Imbibe!
Page 15
By Jerry Thomas’s day, the Toddy had settled into a comfortable middle age. The size was reduced to what could comfortably fit in one hand, the sugar moved up the social scale to pure white, and, while there were a few holdouts in New England who plumped for Medford rum and some ethnics who went for gin (with the pot-stilled, whiskeylike Hollands, this is decidedly more pleasant than it sounds), most people preferred to stoke their Toddies with good domestic rye or, preferably, bourbon (some felt rye “doesn’t suit” as well in hot drinks), or even better, imported French brandy. In fact, Brandy Toddy was often prescribed by doctors for its medicinal value (some ideas die hard).
Then, in the late 1870s, for whatever reason—the verminous phylloxera’s devastation of the vineyards of France, increasing Anglophilia, a sudden and uncharacteristic onrush of good sense—America at large discovered what a few had always known: that by far the best spirit in a Hot Toddy is pure Scotch whisky. Under the guise of Hot Scotch, the Hibernian version of the Toddy quickly rose to near-universal popularity as the sovereign remedy for a frosty night; indeed, until the golf-and-Scotch Highball craze of the 1890s it was just about the only way Scotch whisky was drunk in America. Judging by the contents of his bar’s cellar, which included barrels of a nice fifteen-year-old Caol Isla malt, Jerry Thomas was an early adopter (Andrew Johnson was another, although I don’t know if he took it up pre- or post-impeachment). Mark Twain came later to it, but made up for the delay by his regular devotion (according to his friend William Dean Howells, for years he took it before bedtime, deeming it “the only soporific worth considering”; in an age without benzodiazepines, he wasn’t wrong). The only dissenters were the Irish-Americans, who maintained, like the “old rounder” quoted in an Ohio paper in 1888, that “Irish whisky can stand hot water better than any other under the sun.”
That rounder was onto something. In the 1880s, you see, the old, unblended Scottish malt whisky, made in a traditional copper pot still with its kettle and gooseneck and spiral condensing worm, was being edged out by blended Scotch, wherein the malt was cut by the much lighter and purer stuff that the new “patent” stills were turning out, while the Americans had switched to mostly patent-still production, as had some rum distillers. The Irish, however, were still selling their whiskey unblended. This might seem a bit technical, but it’s anything but: after years of experience with the Hot Toddy, I’ve found that the one sure secret to success is to use pot-stilled spirits in it. The heavier body they possess gives the drink a silky texture that is hard to resist.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TEASPOONFUL OF SUGAR
½ WINEGLASS [3-4 OZ] OF WATER
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF [SPIRITS]
Stir with a spoon.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862 (COMPOSITE)
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Again, pot-stilled spirits are essential here. Cognac or single-malt Scotch: always (this is an excellent use for a very peaty Scotch, particularly if it’s at cask strength). Dark rum, Irish whiskey, and Hollands: on a case-by-case basis (Redbreast Irish whiskey is pure pot-still, and fabulous here). Bourbon and rye: well, they’re kind of a special case, because they almost always come out of a patent still, but at a lower proof than usual (and hence with a heavier body); in fact, some of them have just the right thickness you need (Woodford Reserve is a particular favorite here, but then again, it’s supposed to be part pot-still.). Vodka, London Dry gin, etc.: No. Tequila: It certainly might work, but you go first.
As for the sugar, you’ve got options here, too. For one thing, you can do without, as Mark Twain liked to (it was a Western thing). I don’t recommend that; not so much because I like a sweeter drink, but because the sugar adds thickness, and a thin Toddy is a sad Toddy. Some modern mixologists suggest sweetening Whisky Toddies with honey; personally, I think it clashes with the malt. Certainly the Professor and his colleagues never call for anything but sugar. Generally, this would have been the standard quick-dissolving powdered white sugar, but the presence of boiling water means that other kinds will work as well. I favor Demerara or raw sugar in my Toddies—they’re a little less sweet and a little more rich and complex (you can also get Demerara in cubes or, even better, irregular little lumps that just scream out “authentic”).
