Ice
Before we get into the spirits, a word about H2O in its solid form. Because barkeepers carved their ice from large blocks, they could make it any size they wanted. This, too, became a part of the art, knowing which type of ice went into which type of drink. The 1887 rewrite of Thomas’s book added a note on the subject that neatly sums up the prevailing wisdom:
In preparing cold drinks great discrimination should be observed in the use of ice. As a general rule, shaved ice should be used when spirits form the principal ingredient of the drink, and no water is employed. When eggs, milk, wine, vermouth, seltzer or other mineral waters are used in preparing a drink, it is better to use small lumps of ice, and these should always be removed from the glass before serving to the customer.
This is in general still sound, although vermouth drinks should be moved into the shaved ice category. Citrus drinks can go either way; I generally use shaved ice or its equivalent when I’m going to strain the drink, and lump ice when I’m not. Whenever a recipe calls for “shaved,” “fine,” or “cracked” ice, in the absence of a large block of ice and a shaver, simply take dry, cold ice, put it in a canvas sack and quickly whale the tar out of it with a mallet (this apparatus is known these days as a “Lewis bag,” after the modern manufacturer who revived it; you can also simply wrap the ice in a large, clean dish towel). Whatever type of ice you use, you can be a little more generous with it than Thomas and his peers were. It’s cheaper now and we’re more used to extreme coldness in drinks, so go ahead and fill the glass at least two-thirds with the stuff. (A note to the daring and the dexterous: for drinks that are shaken—i.e., tossed back and forth—Thomas specifies that the ice be “fine,” and indeed using cracked ice will theoretically make for a thick, supercooled slurry that shouldn’t splash about quite so much when you’re rainbowing it over your head. In theory.)
Glassware
Happily, for the purposes of accurately reproducing the recipes contained in these pages, your glassware needs will be closer to Willard’s than the array listed in the G. Winter book. Here are the main glasses called for, with their capacities.
LARGE BAR OR MIXING GLASS. This held 12 ounces but for most uses can be admirably represented by the modern mixing glass, which holds 14 ounces.
SMALL BAR OR MIXING GLASS. This was rather more variable in size, running between 5 and 8 ounces. Usually, it took the form of a short, flared glass with a heavy bottom. At the end of the century, however, many mixologists preferred to use an 8-ounce, straight-sided stemmed beer goblet of heavy construction. A regular (not double) Old-Fashioned glass will do admirably, if you can find one. For most mixing purposes, though, it’s easier to simply use the large glass.
COCKTAIL GLASS. A stemmed glass, more rounded than V-shaped, holding no more than 3 ounces. Cocktail glasses this shape and,
Cocktail glass, 1902—a short step to the modern Martini glass. (Author’s collection)
especially, size are not easy to come by these days, but the small (4- to 5-ounce) Cocktail glass you do come across will do fine as long as you’re willing to accept a little airspace above your drink.
EARTHENWARE MUG. Preferably without Garfield or Dilbert on it.
Optional
COLLINS GLASS. A tall glass in the 14- to 16-ounce range.
TUMBLER. A rather robust 8-ounce glass, taller and narrower than the small bar glass.
FIZZ GLASS. A slender 6- to 8-ounce glass of delicate construction, often slightly flared.
RED WINE GLASS. A glass for red wine, not a wineglass that is red (although they had those, too). Also called a “Claret glass.” Capacity: 4 ounces.
SHERRY GLASS. A narrow, stemmed 2-ounce glass.
PONY GLASS. The pony was a small, narrow stemmed glass holding 1 ounce or a little more.
III. SPIRITS
Lemons are lemons, more or less, and sugar is sugar. There might be some differences in incidentals between what was available along those lines before Prohibition and what we can get now, but they won’t be decisive. Spirits, however, are entirely products of art, and though art is long and life is short, it’s still subject to the game of telegraph that is the transmission of information over time. I have taken the liberty, therefore, of suggesting some brands that in my experience work well in historical drinks; that, to the best of my knowledge, are reasonably close to what would have been available in Jerry Thomas’s day and immediately after.
