But Thomas’s cursory assessment of the drink leaves one with an insufficient appreciation of its importance. From its first appearance in the mid- 1840s until after the Civil War, the Smash was just about the most popular thing going. In the 1850s, at the height of the Smash’s popularity, all the “pert young men,” the Broadway dandies, San Francisco swells, and junior New Orleans grandissimes, seemed to spend the warm months of the year with a Smash glued to one hand and a “segar” to the other. In fact, the Smash became rather an icon of dissipation, as in the bit in Harper’s Monthly from 1859
The Fancy Brandy Smash (the serving glass is on the left and the mixing glass on the right). From Harry Johnson’s New and Improved Illustrated Bartender’s Manual, 1888. (Courtesy Ted Haigh)
about one young son of privilege’s experience in college, “where he acquired the proper proficiency in Greek, Latin, Mathematics, slang, billiards and brandy smashes.” Eventually, it was pulled back into the orbit of its parent, the Julep, and one ceased to hear much about it.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
½ TABLE-SPOONFUL [1 TSP] OF WHITE SUGAR
1 TABLE-SPOONFUL [2 TSP] OF WATER
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF BRANDY
Fill two-thirds full of shaved ice, use two sprigs of mint, the same as in the recipe for mint julep. Lay two small pieces of orange on top, and ornament with berries in season.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: The sugar should be superfine. As for spirits: The Brandy Smash was by far the most popular, followed in later years by the Whiskey Smash (bourbon or rye). The Gin Smash also appears from time to time. As with the Gin Julep, Hollands is indicated.
The orange-and-berry ornamentation (which goes on at the end) is not strictly necessary, and in fact Thomas’s Whiskey Smash omits it.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: Dissolve the sugar in the water first (or, of course, use 1 teaspoonful or so of gum), then shake. This, however, yields a drink that is less than pleasing visually, so some mixologists of the drink’s heyday preferred to stir it. I still like to shake mine, but I’ll strain it over fresh ice (cracked) and insert a new sprig of mint at the end.
IV. SANGAREE
Sangaree—the name comes from the Spanish sangria, which pretty much gives us the origins of the drink—is a concoction of strong wine (usually port, but also sherry and Madeira), sugar, water, and nutmeg that was drunk in Britain by gentlemen and sea-captains and in America by infants, invalids, and Indians. Now, it’s possible that I’m exaggerating a bit. When it came to infants and children, I have to concede that there were those who considered giving them Sangaree an “unreasonable and dangerous practice.” But the very fact that this condemnation, published in the Journal of Health in 1830, was deemed necessary speaks volumes. For invalids, at least, it was just fine—even for ones being treated for alcoholism, if Harper’s Monthly is to be believed (see the February 1864 issue). And for Indians, well, supplying them with the drink was positively doing them a kindness, if we can judge by the visit a delegation of important “red men of the woods” made to a cannon-foundry near Washington in 1824. After the tour, refreshments were served, “cautiously prepared in the form of sangaree, lemonade, etc.” The Indians might perhaps have preferred whiskey, the National Journal opined, but “this weaker sort of drink is better for [them].”
Examined chronologically, this “mild and gentlemanly foreigner,” as one Jackson-era newspaper dubbed it, might as well have been a native. While it first appeared in the English-speaking world in London in 1736, when the Gentleman’s Magazine noted “a new Punch made of strong Madeira wine and called Sangre,” just seven years later we find our old friend Dr. Hamilton dispatching a bowl of it—the Spanish “sangre” already corrupted to “sangaree”—in suburban Baltimore. That’s an unusually quick transatlantic crossing for a drink—unless, as is entirely possible, it was already over on this side of the pond; unless Mr. Gordon got his “Sangre” from the Caribbean, where Spaniard and Englishmen mixed with great frequency. Early evidence is lacking, but by the early 1800s Sangaree (usually based on Madeira) is a constant feature in travelers’ tales of the Caribbean. Wherever it was born, Sangaree was an American before there were Americans. But it never quite settled in here; never took out citizenship papers, cleared itself a patch of woods and set about putting in rows of corn. It’s indicative that there’s no “Whiskey Sangaree” in Jerry Thomas’s book. Brandy and gin, yes. But whiskey, no.
