CHAPTER 4
THE CHILDREN OF PUNCH: COLLINSES, FIZZES, DAISIES, SOURS, COOLERS, AND COBBLERS
The glass of Punch went forth in the new land and multiplied, begetting a whole host of other drinks. Even the Cobbler, an unpunchy drink if ever there was one, can be seen as one of its offshoots, combining as it does wine, sugar, ice, and a couple of slices of citrus shaken in.
I. THE LESSER PUNCHES: FIXES AND SOURS (AND THE KNICKERBOCKER)
One of the many questions that could have easily been answered by knowledgeable and careful inquiry at the time and now is probably past recovery is, Wherefore the rise of the “short drink” in mid-Victorian America? Was it due to the increasing popularity of the Cocktail? Or was it merely a symptom, an acknowledgment of the accelerating pace of urban life? Whatever the reason, the decade or two before the Civil War saw American barkeepers making, and American tipplers tippling, pocket versions of those two mainstays of bar-drinking, the Mint Julep and the glass of Punch, versions made and served not in the large bar-glass, but the small one.
Nineteenth-century Americans dearly loved to make up names for things (viz, the map of North America), and these drinks rapidly took on identities, and as it were, lives of their own. You’ll find the baby Julep listed herein as the Smash, which is the only name it was ever known by. The lesser Punches, however, were more numerous in their generation and their classification is not easy.
The two earliest classes of lesser Punch—the Fix and the Sour—entered the historical record at the same time, in a Toronto saloon’s drink list that is dated, by hand, to 1856 (see under Evolved Cocktails for more on this extraordinary document), which means there is no surefire way of determining which one came first. But when comparing ancient manuscripts, one of the principles scholars rely on is the idea that the lectio dificilior, the “more difficult reading,” is the one most likely to be older, since the monks who copied out the manuscripts tended to simplify what they didn’t understand. According to this principle, the Fix should have seniority over the Sour, since it is the more involved drink to make. The fact that its distinguishing feature is the same ornamental garnish that graced Willard-era Punches works to support this conclusion.
BRANDY, GIN, SANTA CRUZ, OR WHISKEY FIX
Dificilior or not, the Fix, or “Fix-Up” (which gives us a clue as to its etymology) isn’t exactly complicated—it’s merely a short Punch with fancy fruit garnish. As such, it’s a surprisingly mysterious beverage: It appears in just about all the bartender’s bibles published before Prohibition and is among the few drinks listed as essential for the bartender to know in Paul Lowe’s influential Drinks: How to Mix and Serve from 1909—and yet devil a drinker do you find actually ordering one. (I suspect that most people, not well up on their technical mixology, would have simply described it as a “fancy Sour,” which may explain why we don’t hear of it.)
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TABLE-SPOONFUL [1 TSP] OF SUGAR
[JUICE OF] ¼ OF A LEMON
½ A WINE-GLASS [1 TBSP] OF WATER
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF [SPIRITS]
Fill a tumbler two-thirds full of shaved ice. Stir with a spoon and dress the top with fruit in season.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862 (COMPOSITE)
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: The 1887 edition of Thomas’s book adds “3 dashes [say, 1 tsp] of Curaçoa,” which ain’t a bad idea. By the 1880s, recipes were calling for the sugar to be replaced by ½ ounce of pineapple syrup. This, too, works well. For garnish, pieces of pineapple and orange, lemon peel (which is rubbed around the rim of the glass before being dropped in), and berries in season are idiomatic.
As for spirits: The canonical ones are brandy (cognac, preferably), Holland gin, Santa Cruz rum and, eventually, plain old domestic whiskey. Without input from its drinkers, it’s impossible to say which was ultimately most popular.