Water. The ideal proportion seems to be about one part spirit to one and a half to two parts water. Keep it as hot as possible. If you prefer nutmeg on your Toddy, well, according to the Professor that’s a Sling. His 1887 reviser, however, disagrees; myself, I find nutmeg works well with rum, brandy, or Hollands, but not so well with whisky. When you do use it, grate it fresh. Never use the stuff in a jar; you might as well be following the jocular (I hope) advice the British traveler J. E. Alexander gave in 1833: “If there is no nutmeg convenient, a scrape or two of the mudler (wooden sugar-breaker) will answer the purpose.”
NOTES ON EXECUTION: As he so often did, the 1887 reviser added clear and useful instructions: “First rinse the glass with hot water, put in the sugar, fill the glass half-full of boiling water, add the [spirits] and stir. Serve with a spoon.” If you’re using a glass, make sure it’s a heavy, tempered one. In general, I prefer a mug, which will keep the drink warm longer (try not to use a “World’s Best Dad” mug or other such cultural detritus; it cheapens the effect). If you’ve got a toddy-stick, now’s the time to use it. Beyond that, there’s little to say. If you like lemon peel in yours, that’s a Skin (page 144).
APPLE TODDY
From the beginning of the Republic, if not before, until the turn of the last century, if not after, one of the particular treats Americans looked to with which to solace their winters was Apple Toddy—a drink that has since disappeared with scarcely a trace. Indeed, before the Mint Julep and the Cocktail assumed the role it was so popular that it was something of a signifier of Americanness. That, certainly, is how it appears in the 1792 comedy The Yorker’s Strategy, its earliest citation.
As befits a truly democratic drink, the Apple Toddy was enjoyed up and down the social scale. If we find the British traveler Captain J. E. Alexander (“Late of the 16th Lancers”) noting that, on the Mississippi in 1831, “mint julep and apple toddy were the favourite liquors of the refined; cocktail and gin-sling were relished by the Dii minorum gentium” [i.e., the “lesser gods”], we equally find the Gettysburg Republican Compiler singling it out just a few years later as the kind of swill drunk by the Democratic (with a capital “D”) mob. Whichever end of the scale you put senators on, to see Senator Beck of Kentucky drink one was “supposed to be a liberal education,” as one newspaper put it in the 1880s. When other drinks of similar vintage fell by the wayside, the Apple Toddy continued on into the era of electric light and moving pictures, just as popular as ever.
But then Prohibition came, and in all the excitement people had little time for such things as an Apple Toddy. After repeal, whether roasting apples and mixing them up with sugar, water, and booze was too old-fashioned, too much work, or everybody just forgot, I do not know. But Apple Toddy was seen no more.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TABLE-SPOONFUL OF FINE WHITE SUGAR
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF CIDER BRANDY
½ OF A BAKED APPLE
Fill the glass two-thirds full of boiling water, and grate a little nutmeg on top.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Though Jerry Thomas and the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual both favor “cider brandy” or applejack, the great Willard, whose iced version is one of four of his recipes to survive, preferred plain grape brandy. If you can only get the blended applejack Laird’s sells, use Calvados instead, or listen to Willard (preferably with a nice VSOP cognac); if you can get one of Laird’s fine straight apple brandies, proceed with that. Whatever you use, it’s worth bearing in mind what the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual stated in 1869: “This drink ought never to be made with a suspicion of weakness. It is only drank [sic] in cold weather, and needs to be a little strong to be satisfactory to the epicurean” (its reci
pe called for a full 4 ounces of hooch).