Whatever spirits you use, they should ideally be at what would have been considered “proof ” at the time, which translates to around 116 degrees in the system we use now. Unfortunately, genever (aka Dutch gin) and brandy are rarely marketed at this strength, so to compensate you’ll have to cut the water back.
ABSINTHE
There is no substitute for real absinthe. The best modern ones are made by Ted Breaux and are available, at great expense, from abroad. (The fact that they are not legal in America does not help to lessen that expense. Go to www.bestabsinthe.com; I like the Edouard version.) But a bottle will go a very long way if used in dashes. Failing that, there is Lucid, a new, U.S.-legal absinthe also created by Breaux. Although somewhat lower in proof and less pungent than his others, it will certainly do. Of the legal substitutes, Absente is closest in proof and Versinthe closest in flavor.
APPLEJACK
Before prohibition, the “Jersey Lightning” used in the better bars would not have been blended. For genuine American applejack, there’s only one player left standing: Laird’s, of New Jersey—in fact, it’s probably the oldest brand of liquor in the country. Unfortunately, the regular Laird’s applejack one sees around is a blended product, and is hence mostly neutral spirits and water. If you can’t find their (pure) bonded version or their old apple brandy—and odds are you won’t be able to—better to use a VS-grade Calvados from France (and, while you’re at it, drop Laird’s a line encouraging them to goose up their distribution of the bonded stuff).
BRANDY
Cognacs and brandies were sold at rather higher proof than they generally are now. Unfortunately, there’s no way to adjust for this other than to reduce any quantity of water that might be in the drink. In general, for the best drinks you’ll want to use a VSOP-GRADE cognac or better. This is pricey, but it’s one place where you’ll just have to grin and be a sport. It’s worth it.
CHAMPAGNE
The champagnes popular in Jerry Thomas’s day were much sweeter than those we prefer today. The brut champagnes we favor did not become popular in America until the 1890s. That said, I still prefer my drinks with brut.
CURAÇAO (AKA CURAÇOA)
This orange-flavored liqueur was one of the essentials of the bar. Early versions were based on young brandies or rums, rather than the neutral spirits used today. For me, the best substitute is therefore the cognac-based Grand Marnier, which was originally sold as “Curaçao Marnier.” The Marie Brizard Orange Curaçao is also acceptable.
GIN
This one’s a real problem. In the 1862 edition of Jerry Thomas’s book, fourteen of the fifteen gin-drink recipes don’t specify what kind or style, and the fifteenth calls merely for “old gin,” without indicating its origin. Given this lack of detail, most modern readers and mixologists have assumed that Thomas’s Gin Cocktail, Gin Julep, Gin Smash, and all the rest were based on English-style gins, either the lightly sweetened Old Tom or the unsweetened London dry. In the course of researching this book, it has become increasingly clear to me that the gin Thomas had in mind was in fact Hollands; a Dutch genever or an American approximation of it (this would explain that “old gin” in his book; despite its name, Old Tom gin was not aged any longer than the time it took to ship the barrels to their destination, whereas Dutch gins were often aged).
For one thing, there’s no evidence that English-style unsweetened gin was available in America in any quantity until the 1890s. Even Old Tom gin, although sold in America since at least the late 1850s, had very limited distribution until the early 1880s: Before that it was kn
own and occasionally called for, but it was still a relative rarity. On the other hand, import figures show Dutch gin coming into America in large quantities at least through the 1870s, and Dutch brands such as Meder’s Swan (one of the most popular brands of spirits in America for much of the nineteenth century) and Olive Tree were frequently advertised. What’s more, if distiller’s handbooks are to be believed, domestic American gins were modeled on the heavier, maltier Dutch style rather than the lighter, cleaner English style.
In the 1876 second edition of his book, Jerry Thomas added a further six gin drinks but still did not specify which kind; again, one must assume either that he meant genever or that he considered genever and Old Tom close enough in style that it made no difference which was used (both were in fact sweetened). The only mention of unsweetened gin in America I’ve been able to find prior to the 1890s recommends its virtues as a fabric cleaner.