BRANDY, GIN, SANTA CRUZ, OR WHISKEY SOUR
“When American meets American then comes the whisky sour.” Thus declared the Atlanta Daily Constitution in 1879, and it wasn’t wrong. From roughly the 1860s to the 1960s, the Sour, and particularly its whiskey incarnation, was one of the cardinal points of American drinking, and, along with the Highball, one of the few drinks that could come near to slugging it out with the vast and aggressive tribe of Cocktails in terms of day-in, day-out popularity. It began pulling away from its siblings among the lesser Punches early: In 1858, we find it popular enough that the New York Times could attach the epithet “Brandy-sour”
By 1902, when this handy cast-iron and porcelain juicer was included in a hotelware catalogue, it was obsolescent; a generation or two earlier, though, it must have been a revelation. (Author’s collection)
to the name of a certain Mr. Brisley and expect people to know what that meant. In 1863, matters had already reached the point that the local paper from across the river in the great and liberal city of Brooklyn considered “compounder of cocktails, skins and sours” an acceptable circumlocution for “barkeeper.”
Two things appear to have driven the Sour’s quick elevation to indispensability: It was simple, and it was flexible. “The . . . sour,” wrote Jerry Thomas, “is made with the same ingredients as the . . . fix, omitting all fruits except a small piece of lemon, the juice of which must be pressed in the glass.” So: spirits, sugar, water, lemon, ice. The only real question here is the ratio of sugar to lemon. But that one’s a doozy (it still is—if you want to get a mixologist riled, tell him he’s put too much sugar in his Sour). There were essentially two schools: those who took the name seriously, and those who considered it akin to a child’s protestation that she’s not tired at all, really. The former, among whom we may count the author of the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual and whoever reworked the Professor’s book, call for the juice of half of a lemon and a teaspoon or so of sugar—a tart and tasty drink. But Jerry Thomas himself, and most who followed him—Harry Johnson, George Kappeler, Bill Boothby—show what is perhaps a more realistic view of human nature and make their Sours sweet, restricting the lemon juice to a few dashes or a quarter of a lemon’s worth at most, and making sure that there’s plenty of sweet to balance it out.
One notable innovation was to cap a Whiskey Sour with a float of red wine, to give it what one Chicago bartender called “the claret ‘snap’” (in the language of the saloon, red wine was always called “claret,” no matter how distant its origins from the sunlit banks of the Gironde). This worthy, who was interviewed in 1883, claimed ownership over this bit of fanciness, adding that “men who drink our sours expect a claret at every bar, and when it is not put in they ask for it. It’s getting circulated now, and other places are adopting our flourish.” (One is entitled to be skeptical, as he claimed to have invented the Manhattan as well, but there does exist another description of a Chicago bartender assembling a Whiskey Sour that same year, and lo and behold, he tops it off with claret, too.) Whoever invented it, this “Continental Sour,” “Southern Whiskey Sour,” or—the name it finally settled on in the early 1900s—“New York Sour” was broadly popular. As our Chicago barkeep noted, “the claret makes the drink look well and it gives it a better taste.”
In the 1890s, some of the fecundity with which bartenders were generating new Cocktails and Fizzes touched the humble Sour as well, and where before there had been only the basic versions, named after the spirits that animated them, suddenly the bars are festooned with signs for Blackthorn Sours (with sloe gin, pineapple syrup, and a splash of apricot liqueur), Sours a la Creole (brandy and Jamaica rum with lime juice and “a little ice cream on top”), Dizzy Sours (rye with a dash of Benedictine and a Jamaica rum float), Jack Frost Whiskey Sours (apple “whiskey”—i.e., applejack—with an egg and cream), and the like.
But by this point the Sour was already being attracted away from its orbit around Punch and into a new one around the Cocktail. This realignment was greatly facilitated by a trend that began early: The Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual instructed that “in the manufacture of f
ixes and sours a small bar-glass or ordinary tumbler is employed, and a strainer placed in the glass to drink through.” This use of the strainer was popular for a time, but by the 1880s bartenders had taken control of the device back from the drinker and were serving their Sours up, in a special Sour glass—basically, a footed glass, rather deeper than a Cocktail glass (to make room for the drink’s somewhat more generous proportions, for the garnish that it had swiped from the Fix, and for the seltzer with which it was sometimes lightened). After 1905 or so, most new short drinks with citrus became Cocktails (see Cocktail Punches) and the Sour’s flirtation with fanciness ceased.
I’ve provided the formula from the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual since it’s a little more precise than Thomas’s.