Half an apple per drink should do. Just peel and core the apples, wrap them in wet brown paper as Willard suggests (otherwise they’ll fall apart) and bake them in a 350-degree oven for 30 to 45 minutes, until completely soft (or, as Willard suggests, roast them in the embers of a fire). For sugar, see the notes on ingredients for Hot
Toddy (page 141); whichever kind you use, use 1 tablespoonful as Thomas indicates; this is no place to skimp on the sweetness. In his 1869 Cooling Cups and Dainty Drinks, the Englishman William Terrington suggests using boiling cider instead of water; that might just be a bit too much apple.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: Put the sugar in a heated mug or heavy tumbler, add a splash of boiling water and stir (use a toddy-stick, if you’ve got one, or a muddler); add the spirits and the apple and stir some more until its pulp is dissolved. Fill with another 1 or 2 ounces boiling water, stir and grate nutmeg over the top.
WHISKY SKIN
Late one night in early 1855, one Richard Stark was tending bar at a sporting-life joint on Broadway at Howard Street in New York, when three men walked in. One of them, a yegg by the name of Richard McLaughlin—alias “Pargene”—stepped up to the bar and, as Stark later testified, “called for a whisky skin.” When the seventeen-year-old bartender slid it over to him, Pargene dashed it in his face, saying, “You son of a bitch—if your master was here I would scald his eyes out, too!” A few days earlier, you see, Pargene had bumped into the bar’s owner outside the Astor House and called him “a pretty son of a bitch.” In return, the man had laughed at him, and, as the New York Daily Times later recounted, “tapping him by the side of the nose, said, ‘I’m too sweet for you,’” and turned his back on him. The comment rankled. A couple months later, Pargene and a few other toughs managed to catch up with Stark’s master at another Broadway bar, the Stanwix Hall, which was right across the street from the Metropolitan Hotel, where Jerry Thomas would soon be working. They didn’t scald him with a Whisky Skin, either—after some tussling, they ended up shooting him three times. Thus ended the life of William “Bill the Butcher”
Poole, of Gangs of New York fame; his last words, “I die a true American.” Jerry Thomas must have approved.
The Whisky Skin is nothing more than a Hot Toddy with a strip of lemon peel in it. As a name, it came on the scene in the mid-1850s, with the drink dashed in poor young Stark’s face being only the second known attribution (the first is from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in 1854). The drink itself is surely Irish, a small version of the almost-lemonless punch popular there. According to Thomas, who only gave the Scotch version, it was also known—in Boston, anyway—as a “Columbia Skin.”
For a time Whisky Skin was a popular drink, celebrated on stage (it made a cameo in Our American Cousin, the play Lincoln was watching when he got shot) and in verse. It’s still a damned good one.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
1 PIECE OF LEMON PEEL
Fill the tumbler one-half full with boiling water.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: The 1887 edition specifies “Glenlivet or Islay”—i.e., a mellow, rich malt on the one hand, or a briny, peaty one on the other. Both will work just fine. It also adds an Irish Whiskey Skin, which is made the same way, but with the necessary substitution. If you can get the pure pot-still Redbreast, do so. Neither Thomas nor the 1869 Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual call for sugar in their Skins; others disagreed. Personally, I like 1 teaspoon of Demerara sugar in mine; call me what thou wilt. As for the lemon peel—a long strip pared away from the fruit without any of the white pith is what’s wanted here. It’s worth the effort.
NOTES ON EXECUTION : Proceed as for the standard Hot Toddy. The lemon peel should go in with the sugar, to ensure maximum extraction of flavor.
BLUE BLAZER
Perhaps the most colorful part of Herbert Asbury’s account of Jerry Thomas’s life is the bit where a “bewhiskered giant laden with gold lust with three layers of pistols strapped around his middle” stomps into the El Dorado and roars “Bar-keep! . . . Fix me up some hell-fire that’ll shake me right down to my gizzard!” The Professor measures his man and tells him to come back in an hour, whereupon, in front of a crowd filled with anticipation and booze, he proceeds to prepare a mixture of Scotch whisky and boiling water, light it on fire, and hurl the blazing mixture back and forth between two silver mugs “with a rapidity and dexterity that were well nigh unbelievable.” The mixture is a success. “Right down to my gizzard! Yes, sir, right down to my gizzard!” the miner finally manages to whisper.
