3-Ingredient Cocktails

by Robert Simonson

  2 ounces bourbon

  ¾ ounce rich simple syrup (2:1) (this page)

  ¾ ounce lemon juice

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake vigorously until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into either a short-stemmed wine glass or a rocks glass.

  Gold Rush

  T. J. SIEGEL, 2001

  A Whiskey Sour rendered silky and viscous by the addition of honey syrup, this drink was a mainstay during the early years of New York bar Milk & Honey. It has since become a modern classic, served worldwide. As with the Whiskey Sour, Henry McKenna bonded ten-year-old bourbon is a good choice for this drink.

  2 ounces bourbon

  ¾ ounce lemon juice

  ¾ ounce rich honey syrup (3:1) (this page)

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a rocks glass over one large piece of ice.

  Brown Derby

  Named for the famous Brown Derby restaurant in Los Angeles, the Brown Derby is a reminder that using honey in a cocktail isn’t a new idea and that grapefruit juice can be an excellent citrus alternative to lemon and lime.

  2 ounces bourbon

  ¾ ounce grapefruit juice

  ½ ounce honey syrup (1:1) (this page)

  Grapefruit twist

  Combine all the ingredients except the grapefruit twist in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Twist a piece of grapefruit zest over the drink and drop into the glass.

  Blinker

  This drink, first printed in 1934, looks crazy on paper but is a surprisingly potent and refreshing drink. Modern renditions have tried to twist it into the shape of a traditional sour, but its true identity is as a sort of proto-Greyhound highball. Be sure to use a decent, potent rye, the more powerful the better, and a homemade grenadine.

  2 ounces rye

  3 ounces grapefruit juice

  1 ounce grenadine (this page)

  Grapefruit twist

  Combine all the ingredients except the grapefruit twist in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Twist a piece of grapefruit zest over the drink and drop into the glass.

  DAIQUIRI

  The Daiquiri is a party drink. There’s no getting around it. But the people who drink it have shown up for different kinds of parties. The ones who want the frozen version are looking for one sort of good time while the ones who prefer it the classic way, straight up, are looking for another. But, in the end, both drinkers are loose, easy-going types.

  The Daiquiri is a cocktail that asks you to stop, take a moment, enjoy life, and rid your mind of disquieting thoughts. It is a massage of a cocktail. A Martini might move you toward decisive action. A Manhattan can brighten your worldview. An Old-Fashioned may cause you to fall into a brown study, thinking deep thoughts. A Daiquiri, however, will relax you. The most momentous idea to occur to a Daiquiri drinker is “Let’s order another Daiquiri.”

  It makes perfect sense, then, that this tropical mix of rum, lime, and sugar would inspire a concept like the “Daiquiri Time Out,” which is exactly what you think it is. It also makes sense that it would be the drink that, when nipped at in small measures, or in prelude to an additional Daiquiri, is sometimes called a “snaquiri.” (The word and concept is usually credited to New York bartender Karin Stanley.) The drink is very snackable. It’s easy to have one, and it’s easy to have a second. They’re like potato chips.

  This laid-back perspective, however, is from the drinker’s point of view. From where the bartender is sitting, a Daiquiri can inspire night sweats. Though the cocktail is simple, there is little room for error. A Daiquiri can easily be thrown out of balance. The formula is pitiless. Too much (or too little) sugar or lime juice or the wrong rum, and you’re sunk. As a barkeep once told me, “There’s nowhere to hide.”

  The history of the Daiquiri is a curious one, in that credit for its creation is often thrown in the direction of not a bartender, journalist, or liquor company but a mining engineer. Jennings Cox was a rotund, bow-tie-sporting American who worked at an iron mine in Santiago de Cuba, around the time of the Spanish-American war. A happy entertainer, he’d serve his guests pitchers of rum, lime, and sugar, naming the compound after the small town in which he mined: Daiquirí.

