There are, of course, variations and refinements. I must confess that I’m shamefully partial to the hot-rails-to-hell practice Delaware mixologist Joseph Haywood recorded in 1898 of adding “one-half glass of brandy,” although I usually settle with one-quarter glass, or ½ ounce, of VSOP cognac or better.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: By “shake,” Thomas here clearly means “pour back and forth.” This makes for a cold and foamy drink, but one that flattens quickly; better have another lined up. Before long, the accepted practice was, as the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual instructed, to “agitate well with a spoon.” Later, once the bittered sugar cube became standard, even this was felt to be too much for the drink. The admonition in Boothby’s World’s Drinks from 1908 was typical: “Never stir . . . this beverage.” This was calculated to keep the bubbles streaming up from the cube as long as possible and the drink almost as dry as naked champagne.
BUCK AND BRECK
When Alan Dale got Jerry Thomas to talk about the famous drinks he had invented, that Sunday afternoon in 1883 or 1884, the Professor owned up to five: the Tom & Jerry, the Blue Blazer, the Champarelle, Lamb’s Wool, and the “Buck and Brick” [sic]. The first two we have discussed in detail. Champarelle is both confusing—he described it one way to Dale and another way in his book, and there were other versions out there—and not particularly interesting, so I will skip over it. About Lamb’s Wool, which in Thomas’s seems to have been nothing more than a flaming Hot Buttered Rum flavored with curaçao, we have too little information to comment further. That leaves the “Buck and Brick,” which Thomas describes as a mixture of brandy and champagne served in a sugar-coated glass.
At first glance, it doesn’t seem like much to claim—an oddly named drink that appears in none of the standard compendia of drink. But not so fast. If you trace back the lineage of the standard works of drink history, most of them go back to a handful of books by New York bartenders, and—as it turns out—the Buck and Breck, as the drink’s name must be spelled (“Buck and Breck” was the popular nickname for the winning 1856 Democratic ticket, James Buchanan and John C. Breckenridge)—was a West Coast drink. It pops up here and there in California and Nevada newspapers of the 1860s and ’70s, and even appears under a garbled name in the classic record of California mixology, Bill Boothby’s 1900 American Bartender (that garbling is understandable: until very recent times, Buchanan was a candidate for worst president in American history).
Did Jerry Thomas actually invent the Buck and Breck? In 1856, he was nowhere near California. But the drink doesn’t actually appear in print until early 1864, when it turns up in the pages of the San Francisco Daily Alta as a specialty of the Bank Exchange (for which see Pisco Punch, page 73). The Professor having recently been in town and made rather a big splash, what with his diamonds and his recent literary celebrity, it seems more than likely that one or another of his signature concoctions would have caught on. And if one’s going to catch on, it might as well be this—to taste it made properly, with a couple of touches that the Professor neglected to pass on to Alan Dale (for which see below), is to agree with the Daily Alta reporter, who dubbed it “Bully! Pleasant to the taste and mild as a zephyr.” It is, however, rather intoxicating, so tread lightly.
Fill a small bar-glass with water and throw it out again, then fill the glass with bar sugar and throw that out, leaving the glass apparently frosted inside. Pour in a jigger [1½ oz] of cognac [and a dash of
absinthe and two of Angostura bitters] and fill the glass with cold champagne. Then smile.
SOURCE: COCKTAIL BOOTHBY’S AMERICAN BARTENDER, 1900 (BOOTHBY CALLS IT THE “BRECK AND BRACE”)
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: According to that San Francisco reporter, the Bank Exchange’s bartender “put in something that looked like a solution of verdigris [and] added a bright crimson liquid.” The only green and crimson ingredients in general bar use in 1864 were absinthe and bitters, both of which were used in dashes. Since dashes are the kinds of things that people tend to omit when describing a drink, it seems entirely reasonable to restore these—besides, they make for a far more bewitching beverage. If you want to use lemon juice to wet the inside of the glass, that’s an old San Francisco bartender’s bit of fanciness for this sort of drink (there were others like it: Omit the dashes, do the lemon juice thing, and replace half the brandy with kümmel, and you have Ernest Rawling’s equally stupendous Russian Cocktail). Use a VSOP or better for the cognac.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: A champagne flute makes a good substitute for the bar-glass here.
