beginning of an evening. But I’ve also had it at the end of the night and been quite content.
2 ounces dry vermouth
1 ounce Benedictine
3 dashes absinthe
Orange twist
Combine all the ingredients except the orange twist with ice in a mixing glass and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Twist a piece of orange zest over the drink and drop into the glass.
MANHATTAN
There have been only a handful of seismic shifts in the evolution of the cocktail. But the arrival of vermouth on the American scene in the late nineteenth century is surely one of them. The cocktail canon would be significantly poorer without this oft-maligned miracle ingredient. The Martini, the Manhattan, the Rob Roy, the Negroni, the Star, the Gibson, the Bronx—they all need vermouth. The list goes on and on. The fine qualities that vermouth brings to these cocktails are difficult to overstate. But then again, vermouth didn’t do badly by the arrangement, either. The relationship was symbiotic, and there was ladder climbing on both sides. There’s a well-known quote about what the twentieth century’s most famous dancing duo, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, did for one another: “He gives her class and she gives him sex. That applies here to the Manhattan as well. Vermouth gave whiskey class, and whiskey gave vermouth sex.
Martini drinkers may not want to read this next part. Historically speaking, their usual is nothing more than the Manhattan’s little brother. That unknown American genius who first decided to combine a spirit with sweet vermouth did so with whiskey—because, don’t we always try things out first with whiskey? The Martini came shortly afterward.
Like the Martini, the Manhattan went through some growing pains before it gelled into the bourbon/rye-sweet vermouth-bitters concoction we all know and love. Once there, it showed itself to be a solid, secure, and sophisticated drink, a cocktail built like a brick house. And it has ever after attracted a very solid, secure, and sophisticated kind of drinker. Manhattan drinkers know who they are and what they like. (John Pierpont “J. P.” Morgan, the enduring and terrifying model for all titans of industry to follow, ordered one at the end of every trading day.) They’re so confident in their choice, in fact, that they fret not at all about ordering a drink that has an actual cherry in it—a bright red garnish that is as odd as an olive when it comes down to it, and brushes the border of just plain silliness.
More than most of the classic cocktails, the Manhattan’s history has been fairly steady. It didn’t wake up after Prohibition having shed its bitters or having left its vermouth in its other coat or suddenly having signed for an unordered shipment of extra fruit. It was still just a Manhattan. And any bar could make you a decent one.
The mixology brigade of the twenty-first century reintroduced the drink to the younger generation in fighting form, using good whiskey—often rye, newly rescued from the dustbins of history—and fresh vermouth and actual cherries. Thus spruced up, the drink returned the favor with unprecedented generosity, offering up its hearty formula as inspiration for countless new variations: the Greenpoint (made with the addition of yellow Chartreuse), the Red Hook (maraschino liqueur, this page), the Little Italy (Cynar, this page), the Carroll Gardens (Amaro Nardini), the Cobble Hill (Amaro Montenegro and some cucumber), and the Bensonhurst (dry vermouth, maraschino liqueur, and Cynar). (The “neighborhood drinks,” they were called.)
One more thing about the Manhattan. The cocktail’s lengthy winning streak can possibly be credited to one secret weapon of which almost no other cocktail can boast: you don’t need great whiskey to make a great Manhattan. Celebrated literary imbiber Lucius Beebe once wrote, “It has often been remarked that the most exciting Manhattan is one compounded with ordinary quality bar whiskey rather than the rarest overproof article. It is perhaps the only mixed drink where this generality obtains.”
It’s true and a great and wonderful mystery. The highfalutin bartenders who reach for high-octane, rare, or expensive whiskey to make the “world’s greatest” Manhattan are misguided. The best Manhattans I’ve had have been made with ordinary and easy-to-acquire bourbon or rye. This makes total sense, given the drink’s name, which is taken, after all, from one of the world’s great cradles of democracy and equal opportunity.
Manhattan
For this drink, rye is the preferred spirit among most mixologists and the younger set. Its rough edges lend the cocktail added structure. But bourbon has a case to plead. Some choose to split the base spirit between bourbon and rye, and there’s something there, too. And then there’s the matter of which brand of vermouth to pair the whiskey with. A home bartender can have a lot of fun within this simple formula. Experiment. Your ideal is out there somewhere.
2 ounces bourbon or rye
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Brandied cherry
Combine all the ingredients except the brandied cherry in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Garnish with the brandied cherry.
Red Hook
VINCENZO ERRICO, 2003
The Manhattan/Brooklyn cocktail riff that birthed a dozen others, the Red Hook was first served at the original Milk & Honey, the influential, vest-pocket-sized, speakeasy-style cocktail bar that opened in New York in 1999. This cocktail inspired many other bartenders to toy around with the Manhattan template.
