Imbibe!

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Imbibe! Page 24

by David Wondrich


  ¼ PONY [¼ OZ] WHITE OF EGG

  1 JIGGER [2 OZ] GIN

  Shake well. Strain.

  SOURCE: ALBERT STEVENS CROCKETT, OLD WALDORF BAR DAYS (1931; CROCKETT WAS PRESS AGENT FOR THE “HYPHEN,” AS THE HOTEL WAS KNOWN AMONG THE SPORTS, AND WHEN PROHIBITION CLOSED ITS BAR, HE RECEIVED CUSTODY OF ITS HANDWRITTEN BAR-BOOK)

  NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: Harry MacElhone, who worked at the Plaza in the early 1910s, suggests lime juice instead of lemon; in either case, ½ ounce should do. Beverages De Luxe, a 1911 drink book that prints a Clover Club recipe its authors picked up from the Hotel Belvedere in Baltimore, agrees about the lime and suggests replacing the raspberry syrup with actual raspberries, if in season. This is a fine suggestion, but if adopted, it will require more sugar: say, half a dozen berries and 1½ teaspoons of superfine sugar, depending on the tartness of the raspberries. If you lightly whip the egg white—here to add froth and body—with a fork, you can divide it; otherwise, use 1 white for every two or three drinks.

  Both the Belvedere’s recipe and MacElhone’s (which was presumably the Plaza’s) cut back on the gin and added some vermouth. The Waldorf’s is brighter tasting and simpler (and stronger), but the Plaza-Belvedere school’s is rather more interesting. If you like interesting, I suggest using 1½ ounces of gin (London dry or Plymouth) and 2 teaspoons each of Noilly Prat white and Martini & Rossi red vermouths. Whichever formula you use, float a leaf of mint on top and you’ve got a Clover Leaf.

  NOTES ON EXECUTION: If you use fresh raspberries, muddle them with the sugar and the citrus and double-strain the drink—i.e., use the Hawthorne strainer in the shaker and put a Julep strainer over the glass to catch the raspberry seeds. Like all drinks using eggs, this one will have to be shaken extra hard.

  DAIQUIRI COCKTAIL

  The first true classic cocktail to be invented outside the United States. I’m going to take advantage of that fact and ignore the whole Cuban part of its history, whatever that might be (let’s just say it’s one of mixology’s great open questions), and focus briefly on its early fortunes stateside. Although the Americans who in 1898 suddenly found themselves in Cuba in great numbers took to Bacardi’s exceptionally smooth, light rum pretty much instantly, it needed about ten years for it to filter across the Florida Straits and invade the invader. After a couple of years of percolating, in the mid-1910s it suddenly became a sensation. The usual mixological capers ensued. New Cocktails were mixed, with racy new names (the September Morn, named after a famous painting of a naked chick; the Jazz, named after a music that was considered to be a concatenation of vulgarity). Old Cocktails were dug up and rebored to fit the new spirit, and everybody ran around trying to figure out how to make ’em all.

  1 JIGGER [2 OZ] BACARDI RUM

  2 DASHES [1 TSP] GUM SYRUP

  JUICE OF ½ LIME

  Shake well in a mixing glass with cracked ice, strain and serve.

  SOURCE: HUGO ENSSLIN, RECIPES FOR MIXED DRINKS (1916; ENSSLIN ACTUALLY CALLS THIS THE “CUBAN COCKTAIL,” BUT HE CORRECTS IT IN A LATER EDITION. JACQUES STRAUB HAD ALREADY PUBLISHED A FORMULA IN 1914, BUT IT WAS GARBLED)

  NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: In the absence of true Cuban Bacardi, one is reduced to finding a substitute or smuggling Havana Club in from abroad (the Cuban H. C. is made in part in the old Bacardi plant). This is of course illegal (but get the three-year-old). The Flor de Caña from Nicaragua is a fine and economical substitute, but many other white rums will work as well. Alas, the modern Bacardi is not among them—it’s just too light (10 Cane, from Trinidad, is another favorite). Some Progressive Era American bartenders took to sweetening their Daiquiris—aka “Bacardi Cocktails”—with grenadine. This makes for a nice pink drink, but it muddies up the clean flavor of the original. A better option is to make it the Cuban way, with ½ teaspoon of superfine sugar as the only sweetener.

  NOTES ON EXECUTION: If you make this with superfine sugar, dissolve it in the lime juice before adding the rum and ice. Daiquiris were often served frappé, which is to say poured into a Cocktail glass full of finely shaved ice. Save this option for days when it’s 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity.