That’s not how the Professor remembered it. As he told Alan Dale, he invented the drink while “in a fit of musing.” He was fiddling around one day with a cupful of Scotch, you see, and an
The Professor mixes a Blue Blazer. From The Bon Vivant’s Companion, 1862. (Author’s collection)
empty glass, and “dreamily” he just happened to light the whisky on fire. As he watched “the pale blue flame flickering and dancing,” he then poured it back and forth between vessels “until the whiskey was thoroughly burned.”
Whatever the circumstances of its creation, considered from the un-sentimental perspective of mixology, the Blue Blazer is not much of an invention, being merely a Scotch Whisky Skin to which has been applied the bartender’s standard procedure for mixing cold drinks. And, of course, fire. No matter: That fire was enough to make this a spectacular barroom stunt, especially in those gaslit days. As Thomas wrote, “A beholder gazing for the first time upon an experienced artist, compounding this beverage, would naturally come to the conclusion that it was a nectar for Pluto rather than Bacchus”—and it was well worth taking credit for. Thomas even kept a photograph of him making one right over the bar (I assume the engraving found in his book was based on it).
One thing, though: In his 1867 American Bartender, Charles B. Campbell, of San Francisco, includes a slightly more complex version of the drink with the comment, “This drink is solely my own.” Hmm.
Whoever invented it, the Blue Blazer starts turning up in print in the late 1850s and enjoyed a certain amount of popularity through the 1870s, with bartenders doing to it what bartenders do—that is, making it with everything but Scotch (rum and brandy were particularly popular). Eventually, with the new, cool, spoon-twirling school of bartender taking over in the 1880s, bartenders lost the desire and skill to perform this dangerous and racy stunt. As one Kansas City bartender reminisced in 1883, “There used to be a dozen men in Kansas City who thought nothing of doing that, but you never see them now. Why a bartender on Main St. tried it the other day for fun and nearly burned his hand off.” He couldn’t say nobody warned him: It says right there in Jerry Thomas’s book, “The novice in mixing this beverage should be careful not to scald himself. To become proficient in throwing the liquid from one mug to the other, it will be necessary to practise [sic] for some time with cold water.”
(USE TWO LARGE SILVER-PLATED MUGS, WITH
HANDLES.)
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
1 WINE-GLASS [1½ OZ] BOILING WATER
Put the whiskey and the boiling water in one mug, ignite the liquid with fire, and while blazing mix both ingredients by pouring them four or five times from one mug to the other, as represented in the cut. If well done this will have the appearance of a continued stream of liquid fire.
Sweeten with one teaspoonful of pulverized white sugar, and serve in a small bar tumbler, with a piece of lemon peel.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: If possible, I try to use a cask-strength single-malt whisky with this; the extra alcohol makes it much easier to set alight (the cask-strength Laphroaig works splendidly). Campbell calls for Scotch and Irish whiskeys mixed in equal parts. This is fine, but unnecessary. As with the Hot Scotch, I prefer a raw or Demerara sugar in this one.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: The Blue Blazer is all about the e
xecution. First off, the mugs: I use one-pint pewter tankards, tulip-shaped as in the engraving. The flared rim makes them pour more neatly; here, you really, really want that. Campbell suggests two “silver-plated mugs, with handles and glass bottoms” (eBay is full of pewter mugs, glass-bottomed or not; the silver plating is not strictly essential). The greatest trick here—besides not burning the house down, that is (I always make these over a baking tray full of water)—is to avoid putting the fire out. For that, I try to make them two at a time, with a little more whisky than water, putting the water and sugar in before the booze. This ensures a goodly amount of hot alcohol fumes to ignite. When pouring, be gentle and only pour about half the drink at a time, “being particular,” as Campbell says, “to keep the other [mug] blazing during the pouring process.” Then approach the tea cups or small, heavy glasses you have laid out in advance and prepared with a strip of lemon peel in each and—Campbell again—“pour mixture into glass blazing, and cover with [mixing] cup,” to extinguish it. Whatever you do, do it quickly—the handles have a habit of getting pretty damned hot, pretty damned fast.