2 ounces rye
½ ounce maraschino liqueur
½ ounce Punt y Mes
Combine all the ingredients in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe.
Star
Here’s an apple brandy version of the Manhattan that is nearly as old as its model and just as good. Many vermouth cocktails drifted from equal measures of spirit and vermouth to a 2:1 ratio over the years, usually for the better. This one, however, still benefits from the split-base model, which gives you the full flavor of each ingredient. Some people use Peychaud’s bitters in this.
1½ ounces apple brandy
1½ ounces sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Lemon twist
Combine all the ingredients except the lemon twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Express a lemon twist over the drink and drop into the glass.
Little Italy
AUDREY SAUNDERS, 2005
This is Audrey Saunders’ amaro-inflected spin on a Manhattan. It made its debut at her New York bar, Pegu Club, and quickly established itself as a modern classic. Today, you can find it served at bars far from Mulberry Street.
2 ounces Rittenhouse 100-Proof rye
¾ ounce Martini & Rossi Rosso vermouth
½ ounce Cynar
Brandied cherry
Combine all the ingredients except the brandied cherry in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain
into a chilled coupe. Garnish with the brandied cherry.
Palmetto
Rum Manhattans are not rare beasts. They are served up regularly in tiki bars, and, if you’re talking to a rum-head, they may be the only kind of Manhattan he or she drinks. This version dates from the early twentieth century. It called for “St. Croix rum.” I recommend Cruzan Estate Diamond or Single Barrel as a modern equivalent. As to the name, it doesn’t get as much traction as Rob Roy or Star. If you just want to tell the bartender “Rum Manhattan,” go right ahead. But that’s one extra syllable between you and your drink.
1½ ounces Cruzan Single Barrel rum
1½ ounces sweet vermouth
1 dash orange bitters
Combine all the ingredients in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe.
ROB ROY
The Rob Roy is always walking a few paces behind the Manhattan, and the latter gave up a long time ago wondering why it couldn’t shake this copycat. “The guy must have something going on to have lasted this long,” the shrugging Manhattan said with grudging respect.
The Rob Roy will never get the respect a Manhattan does. Nobody describes a Manhattan as “like a Rob Roy, only with bourbon or rye.” It’s the other way around. Ol’ Rob’s the one who pulled the spirit switcheroo and got away with calling itself something else. But the drink’s a stubborn, tenacious mixture, and there are still plenty of people who prefer it to its more favored cousin.
Why? They may like blended Scotch a whole hell of a lot. Many people do. Dewar’s, Johnnie Walker, Grant’s, Famous Grouse, Cutty Sark—these are not no-name brands. They may be contrarians looking for an edge that separates them from the masses. Or they may just be Manhattan drinkers tired of the same-old same-old and looking to mix it up a bit while not taxing their brains too much when settling upon an alternative.
Or—and I strongly suspect this—they are seasoned drinkers who know what’s what, and have taken a turn in the evening where they find themselves thirsting for something a bit more potent. Orders for a Rob Roy, I’ve noticed, tend to come later in the evening, once people are half in the bag. It’s all folly, of course. The ABV (alcohol by volume) on your average blended Scotch is roughly the same as your average bourbon or rye. But there’s something about the kick of the Scotch that makes the drink feel stronger going down.
I like Rob Roys. They have given me Dutch courage to make bold moves when other cocktails have failed me. And they have played a role in some of the most memorable occasions of my life. In 2012, I gathered a bunch of friends and colleagues together for a farewell dinner at Bill’s Gay Nineties, a priceless former speakeasy in midtown Manhattan that was being tossed out by a short-sighted, speculative landlord. At night’s end, it was rounds of Rob Roys that were called for as nightcaps. Bill’s had no trouble with the order. Rob Roys have a friend in old bartenders. No one has to remind them how they’re made.
Rob Roy
There’s little benefit in reaching for a top-shelf blended Scotch for a Rob Roy. The serviceable mid-range bottlings will do just fine. Famous Grouse is a good and affordable choice. As for garnish, a cherry is as acceptable here as it is in a Manhattan, but I prefer a lemon twist.
2 ounces blended Scotch
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Lemon twist
Combine all the ingredients except the lemon twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Express a lemon twist over the drink and drop into the glass.