By the Civil War, Sangaree was getting a little long in the tooth. Not that it disappeared entirely, mind you; it just sort of went into a pleasant retirement. As longtime East Coast bartender Jere Sullivan recalled in 1930, “In the Author’s experience it was found principally the order of the elderly business man, after the counters were closed in the late afternoon.” But not every drink has to play the classic American go-getter, all youth and drive and swagger. The Sangaree maintains a certain Old-World courtliness that has its appeal.
PORT WINE SANGAREE
In Jerry Thomas’s day, this was by far the most common version.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1½ WINE-GLASS [4 OZ] OF PORT WINE
1 TEASPOONFUL OF SUGAR
Fill tumbler two-thirds with ice.
Shake well and grate nutmeg on top.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTE ON INGREDIENTS: This is not the time to break out that crusted vintage port. Plain old ruby port of a decent quality is what you want here. Thomas also suggests a Sherry Sangaree, made exactly the same way. Should you give the variation a spin, adjust the amount of sugar you use according to your sherry: more for a fino or an amontillado, less for a cream or a Pedro Ximenez. Likewise, if you want to get all eighteenth century with a Madeira Sangaree , the dry Sercials and Verdelhos will require a bit more sugar than the sweeter Buals and Malmseys. Whatever wine you use, the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual suggests 4 ounces of it rather than Thomas’s 3; a sound suggestion that should not be ignored.
One variation that had enough currency for Jerry Thomas to deem it worth mention involves replacing the imported Iberian wines with rather the more quotidian tipples, porter, or ale. The venerable Porter Sangaree, alias “Porteree,” was a “good and very wholesome Beverage” (as the Boston Intelligencer dubbed it in 1819) of English origin—wholesome enough for the Journal of Health to approve its administration to children. After the Civil War, one sees little of the Porteree outside of plagiaristic bartender’s guides. As late as 1906, though, its sibling the Ale Sangaree had enough charm for one nostalgic toper to remember it as “the finest summer preparation that ever went down a man’s throat.” He recommended that the “divine, amber-colored fluid” be made with Scotch ale, noted for its mild creaminess (in other words, avoid the heavily hopped American microbrews). The thing of it is, he wasn’t entirely wrong. While I might deny the Ale Sangaree the superlative finest, it’s at least worthy of the comparative finer—it’s a surprisingly delightful testament to the transformative power of sugar and nutmeg and there’s many a younger, sportier summer drink that could learn a thing or two from it.
As for Brandy Sangaree and Gin Sangaree, which Thomas also mentioned but pretty much nobody else did (again, discounting his plagiarists). Just make the requisite Sling, omit the nutmeg, and “dash about a teaspoonful of port wine, so that it will float on top” (there are some—and I’m one of them—who consider it a kindness to float a little port on an Ale Sangaree as well). The brandy one is particularly tasty—score one for the Professor—although it is improved by using more port and squeezing in a dollop of orange juice.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: Dissolve the sugar in a splash of water before proceeding (if using Demerara, as I like to, you’ll have to muddle). For a Porteree or Ale Sangaree, use a pint glass and omit the ice. Nutmeg all around.
V. THREE YANKEE FAVORITES
To round out this gathering of old-timers, here’s a trey of the native drinks of Jerry Thomas’s people; musty, slightly eccentric concoct
ions that savor of white clapboard houses, short summers, closed mouths, and dark woods. I’ve listed them in rough order of palatability.