JERSEY COCKTAIL
Unbeknownst to its consumer, many a Champagne Cocktail was actually a Jersey Cocktail. Much more French champagne was consumed in America than was shipped here from France, and the “apple-knockers” of New Jersey were more than ready to make up the deficit. In an age of “compound” or “artificial” beverages—we would say “adulterate,” “fraudulent,” or “recklessly toxic”—few were so voluminously and openly counterfeited as champagne. If you were lucky, you’d get good Garden State hard cider, pressurized with CO2 (preferably without too much residual carbonic acid) and bottled in a Frenchy-looking bottle. If you were unlucky . . . processed beet juice. Better to simply call a spade a spade and enjoy your cider for what it is.
The Jersey Cocktail doesn’t turn up often outside of bartenders’ guides, but in Thomas’s formulation it’s an honest, straightforward drink. Let that be its recommendation.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TEASPOONFUL OF SUGAR
2 DASHES OF BITTERS
Fill tumbler with cider, and mix well, with lemon peel on top.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: The sugar, as always, is a matter of preference; some add another ½ teaspoon. Use a good, filtered hard cider. In 1908, Boothby suggested that one “flavor” the drink with applejack. He’s not wrong: ½ ounce or so of bonded Laird’s does wonders for its oomph. For Jerry Thomas’s Soda Cocktail, replace the cider with soda water (use ice and the large glass). This formula was, and still is, much appreciated by the hungover.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: Thomas’s 1862 version is made without ice; presumably, the cider is chilled. Others built it on the rocks, or even shook it and strained it.
EAST INDIA COCKTAIL
A favorite of mine for its mellow richness, the East India was, according to Harry Johnson, also “a great favorite with the English living in the different parts of East India” (for more on Mr. Johnson, see the Bijou Cocktail, page 256). In its composition nothing more than a particularly fancy Brandy Cocktail, the East India finds itself among the Evolved Cocktails chiefly by virtue of its name. If the Jersey Cocktail illustrates one of the most common and productive strategies for drink nomenclature, which is to simply name it after whence its most prominent ingredient hails (cf. the White Russian), the East India—alias the Bengal—illustrates another, which is to tag it with the name of wherever they’re drinking ’em.
Beyond Johnson’s statement, we have very little hard information about the East India. But there were American bars aplenty in the grand new hotels that dotted the Eastern reaches of Queen Victoria’s empire, and many an American bartender to tend them. Judging by the basic soundness of this formula, which first appears (with a slightly different—and inferior—formula) in Johnson’s 1882 New and Improved Bartender’s Manual, the East India may well have been the work of one of these wandering Yankees.
(USE LARGE BAR-GLASS.)
FILL THE GLASS WITH SHAVED ICE
1 TEASPOONFUL OF CURAÇOA (RED)
1 TEASPOONFUL OF PINEAPPLE SYRUP
2 OR 3 DASHES OF BITTERS (BOKER’S GENUINE ONLY)
2 DASHES [¼ TSP] OF MARASCHINO
1 WINE GLASS FULL [2 OZ] OF BRANDY (MARTELL)
Stir up with a spoon, strain into a cocktail glass, putting in a cherry or medium-sized olive, twist a piece of lemon peel on top, and serve.
SOURCE: HARRY JOHNSON, NEW AND IMPROVED BARTENDER’S MANUAL, 1900 EDITION
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: For red curaçoa, use orange. The pineapple syrup, which makes this drink, can easily be prepared at home; see Chapter 9. For Boker’s bitters, Byron and others suggest Angostura, which is fine, although I find Peychaud’s gives it a lovely, soft edge. And you can of course use cognacs other than Martell, although there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Martell (as always, use a VSOP or better for best Epicurean effect). The cherry can be omitted, and the olive should be avoided at all costs.