  Cox hung out at a couple of Santiago bars, the Hotel Venus bar, and the San Carlos Club. There, the drink was converted from a pitcher drink to a cocktail, served in a glass with shaved ice. From there the recipe traveled to Havana, where the added steps of shaking and straining turned it into the libation we know today.

  Historians have often dismissed the Cox story. You can’t blame them. A mining engineer? It sounds improbable. But Jeff “Beachbum” Berry, a cocktail historian who specializes in all libations tropical, thinks there’s a lot of credence to the Cox tale. And Berry doesn’t muck about when it comes to cocktail history. “I wouldn’t call him the creator,” said Berry of Cox. “I’d call him the midwife.”

  Within a couple of decades, a perfect storm of circumstances—Prohibition, thirsty Americans’ sudden interest in traveling to Cuba, and the one-man Cuban publicity machine known as Ernest Hemingway—had conspired to make the Daiquiri “the best-known drink in Cuba,” in the words of writer Basil Woon, author of the 1928 book When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba.

  For cocktail Puritans, it is tempting to believe that the Daiquiri’s virtue remained unblemished for a good long time, until the louche 1970s threw the poor thing in a blender. But that’s not exactly the case. The ideas “frozen” and “Daiquiri” were never quite strangers, and very few years separate the drink’s invention and subsequent reinvention as a frothy drink. Those proto-Daiquiris created by that Santiago bartender were served with shaved ice. And the famous Daiquiris Hemingway guzzled by the dozens at Cuba’s El Floridita were of the frosty variety, piled up in the glass like so much applesauce. Woon cautioned that the drink “must be drunk frozen or it is not good.”

  Today’s serious cocktail bartenders tend to head in both directions, depending on the circumstances, and, if they know what they are doing, both versions are delectable.

  If you want the frozen variety, you might want to leave it to the pros. But if you want one that Cox might have served, all you need are your two hands and a shaker. Proportions, as has been mentioned, are vital, but, jigger in hand, they can be mastered and refined. Finding the right rum, however, is trickier. A richer, top-shelf aged rum will not necessarily yield you a better Daiquiri. What you want is a quality white rum, one that is clean and light but with enough character and funk to give the drink’s heart a beat. Havana Club Anejo three-year-old rum (technically an aged rum, but with a light touch) is a go-to for many bartenders. If you can lay your hands on it, do.

  So, good rum and right proportions in hand: you’re set. Nowhere to hide. Except inside your drink.

  Daiquiri

  Many like to switch the proportions of syrup and lime juice, making for a tarter, drier drink. Others like to eighty-six the syrup in favor of a heaping bar spoon of raw sugar. All fine by me.

  2 ounces white rum

  1 ounce simple syrup (1:1) (this page)

  ¾ ounce lime juice

  Lime wheel

  Combine all the ingredients except the lime wheel in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe. Garnish with the lime wheel (a full, thin slice from the center of the fruit), perching it on the rim of the coupe.

  Ti’ Punch

  This too-little-known drink is the French Caribbean’s local DIY Daiquiri. It is specifically associated with Martinique. It is easy as pie to put together—like a Daiquiri Erector set—and a great showcase for the grassy flavors of the islands’ own Rhum Agricole. Neisson, Clement, and La Favorite are all good brands to reach for. Cane syrup can be bought in many stores. Clement makes a
good version.

  2 ounces Rhum Agricole

  1 bar spoon cane syrup

  Lime wedge

  In a rocks glass, combine the syrup and a squeeze of the lime wedge. Add the Rhum Agricole, stir, and then add a few ice cubes and stir again.

  SIDECAR

  “Properly made, this is an excellent cocktail.”

  So wrote John Iverson, the author of the 1937 book Liquid Gems. Looks like a recommendation on the face of it. But so much hangs on that “properly made.”