HOT SPICED (OR BUTTERED) RUM
The addition of butter to hot drinks goes back at least to the days of Henry VIII, when we find one Andrew Boorde recommending buttered beer or ale as a remedy for hoarseness. By Samuel Pepys’s day, buttered ale, with sugar and cinnamon, had made the transition from medicinal drink to recreational one. History is silent as to where and when the spirits came into the picture, but eighteenth-century New England would have to rank high on any list of suspects. By the time Jerry Thomas got around to committing his knowledge to paper, Hot (Spiced) Rum had largely been displaced by Hot Scotch as America’s winter warmer of first resort, but there were still a few who swore by it. Unlike those who continued to stick by the Black Strap (page 166), these loyalists weren’t entirely wrong.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TEASPOONFUL OF SUGAR
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF JAMAICA RUM
1 TEASPOONFUL OF SPICES (ALLSPICE AND CLOVES)
1 PIECE OF BUTTER AS LARGE AS HALF OF A CHESTNUT
Fill tumbler with [3-4 oz] hot water
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS : In its heyday, this drink’s devotees preferred old Jamaica to the somewhat lighter Santa Cruz and anything to the rougher stuff from New England. In any case, you’ll want a pot-still rum such as Inner Circle, from Australia, if you can find it (get the 115-proof ); otherwise, any dark, Demerara-style rum will do (El Dorado is cheap and effective). There are those who prefer cider to water; it’s not necessary.
For a simple Hot Rum, omit the butter and the mixed spices, although Thomas suggests you still grate nutmeg on top. A perfectly acceptable drink, but frankly this is a case where more is definitely more.
NOTES ON EXECUTION : Proceed as for a standard Hot Toddy, adding the spirits, butter, and spices in with the liquor before topping off with boiling water. If you want to make these the fun way—the way, as it were, I learned at my mother’s knee—simply put everything into a mug, including water (not heated), and plunge a red-hot poker into it. This is not recommended after the second round.
STONE FENCE
Roused from bed by the yelling and the shooting, the officer stood his ground, pants in hand. “I demand you surrender this fort,” shouted the sabre-waving giant before him. “In whose name, sir, do you demand this?” “In the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!”
And so (as Allen told it in his autobiography) fell Fort Ticonderoga, thus securing the Colonies’ back against a British thrust from Canada, which would have most likely proved fatal to their hopes of independence. And we owe it all to the Stone Fence. It was over large noggins of this rustic and potent beverage that, according to legend and a good deal of historical fact, Ethan Allen—the giant with the cutlery—and his Green Mountain Boys planned their early morning assault. Had they been sober, the idea of a relative handful of lightly armed backwoodsmen taking on a professional garrison armed with cannons might not have seemed like such a winning proposition. But they drank, and dared, and won. (Okay, so it turned out the garrison was completely unsuspecting and they waltzed right in—but they didn’t know that when they started out, did they?)
By the time the Civil War rolled around, the Stone Fence was a ghost of its former self. When Ethan Allen and his crew asked for it, they were asking for a savage mixture of hard cider and New England rum. Four generations later, if the testimony of Jerry Thomas in the matter is to be believed, the Stone Fence was bourbon whiskey diluted with sweet—that is, nonalcoholic—cider. Suave and smooth, but comparatively feeble; if Colonel Allen and his crew had been drinking it this way, their meeting at the Catamount Tavern might have given rise merely to a polite but firm letter to the fort’s commander, rather than a personal visit.
(USE LARGE BAR-GLASS.)
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF WHISKEY (BOURBON)
2 OR 3 SMALL LUMPS OF ICE
Fill up the glass with sweet cider.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: In 1775, of course, there was no bourbon. To make a Revolutionarily correct Stone Fence, you’ll need rum of the usual old-school kind and hard cider, the funkier the better—as in, ferment your own. Alas, the only rum I know savage enough to do this justice is the acrid and funky 115-proof Bundaberg, from Australia, which you can’t get in the United States (see how the laws conspire to make us good?). As late as 1869, the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual observed that a tart and full-flavored (and alcoholic) crab apple cider was “frequently used in preference to ordinary cider,” but for the Professor’s version, your standard health-food store sweet cider will do. And this isn’t the place to trot out your fanciest bourbon.