JAPANESE COCKTAIL
Quoth the Minneapolis Tribune in early 1885: “The Japanese cocktail is [a] liquid attack of spinal meningitis. It is loaded with knock-kneed mental ceramics, and is apt to make a man throw stones at his grandfather.” It’s hard to think of a drink less worthy of such vitriol than the Japanese Cocktail. Perhaps the only drink in Jerry Thomas’s How to Mix Drinks actually invented by him, this suave and sweet social surfactant is many things, but a haven for “knock-kneed mental ceramics” isn’t one of them. Nor did it come from Japan. There’s nothing Japanese in it. In fact, as well as can be determined, the Japanese Cocktail is a fine example of yet another Cocktail-naming gambit, the commemorative Cocktail.
In June 1860, the first Japanese legation to the United States finished up their sensational tour with a few weeks in New York. A bunch of dignified, reserved, non-English-speaking Samurai, plus Tommy—well, Tateishi Onojirou Noriyuki, but nobody called him that. A young, frisky English speaker, Tommy was the legation’s legman—in both senses of the word: He had a decided interest in flirting with the ladies (and they with him).
If the American journalist who accompanied the legation on the long voyage home is to be believed, Tommy was interested in another American social custom as well, and in this his comrades joined him: “From breakfast to supper, they . . . [kept] the toddy-sticks going with much vivacity.” Their preferred poison? Cocktails. Small wonder: Their New York residence had been the Metropolitan Hotel, just a block away from Jerry Thomas’s “palace” bar at 622 Broadway. I can’t imagine that in their strolls around the neighborhood, they wouldn’t have stopped in to see the Professor for a quick one. And if you were Jerry Thomas, wouldn’t you come up with something special to mark the occasion?
The Minneapolis Tribune notwithstanding, the Japanese Cocktail remained in the current rotation, if not at the top of the list, until Prohibition, albeit often under the monickers “Mikado Cocktail” or “Chinese Cocktail” (let’s not go there).
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 TABLE-SPOONFUL OF ORGEAT SYRUP
½ TEASPOONFUL OF BOGART’S BITTERS
1 WINE-GLASS [2 OZ] OF BRANDY
1 OR 2 PIECES OF LEMON PEEL
Fill the tumbler one-third with ice, and stir well with a spoon.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Note the unusual amount of bitters, suggested no doubt to counteract the thick sweetness of the orgeat (which probably also explains the extra piece of lemon peel). If proceeding this way—and it’s well worth trying, yielding a fragrant and delightful drink—you’ll have to use Fee’s Aromatic Bitters or your own homemade Boker’s (see Chapter 9); Angostura and Peychaud’s are too concentrated to be used in this quantity. Otherwise follow the 1887 Bar-Tender’s Guide and go with 2 dashes of Angostura. Worthy of note is the Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual’s idiosyncratic suggestion that this can also be made with gin (Hollands, of course) and curaçao or maraschino instead of the orgeat.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: As for a regular Cocktail. By the time the Minneapolis Tribune had taken to calling it “liquid spinal meningitis,” the Japanese Cocktail was no longer a rocks drink, but was strained into a Cocktail glass, like just about everything else. In this case, it’s an improvement.
MORNING GLORY COCKTAIL
As we have seen, much of the Cocktail’s development was intimately connected to the search for a better hangover cure. In an age before aspirin, Advil, or morphine, an age without Alka-Seltzer, Pepto-Bismol, or Starbucks’ bottled Frappucino, this quest was not an unreasonable one, particularly for the sports who were ordering champagne by the basket. When confronted by the “cold grey light of dawn” (a phrase coined by humorist George Ade for just this situation), the toper recognized it as “the great necessity of the age” (to quote the Brooklyn Eagle) that he should at once take some sort of “anti-fogmatic” (attested as early as 1808), “eye-opener” (1818), “bracer” (1829), “corpse reviver,” or “morning glory” (both 1862).