  The Sidecar constitutes brandy’s biggest claim to cocktail immortality. It’s a simple mix of cognac, curaçao, and lemon juice. The drink is accepted by bartenders and cocktail enthusiasts as a classic, even if it doesn’t receive anywhere near the heavy rotation among drinkers that other classics do. It’s sort of like The Scarlet Letter or The Red Badge of Courage—classic works, no argument, but who actually reads those books anymore?

  The Sidecar is a Jazz Age baby. One of the oft-mentioned top contenders for having invented the cocktail is Harry’s New York Bar in Paris. (The matter of the drink’s origin is far from resolved.) However, the recipe published by owner Harry McElhone in his wonderful 1927 book Barflies and Cocktails—one part each of brandy, lemon juice, and Cointreau—is not what anyone would call a great Sidecar today. Bartenders don’t agree on much, Sidecar-wise, but they do come together in declaring that the 1:1:1 spec, when made with current ingredients, is unpalatable. Rather, they tend to up the portion of brandy.

  Part of the challenge of perfecting the Sidecar is that it’s easy to royally screw up every one of the three components. Make a Manhattan with basic bourbon and run-of-the-mill sweet vermouth, and it’s still a pretty good drink. Take a step down in either of the two alcoholic ingredients in the Sidecar and the cocktail tumbles into the basement. It’s a drink that knows a diamond from a rhinestone.

  Contributing to the Sidecar’s current fate as an afterthought classic is that nobody makes this cocktail their calling card. Other classic cocktails benefit from the attentions of dedicated drinkers who make those mixtures their usual—that is to say, their mission. But the Sidecar drinker—where is this unicorn?

  Furthermore, you hear of plenty of bars renowned for their Martini or their Irish Coffee. Surely “Best Sidecar in Town” is a claim that’s still up for grabs.

  One who might be able to make that boast is Joaquín Simó, as good a bartender as New York has to offer and owner of the bar Pouring Ribbons. He is a Sidecar fan.

  “With the Sidecar, it’s not so much about flavor for me as it is about mouth feel,” he said. The orange liqueurs he knew were not sweet enough to balance out the lemon juice. “These do not cancel each other out. They are not equivalent in the way, say, simple syrup and lemon juice cancel each other out.” So he adds a bar spoon of rich Demerara syrup (2:1) to the drink, which otherwise contains 2 ounces of Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac, a ¾ ounce of Pierre Ferrand dry curaçao, and ¾ ounce of lemon juice.

  “I don’t want the drink to taste thin or watery halfway through,” he continued, “so I bump up the sugar to give up a little more fat.” He succeeds. His Sidecar is a whole, not a poorly assembled brandy puzzle. It has a roundness, a sort of luxurious texture, and all three elements are balanced. And the Demerara does the trick the ubiquitous sugar rim was always meant to, but never did.

  Though that spoon of syrup technically makes his Sidecar a four-ingredient drink, I am including the recipe here nonetheless, alongside a standard Sidecar recipe. It’s too good to exclude. Call it an enhanced three-ingredient cocktail.

  Sidecar

  A good cognac is wanted here, VSOP or better. Martell Cordon Blue is a good brand for this drink. Many old-school recipes call for a sugar rim—don’t follow those recipes.

  1½ ounces cognac

  ¾ ounce Cointreau

  ¾ ounce lemon juice

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe.

  Joaquín Simó’s Sidecar

  While Simó has invented many fine modern drinks, he is especially adept at making classics shine. If you find yourself in his New York bar, Pouring Ribbons, try his Manhattan and Daiquiri as well.

  2 ounces Pierre Ferrand 1840 cognac

  ¾ ounce Pierre Ferrand Dry Curaçao

  ¾ ounce lemon juice

  1 bar spoon rich simple syrup (2:1) (this page)

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe.

  MARGARITA

  We live in an age where cocktail writers regularly climb upon their soapboxes and launch into paeans about particular drinks dear to their hearts. But does anyone wax rhapsodic about the Margarita?