Nick Strangeway’s Rob Roy
NICK STRANGEWAY
The most memorable Rob Roy I’ve ever had was devised and prepared by Nick Strangeway, a leading light in the early years of the London cocktail revival, at Hawksmoor Spitalsfield, a restaurant where he was, at the time, in charge of the bar. He used Oak Cross, a modern blended Scotch of great quality made by Compass Box, and Noilly Prat’s Ambre vermouth, at that time an obscure product that could only be purchased at the French vermouth company’s distillery. (It has since been released commercially.) The combination makes for a wonderfully deep, smooth Rob Roy. Nick, when asked about the drink a decade later, could not recall the exact recipe. But these specifications match my taste memory of the cocktail.
2 ounces Compass Box Oak Cross Scotch
1 ounce Noilly Prat Ambre vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Lemon twist
Combine all the ingredients except the lemon twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Express a lemon twist over the drink and drop into the glass.
Bobby Burns
Not too far removed from the Rob Roy, the Bobby Burns is another Manhattan variation named for a famous Scottish figure. The Benedictine is the big difference, adding a warming holiday spiciness to the drink. Ratios vary widely from recipe to recipe. Some suggest adding a bit of Drambuie–as if the drink weren’t Scottish enough as it is.
2 ounces blended Scotch
¾ ounce sweet vermouth
½ ounce Benedictine
Lemon twist
Combine all the ingredients except the lemon twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Express a lemon twist over the drink and drop into the glass.
Revolver
JON SANTER, 2004
This drink was created by San Francisco bartender Jon Santer, partly in response to the arrival on the market of Bulleit bourbon. The theatrical employment of a flamed orange twist made it a much-ordered drink for a time.
2 ounces Bulleit bourbon
½ ounce coffee liqueur
2 dashes orange bitters
Orange twist
Combine all the ingredients except the orange twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Garnish with a flamed orange twist.
To do a flamed orange twist, cut a piece of orange peel about the size of a silver dollar. Light a match and use it to warm the skin side of the peel. Holding the match a few inches above the drink, quickly squeeze the peel in the direction of the match. The oil from the peel will briefly erupt into flame, showering its essence over the drink’s surface.
Fair Harvard
ROBERT SIMONSON
I created this drink in 2016 for a cocktail reception that followed a lecture at the Yale School of Architecture, at the request of that school’s dean, architect Deborah Berke. As the speaker was from Harvard, serving Harvard cocktails seemed apropos. However, the reception was held in an all-white gallery, which the school feared might be stained by dark liquors, should a cocktail spill. The classic Harvard, which is made of brandy and sweet vermouth, would not do. So I came up with this “fair” version of a Harvard.
2 ounces Pisco
1 ounce bianco vermouth
3 dashes orange bitters
Lemon twist
Combine all the ingredients except the lemon twist in a mixing glass filled with ice and stir until chilled, about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Express a lemon zest over the drink and drop into the glass.
NEGRONI
If a cocktail had an IQ, the Negroni would be at the top of the class. There’s just too much going on in that little red head.
First you have the gin, its flavor informed by several botanicals—there’s a lot for your taste buds to learn there. Then there’s the sweet vermouth, which has gin bested, cramming even more representatives from the natural world into its liquid soup. Finally, Campari, with its unknown mix of herbs and fruits, has them both beat. It’s a botanist’s dream, this cocktail. It’s no mystery that the drink is a favorite among chefs. They like things they can taste and taste and taste.
Negroni adopters know all this about their drink. They tend to be smarties or foodies and know they look good and sound intelligent ordering one, just
in case anyone is watching. The siren-red liquid in their mitts acts as a signal to the world that they have joined the ranks of adult drinkers; they have conquered their fear of the bitter. As San Francisco restaurateur Doug “Bix” Biederbeck—who has served thousands of Negronis at his art deco North Beach landmark Bix—once wrote, “Nothing says ‘grown up’ like a Negroni.”
The Negroni is the most famous cocktail to have come out of Italy, a land of light, aperitif-style drinking habits. It was named after a bibulous, globetrotting, rodeo-riding Florentine count who liked his Americanos strong (“some gin in that, please.…”)—a crazy origin story that nonetheless seems to be true. The cocktail crept along in limited popularity throughout the twentieth century, adopted in the postwar years by the kind of sophisticated-cum-decadent citizens of the world who might pass through the Apennine Peninsula on a regular basis. Ballet star Rudolph Nureyev drank them. Tennessee Williams had his characters sip them in his novel The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone. And Orson Welles discovered the drink while acting in a film in Italy in late 1947. He famously commended the cocktail, in Erskine Johnson’s syndicated column, with the almost-too-perfect quote, “The bitters are excellent for your liver, the gin is bad for you. They balance each other.” (He surely practiced that line. It’s too good.)