Eventually, with the introduction of dry vermouth as a mixing agent and the American public’s turn to lighter cocktails in the 1880s, Old Tom and then London dry gin (as well as the also-unsweetened Plymouth gin) began to displace the richer Dutch style. Finally, in the anonymous 1887 revision of Thomas’s book, we find gin styles specified. Eight of the drinks call for Old Tom gin, including the Martinez. But there are still twelve drinks calling explicitly for “Holland” gin. It was only with the rise of the Dry Martini, in the 1890s, that Dutch gin began disappearing from the bartender’s armory. Unfortunately, it mixes poorly with dry vermouth, and that would prove to be the death of it as a dominant spirit in America. From then until Prohibition, unsweetened gins—Plymouth and London Dry—are the cutting edge, although one still finds plenty of Cocktails and other drinks calling for Old Tom and even Holland gin.
Now comes the problem. Old Tom is completely unavailable; about the best thing to do is take a good, fragrant London Dry and sweeten it. Tanqueray used to make an Old Tom, so why not start there? A half-ounce of gum per bottle should do. As for Hollands. Its import status right now is in flux. I have hopes, though, that it will come back into the American market. What you want is either a korenwijn (also spelled corenwyn) or an oude genever, both of them thick, malty, and divine; the former, in particular, shows the spirit’s surprisingly close kinship with whiskey. Alas, the lighter and more common jonge genever is an artifact of World War I, and hence not technically accurate, although it still makes a far richer and tastier plain Cocktail than the lighter English gins.
If, as is unfortunately likely, you have difficulty securing a steady supply of Hollands, the only substitute I know—and it’s not a particularly adequate one—is to mix 8 ounces of John Power & Son or Jameson Irish whiskey with 10 ounces of Plymouth gin and then tip in ½-ounce of rich simple syrup. This works tolerably well in Punches and the like, but less so in Cocktails.
MARASCHINO LIQUEUR
The Luxardo brand is the gold standard here and always has been.
RUM
Alas, the old style of Jamaica rum, pot-stilled, strong, and redolent of funk, is no longer made in Jamaica (unless, that is, you count Wray & Nephew’s White Overproof, the most popular rum on the island; but this is unaged, and the ones Jerry Thomas called for had some barrel age). The best substitute I know is the Inner Circle, from Australia: it’s a pot-stilled rum of the old school, and it’s glorious. Look for the version sold at 115-proof; the “Green Dot.” Otherwise, Pusser’s Navy Rum is acceptable, as is Gosling’s Black Seal; better than both is an equal-parts mixture of the two.
Santa Cruz rum is more difficult to substitute for because it’s more difficult to pin down exactly what the hell it was. It’s clear that it was lighter than the Jamaican style, but not by how much. In general, I use something like Cruzan Estate Diamond, Mount Gay Eclipse, or Angostura 1919 for this, but I make no claims as to their accuracy. They do make for tasty drinks, though.
WHISKEY
This one’s easy. While the distillation of bourbon and rye has changed a good deal in terms of scale and a certain amount in terms of technique since the late 1800s, the way the resulting product is aged has changed very little indeed, and experienced whiskeymakers tell me that aging accounts for some 70 to 80 percent of the finished whiskey’s flavor. Good enough. In short, any bourbon or rye aged between four and fifteen years and bottled at 90 proof or above will work just fine (anything at lower proof would have generated adverse comment and, most likely, shooting). For the very earliest drinks here, though, you’ll have to lay out a little more money and pick up a bottle of Old Potrero, which is a wonderfully archaic pot-stilled rye whiskey (in fact, there are two kinds, one aged in uncharred barrels in the eighteenth-century style and one in nineteenth-century-style charred barrels).