  I don’t think so. The Margarita is easy to like. It’s easy to make. And, God knows, it’s easy to find. It’s been the most popular cocktail in America for what seems like eons. By the time you finish reading this sentence, thousands of people will have ordered a Margarita somewhere. Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” has been on heavy rotation on the radio and in shopping malls and elevators since 1977. (Rum and Coca-Cola may have its Andrews Sisters and Scotch and Soda its Kingston Trio, but no drink boasts an earworm of the strength and deathlessness of “Margaritaville.”)

  In short, the drink needs no outside help. No writer has to rush to its rescue, composing prose poems of praise, in hopes that someone, someone will finally pay attention.

  That’s quite a triumph for a cocktail made with tequila, a spirit all but unknown in the States until Prohibition. In 1934, American travel writer Emma-Lindsay Squier described tequila in her book Gringa: An American Woman in Mexico as “a distilled product that bites at your stomach like a mad dog and then kicks like an evil-tempered mule.” That was a fairly typical reaction. But what were dry Americans to do during the 1920s but cast curious looks over the country’s shared borders to see what hooch might be available there?

  There are about a baker’s dozen of competing origin stories surrounding the creation of the Margarita; there always are when the prize in question is an enormously popular and famous drink. Most seem about as credible as the tabloid headlines at the supermarket checkout. Quite possibly, like most simple cocktails, it came about naturally, not through some sudden stroke of genius by one individual. The main thing to keep in mind here is that a true Margarita has Curaçao, and that there was once a category of drinks know as “daisies,” which began to appear in the late 1800s. By the rather vague and slippery definition of the genre, daisies are sours that contain a little something extra, sometimes seltzer, sometimes raspberry syrup, and sometimes Curaçao. The word margarita is Spanish for “daisy.” There aren’t too many dots to connect here.

  The Margarita is a food cocktail. Cocktail evangelists have been preaching the gospel of food-cocktail pairings for nearly two decades now, trying to break into the wine monopoly and convince people that, yes, mixed drinks make a good accompaniment with dinner. But the Margarita cracked that nut long ago without even trying. Many a meal at a Mexican restaurant or beach/resort community eatery has been washed down with Margaritas.

  The arrival of the Tommy’s Margarita in the 1990s made a lot of bartenders and barflies wonder if they’d been making and drinking the cocktail wrong all along. Julio Bermejo, the owner of Tommy’s Mexican Restaurant in San Francisco, began making his Margaritas without Curaçao, in order to draw attention to the nuanced natural flavors to be found in the quality tequila he was pouring. His intentions were good, and the drink is good as well. But, as the New York Times restaurant critic Pete Wells once tweeted when an editor at a food website insisted that the best Margarita is made without Curaçao, “I look forward to trying your tequila sour.”

  Margarita

  As with the Daiquiri, some like to switch the proportions of sweetener (Cointreau, in this case) and lime juice, making for a more tart drink. Those who don’t mind a sweeter drink sometimes a
dd a bit of simple syrup. Be sure to use 100 percent agave tequila. A salted rim is entirely a matter of preference; to avoid dogma either way, try a half rim of salt. Freedom of choice is a wonderful thing.

  1½ ounces tequila

  1 ounce Cointreau

  ¾ ounce lime juice

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe or a rocks glass filled with ice, either one half rimmed with salt (optional).

  Tommy’s Margarita

  JULIO BERMEJO

  The most famous Margarita variation of the twenty-first century, this is simply a Margarita sans the Curaçao and with agave syrup instead of sugar. Julio Bermejo created it to showcase the natural flavors of the many brands of 100 percent agave tequila he carried at his family’s San Francisco restaurant, Tommy’s Mexican Restaurant. Agave syrup can be found in most grocery stores.

  2 ounces reposado tequila

  1 ounce lime juice

  ½ ounce agave syrup

  Combine all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice and shake until chilled, about 15 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe or a rocks glass filled with ice, either one half rimmed with salt (optional).