ONE WINE GLASS [2 OZ] OF [SPIRITS]
HALF WINE GLASS [1 OZ] OF WATER
ONE TABLESPOONFUL OF SUGAR
HALF OF A LEMON
Squeeze a portion of the lemon into the tumbler, which should be a quarter full of ice, and rub the lemon on the rim of the glass. Stir with a spoon. . . . In the manufacture of fixes and sours a small bar-glass or ordinary tumbler is employed.
SOURCE: STEWARD & BARKEEPER’S MANUAL, 1869 (COMPOSITE)
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: By the 1880s, 1 tablespoonful of sugar was considered excessive, and the amount was reduced by half to two-thirds, and indeed 1 teaspoon or 1½ teaspoons is sufficient; I will not dictate as this is a personal matter. The water, included at the beginning to help the sugar dissolve, was soon replaced by a squirt of seltzer which, once bartenders switched to syrup for sweetening (use 1 to 2 teaspoons of gum), migrated to the top of the drink. The canonical Sour spirits were brandy (the early favorite), Holland gin, applejack (this made for a “Jersey Sour”), bourbon (generally, but not always favored over rye—a New York Sour, for instance, calls for rye), and Santa Cruz rum (these last two being the latter-day favorites). The 1887 edition of Thomas’s book adds a dash of curaçao.
For an Egg Sour, use 1 ounce each of brandy and curaçao for the spirits and add a whole egg. In 1922, the great Anglo-Belgian (shades of Hercule Poirot!) bartender Robert Vermiere suggested that “a few drops of white of egg improve all Sours.” This, the European school of Sour-making, was the one that recolonized America after Prohibition, and the Sour with a head on it was a standard specialty of FDR-era Cocktail lounges. (It should be pointed out, however, that as early as 1904 the Chicago Tribune was talking about an artificial, presweetened “acid and white of egg mixture” that was sold to bars by the gallon; but it was never considered good form to use such a thing.)
NOTES ON EXECUTION: For a midcentury Sour, begin by squeezing the lemon into a small bar-glass, add the sugar and water, stir, then finish with spirits and ice. Done. The claret, always a nice touch, is best applied with a dasher top. Failing that, careful pouring from a jigger (use about ½ ounce) over the back of a spoon will do. The idea is to have a “pleasant-looking, red-headed drink,” as the Chicago Tribune observed in 1883.
For one of the advanced sours of the 1880s, use syrup and shake everything but the float, if using one (and don’t forget the curaçao!). Strain into a 4-or 5-ounce footed glass, add a healthy splash of seltzer if you like, float the float if you want that, and finish with a piece of pineapple, a couple of orange wedges, and a few berries.
KNICKERBOCKER
In 1852 or 1853, the list of mixed drinks obtainable at one of Boston’s fancier saloon/restaurants found its way into the newspapers. It was widely reprinted, generally as an example of the moral decline that the nation was sliding into as it hit the three-quarters of a century mark. Among the many drinks listed (some versions have as few as fifty-six, others are in the high sixties) are quite a few whose formulae have eluded history, fascinating compounds like the “Jewett’s Fancy” (Jewett was the Boston-based publisher of Uncle Tom’s Cabin), the “Vox Populi,” the “Tippe Na Pecco,” and even the famous “Fiscal Agent.” But a few, at least, would later find their way into Jerry Thomas’s book, among them the Knickerbocker (its recipe-double in the book, the White Lion, shows up in an augmented version of the list published in 1855, as coming from a California saloon).