For Scotch whisky, you’ll want something strong and smoky and single-malty. The Laphroaig cask-strength and the Talisker both fit the bill. For drinks from the very end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, though, you’ll want a blended Scotch. I like White Horse or Johnnie Walker.
For Irish whiskey, it’s all about the pot-still, which makes the Redbreast your man.
Finally, whiskey geeks might be interested to know that the convention by which American and Irish varieties of the stuff are spelled with an e and Scotch and Canadian without is entirely a modern invention.
IV. QUANTITIES
The quantities prescribed in Jerry Thomas’s book and those of his contemporaries and immediate successors are not only inconsistent between the various books, but within them as well. Mixologists tended to pick up recipes from all over and few bothered to straighten out little differences in recipe-writing styles.
There are some small-scale measures that were never fully standardized. The “wineglass”—the standard dose of spirits in Jerry Thomas’s book—has been treated as one of them, but it was in fact a standard measure, representing two ounces (although there is the occasional puzzling reference to a “small wineglass” and a “large wineglass”; these will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis). The teaspoon, on the other hand, is variously quoted as ¼ ounce and 1/6 ounce (the modern teaspoon). Since the things measured in teaspoons are usually sweet, using the modern measure may lead to some drinks being more austere than they need be. In other words, if interpreting the recipes yourself use your judgment.
If there are two possible teaspoons to choose from, that’s nothing compared to the dash. Then, as now, no measure is more variable. If, in 1867, Charles B. Campbell could note that “four or five dashes of syrup” equaled 1 teaspoon of sugar, to apply this prescription to the drinks of his contemporaries would yield many a thin Cocktail and tooth-strippingly sour Punch. On the other hand, the “half-teaspoon” given as a dash in the 1871 Gentleman’s Table Guide, an English work written with the cooperation of an American professor (“whose unsurpassed manipulation was the pride successively of the St. Nicholas, the Metropolitan and Fifth Avenue Hotels”), if applied to the same formulae might render them sticky. So whenever a recipe is sweetened by dashes, I’ve tried to suggest a more measurable quantity, but be aware that there is more than a dash of arbitrariness in my suggestions. The only exception is when it comes to bitters. There, a dash is whatever squirts out of the top of the bottle.
TABLE OF MEASUREMENTS
1 Quart (Imperial) = 40 ounces
1 Quart (Wine) = 32 ounces
1 Bottle = circa 24 ounces; French champagne was imported in
liter and half-liter bottles, which were called “quarts” and
“pints”
1 Pint (Imperial) = 20 ounces
1 Pint (Wine) = 16 ounces
½ Pint (Imperial) = 10 ounces
½ Pint (Wine) = 8 ounces
1 Gill (Imperial) = 5 ounces
1 Wineglass = 2 ounces
1 Jigger = 1 Wineglass; later, also 1½ ounces or, in the bars
around Wall Street, 1¼ ounces
1 Pony = ½ Wineglass or Jigger, or 1 ounce
1 tablespoon = ½ ounce
1 teaspoon= 1/
3 or ½ tablespoon (see above)
1 dash = 1 dash (see above)
A NOTE ON THE RECIPES
The next five chapters are full of old recipes, which I’ve presented as close to verbatim as possible. Jerry Thomas and his peers have left little or nothing to posterity beyond these formulae, making the ways that they are phrased and organized the only traces we have left of their individuality; in effect, their fingerprints. Accordingly, all I’ve done with them is expand an abbreviation here and there, and occasionally consolidate several almost-identical recipes into one (e.g., the Gin Fix, the Brandy Fix, and the Whiskey Fix). Where this has caused me to alter anything, I’ve indicated that with brackets. Where it’s caused me to omit anything, I’ve deployed a line of dots. Where the original recipe uses an obsolete or imprecise unit of measurement or calls for a quantity of something that, according to my experience and testing (usually checked against other contemporary recipes), needs adjustment, I’ve taken the liberty of adding my own suggested quantity, in brackets. Note that this won’t always jibe with the table of measurements in Chapter 2, but you’re of course always free to make it the way the original recipe says.
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