Which brings us to the Morning Glory Cocktail (which is to be distinguished from the Morning Glory Fizz). The plain Cocktail was clearly considered to be a pretty fair tonic—as well it should be, that function having been bred into it from the very beginning. But by the 1880s the original Cocktail was something like a hundred years old, and the antifogmatic arts had made some important advances. Perhaps a Cocktail could be produced to reflect this progress? That, at any rate, seems to be the consideration driving this formula, which first appeared in the 1887 rewrite of Thomas’s book. It’s got every key eye-opening ingredient, beginning with brandy and whiskey, running through bitters and absinthe, with a little curaçao to take the edge off and a healthy tot of soda or seltzer to provide hydration. Not surprisingly to one who has drunk of the Sazerac and the Improved Cocktail, which it closely resembles, it also tastes pretty fine.
(USE MEDIUM BAR-GLASS.)
TAKE 3 DASHES [1 TSP] OF GUM SYRUP
2 DASHES [½ TSP] OF CURAÇOA
2 DASHES OF BOKER’S BITTERS
1 DASH OF ABSINTHE
1 PONY [1 OZ] OF BRANDY
1 PONY [1 OZ] OF WHISKEY
1 PIECE OF LEMON PEEL, TWISTED TO EXPRESS THE OIL
2 SMALL PIECES OF ICE
Stir thoroughly and remove the ice. Fill the glass with Seltzer water or plain soda, and stir with a teaspoon having a little sugar in it.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS’S BAR-TENDER’S GUIDE, 1887
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: For the bitters, use Angostura (it’s the purest and most medicinal). The brandy should be a VSOP cognac (at this crucial time of day, it’s especially important to use a mild and mellow product). Cognac mixes particularly well with rye whiskey, so that choice is made. And use more ice than the book calls for. Oh, and if you’re like me, you’ll have an anarchic little voice in your head that suggests substituting champagne for the seltzer. Listen to it at your peril.
NOTES ON EXECUTION: This hybrid Cocktail-Fizz should be stirred in the mixing glass and strained into a chilled small highball glass, with fizz water to follow. The trick with the teaspoon will raise a nice head; see the Gin Fizz (page 111) for details.
ABSINTHE COCKTAIL AND ABSINTHE FRAPPÉ
Although absinthe was sold in New Orleans by 1837 and New York by 1843, it took a while for anyone to get around to making an actual according-to-Hoyle Cocktail out of it. In part, this is understandable. Absinthe was something that you dashed into Cocktails, not something you built a drink around. Eventually, though, someone saw the light, et voila! the Absinthe Cocktail. By the late 1870s, anyway, for the bartenders on Park Row, where New York’s newspapers kept their headquarters, making Absinthe Cocktails was “child’s play.”
Before long, though, American absinthe drinkers began to feel that the best thing about the Absinthe Cocktail was the absinthe itself, with the ice running a very close second and the anisette and the bitters lagging by several lengths. And thus the Absinthe Cocktail begat the Absinthe Frappé, which was simply ingredient a shaken up with lots of ice and strained into a Cocktail glass, which may or may not have been packed with shaved ice. These “clouded green ones” were regarded by the Sporting Fraternity as (what else) just the thing to ring for first thing in the morning when you had a “head the size of a birdcage” and a taste in your mouth “like a motorman’s glove” (as Clarence Louis Cullen of the New York Sun delineated the condition). Then, in 1904—ten years after the frappé starts turning up in sporting circles—Victor Herbert and Glen Macdonough included an
ode to the Absinthe Frappé and its remarkable curative powers in their new show, It Happened in Nordland. With “Absinthe Frappé” spreading throughout the land in sheet music and recorded on Edison cylinder, suddenly the clouded green one found itself a white-hot drink, consumed by anyone, male or female, with pretensions to pretentiousness. This was akin to someone with an outstanding felony warrant going on American Idol. If absinthe had kept to its place among the sports and bohemians, it would have gone quietly to Prohibition with all the other spirits, and perhaps come out the other end with them as well. But given the stuff’s fearsome reputation, when the folks who live out where the bullfrogs croak saw their sons and daughters recreating on it, they took firm action. Absinthe was granted a special Prohibition all its own in 1912.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
Imbibe! Page 22