If this Boston Knickerbocker is the same as the Professor’s, that makes it in fact the first of the lesser Punches on record. Its origins are likely to lie in New York, then thickly populated with Knickerbocker thises and Knickerbocker thats. Even the ice company was named Knickerbocker, and the drink calls for a fair amount of the stuff—but then again, the 1850s also saw the knee-breeches become knickerbockers, and it’s entirely possible that the drink took its name from them, it being an abbreviated, “knickerbocker” sort of Punch (indeed, Charles B. Campbell, in his 1867 American Bartender, attaches a “Punch” to its name). In any case, for a while there in the 1850s and 1860s it was a popular drink, even turning up, in somewhat bastardized form, in England. But then, for whatever reason, it faded away, and the last one hears of it is in 1882, when a writer for the New York World admonished, “in the resume of what is good to drink in the summer-time the Knickerbocker should not be forgotten.” An old-timer, no doubt. But the thing is, he’s not wrong: With its rum and its lime juice, its syrups and liqueurs, the Knickerbocker is the spiritual progenitor of the Tiki drink. Think of it as an 1850s Mai Tai—similar drink, different island.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
½ A LIME OR LEMON, SQUEEZE OUT THE JUICE, AND PUT RIND AND
JUICE IN THE GLASS
2 TEA-SPOONFULS OF RASPBERRY SYRUP
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] SANTA CRUZ RUM
½ [1 OZ] TEASPOONFUL OF CURAÇOA
Cool with shaved ice; shake up well,and ornament with berries in season.If this is not sweet enough,put in a little more raspberry syrup. SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Choose the lime over the lemon. Some find this recipe too tart. Rather than adding more raspberry syrup (which can be purchased in larger organic markets or easily made by macerating raspberries in rich simple syrup), I prefer to increase the curaçao to 2 teaspoons. Raspberries, blackberries, orange pieces, even pineapple can be part of the garnish. The only difference between Thomas’s Knickerbocker and his White Lion is that the latter replaces three-quarters of the raspberry syrup with pulverized sugar. I’ll take the knee-pants.
Campbell makes his with half brandy and half port, with pieces of orange and pineapple in the glass; delicious, but no Knickerbocker.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: This drink should be built and shaken in the glass for authenticity. But if you don’t have a shaker small enough to cover a 6- to 8-ounce tumbler and would prefer not to pour it back and forth between glasses, the floor, your shirt, and the boss’s wife, g’ahead and cheat and make it in the big shaker. It really doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to the final drink. Just don’t shake the lime rind in with everything else; it can make the drink bitter if bruised.
II. DAISIES AND FIZZES
If the Sour has one fault, it’s that it lacks zip (this of course is also its virtue; zip is a fine thing, but all zip all the time can get to be a bit much). Whereas Punches are capacious enough in size and conception to allow clever combinations of liquors to be deployed, not to mention several kinds of juice and extra dashes and fillips of this and that, the Sour is a drink designed for mass production: straightforward, efficient, and a little bland. But charge your basic Sour with fizz-water, and it sparkles and dances in the glass, bland simplicity transforming itself into clean directness. This is particularly true if you strain the Sour before you charge it.
This secret was long known to the makers of Gin Punch, and, indeed, as embodied in the John Collins had been revealed to the American tippling public since the late 1850s. But it didn’t come into its own until after the Civil War, and when it did there was—as so often in American saloon culture—a certain amount of confusion about what to call it. Was it a John Collins? A Daisy? A Fizz? Why not all three? Eventually, each of these names would be applied to its own class of drinks, all broadly similar bu
t nonetheless possessing the small, idiomatic differences that are the mixographer’s delight.
We’ve already examined the Collins option (which has its own nomenclatural confusions). Now for the other two. We’ll begin with the Daisy, since it’s the first to make it into the historical record.
THE DAISY
Charlie was detailing his romantic troubles to a couple of friends. Naturally wanting to help, Harry ordered “three cocktails, strong, cold, and plenty of it!”
“Stop,” interrupted Charlie, as the waiter was about to leave the room, “Stop, no cocktails for me. I’ll take a glass of lemonade!”
“A glass of what?” thundered Harry.
“Ha! ha! ha! Lemonade. Well that’s a good thing for a man in the dumps! Wouldn’t you rather have a concentrated zephyr, in a daisy, or an iced dew drop. Nonsense, man. . . . Lemonade, indeed.”
Thus Henry Llewellyn Williams in his 1866 novel, Gay Life in New York, or Fast Men and Grass Widows. I must applaud Harry’s judgment. While many a nineteenth-century formula for concentrating zephyrs has survived, as this book readily attests, the Iced Dew Drop appears lost forever. Not so the Daisy, which flourished for a time, practically died out, and then came roaring back in spectacular, albeit disguised, form, and is almost always just the thing for a man or woman in the dumps or out of them (as old-time bartender Jere Sullivan recalled in 1930, Daisies were “cooling, refreshing and peculiarly tasty”).
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