BLACK STRAP (AKA THE BLACK STRIPE)
New Englanders have somehow acquired a reputation for being a bit on the effete side compared to other Americans. All it takes is one taste of this to understand how deeply wrong that is. Mind you, it’s not that the drink is violently harsh, or even particularly strong. It’s just . . . crude. Like a three-legged stool, or succotash. Anyone who could call “ ’Lasses and rum, with a leetle [sic] dash of water”—the formula in question—“the sweetest drink that ever streaked down a common-sized gullet” is by definition no milquetoast. Now granted, that quote’s from an 1833 humor piece—a lying contest between a down-east “Nutmeg” and a Georgia “Cracker”—but in this case fiction is merely truth with a slightly more colorful turn of speech. The Nutmegs so loved their Black Strap that, according to the memoirs of Henry Soulé, a New England parson, bowls of it were even circulated at weddings. One shudders. At any rate, it’s inconceivable that any family tree that was irrigated with the stuff could ever devolve to the point of effeteness, even after ten generations.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 WINE GLASS [2 OZ] OF SANTA CRUZ RUM
1 TABLE-SPOONFUL OF MOLASSES
This drink can either be made in summer or winter; if in the former season, mix in one table spoonful of water, and cool with shaved ice; if in the latter, fill up the tumbler with boiling water. Grate a little nutmeg on top.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Again, for full authenticity you’ll need a rum that you could stand a fork up in; real pirate-juice. The molasses should be Caribbean—like a nice Barbados blackstrap—and the water should be from an outdoor pump (okay, that’s not strictly necessary). For a hot Black Strap, use about 2 ounces of water, for cold—a drink I shudder to recall—1 ounce and plenty of cracked ice.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: Whether hot or cold, stir the molasses and the water together before adding the spirits.
CHAPTER 7
COCKTAILS AND CRUSTAS
Anyone who has spent any time pondering the origins of the Cocktail—be it for the months or years it takes to write a book or the minutes or seconds it takes to internalize a Dry Martini—will agree that it’s a quintessentially American contraption. How could it be anything but? It’s quick, direct, and vigorous. It’s flashy and a little bit vulgar. It induces an unreflective overconfidence. It’s democratic, forcing the finest liquors to rub elbows with ingredients of far more humble stamp. It’s profligate with natural resources (think of all the electricity generated to make ice that gets used for ten seconds and discarded). In short, it rocks.
But if the Cocktail is American, it’s American in the same way as the hot dog (that is, the Frankfurter), the hamburger (the Hamburger steak), and the ice-cream cone (with its rolled gaufrette). As a nation, we have a knack for taking underperforming elements of other peoples’ cultures, streamlining them, supercharging them, and letting ’em rip—from nobody to superstar, with a trail of sparks and a hell of a noise along the way. That’s how the Cocktail did it, anyway.
DR. STOUGHTON’S ELIXIR MAGNUM
You could say, I suppose, that the Cocktail has been around since antiquity; that it was already old whe
n Scribonius Largus, one of the emperor Claudius’s physicians, suggested that a stomachache would be soothed by dissolving black myrtle berries and pills made up of dates, dill, saffron, nigella seeds, hazelwort, and juniper in sweet wine and chugging it down. Before you turn the page, muttering, “I know Cocktails, and that’s no Cocktail,” hear me out. Nowadays, “Cocktail” means anything from “whatever is served in a conical, stemmed glass” to “a mixed drink containing alcohol” (as in, “Cocktails are five dollars for our Economy customers,” where the term indicates a plastic cup full of ice and soda and a tiny bottle of booze on the side). But that lexical flexibility wasn’t always the case. In the nineteenth century, when the word first became joined to a drink, it denoted something far more specific: spirits or wine, sweetened with sugar, diluted (if necessary) with water, and spiced up with a few dashes of “bitters”—that is, a medicinal infusion of bitter roots, herbs, barks, and spices. Under that definition, Scribonius’s potion, with its bitter hazelwort, has a lot more right to the title than most of the things you’ll find on the average modern Cocktail menu (e.g., the “Chocolate Martini”).
Imbibe! Page 17