  AVIATION COCKTAIL

  One of the last truly great Cocktails to be invented before Prohibition. In recent years, this once-obscure combination of gin, lemon juice, and maraschino liqueur has become a favorite of true Cocktail fiends everywhere. It is generally considered to be a London drink, since its most prominent early appearance was in Harry Craddock’s classic Savoy Cocktail Book, published in 1930. In fact, its origins lie in pre-Prohibition New York, for it is among the formulae found in the last serious Cocktail book published in Gotham before the great drought—the 1916 Recipes for Mixed Drinks, by the thirty-year-old German-born head bartender at the Wallick House Hotel in Times Square, Hugo Ensslin. Although Ensslin’s book was one of the prime sources for both Craddock (who nicked from it such Savoy favorites as the Affinity, the Fair

  For the citrus-heavy Cocktails fashionable in the years before Prohibition, bartenders rolled out the heavy artillery. (Author’s collection)

  and Warmer, the Fluffy Ruffles, and the Raymond Hitchcocktail) and Patrick Gavin Duffy, whose classic Official Mixer’s Manual plundered it wholesale, the extreme rarity of Recipes for Mixed Drinks has prevented its author from getting credit where it is due.

  Of course, just because Ensslin printed the first recipe for the Aviation, that doesn’t mean he invented it—the only notice of the drink I’ve been able to find in the contemporary press, a 1911 three-liner from the pages of the Albany, New York, Knickerbocker Press, merely notes that “The ‘aviation cocktail’ is the latest,” with no clue as to its origin. The new sport of aviation was much in the news at the time, and there were two other drinks of the same name floating around (one merely a Jack Rose with a dash of absinthe, the other a rather unimpressive fifty-fifty mix of Dubonnet and dry sherry with an orange twist)—and no hint of who might be responsible for them, either.

  One thing that has always puzzled the drink’s aficionados:

  Whence the name? Here, too, Ensslin makes himself useful. His Aviation recipe calls for one additional ingredient that didn’t make it into Craddock’s final recipe: Besides the maraschino, there’s also a bit of crème de violette, a violet-flavored liqueur that tints the drink a pale sky blue and, incidentally, explains its name.

  1/3 [¾ OZ] LEMON JUICE

  2/3 [1½ OZ] EL BART GIN

  2 DASHES [1½ TSP] MARASCHINO

  2 DASHES [1 TSP] CRÈME DE VIOLETTE

  Shake well in a mixing glass with cracked ice, and serve.

  SOURCE: HUGO ENSSLIN, RECIPES FOR MIXED DRINKS (1916)

  NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: El Bart has gone to that happy land far, far away where Crazy Eddie zooms around in his Kaiser-Frazer with his arm around Virginia Dare and Burma Shave loafing in the backseat. No matter; since El Bart was a sponsor of Ensslin’s book, we can assume that its selection here was driven by other than gustatory necessity. In other words, use the (dry) gin you like. To my palate, Ensslin’s equilibrium between the maraschino and crème de violette produces a drink that tastes like hand soap; I prefer more maraschino and less of the blue stuff—just enough to produce the requisite color, but not so much as to shoot the drink down. If you like it sweeter, it’s better to round the drink out with a touch of simple syrup rather than adding more of the liqueurs, as they have a tendency to hijack the drink.

  WARD EIGHT

  The Ward Eight looms large in the mythical history of mixology, wherein it stands tall as the Champion of the Hub, proving to one and all that when Boston was called upon to contribute a Cocktail to the great pageant of American intoxication, it did not say “I shall not serve.” The story goes—well, if I may quote myself, here’s what I said in Esquire Drinks: “They say this old smoothie was inaugurated at Boston’s ancient Locke-Ober restaurant, at the victory supper (held the night before the election, naturally) for Martin ‘the Mahatma’ Lomasney, running for something or other from Boston
’s Ward Eight.” All well and good, but try documenting it. Other than a garbled description—as “what the Irish drink in Boston”—in a 1918 novel (which, truth be told, does add that after one “you’re ready to vote right,” which may be a jab at its origin) and a passing reference in a 1920 New York Times article about the dawn of Prohibition in Massachusetts, the newspapers and history books are of no assistance. Considered from a mixological point of view, the presence of grenadine in the drink makes it somewhat unlikely that it goes all the way back to 1898, when the little drama in question supposedly took place; grenadine was the hot ingredient of the 1910s, and very rare before that. But we may never know.

  The only pre-Prohibition recipe for the drink is a rather lackluster affair, so I’ve taken the liberty of substituting one a reader sent to G. Selmer Fougner of the New York Sun when he called for information on the drink, right after repeal. “The basis of a ‘Ward 8’ was a whisky sour,” the reader wrote with unmistakable authority, “the idea being to eliminate certain objectionable features of that drink. The Ward 8 was distinctly a warm weather drink, and should be so considered. It was always served in a large, heavy glass of the type generally used for beer—that is, with a large round bowl.” His recipe is equally precise.

  [NOTE: FOR QUANTITIES, SEE NOTES ON EXECUTION, BELOW.]

  Juice of one lemon,one barspoon of powdered sugar,a large whisky glass three-quarters full of Bourbon (dissolve the sugar in the juice and whisky),place a rather large piece of ice,in the glass,pour in glass,add three or four dashes of orange bitters,three dashes of crème de menthe, one-half jigger grenadine,fill glass with either plain water or seltzer, add two half slices orange,piece of pineapple and one or two cherries.

  When fresh mint is available the crème de menthe is omitted, and a slightly bruised sprig of mint added with the slices of orange, &c. This is an improvement.

  Many prefer the juice of half an orange instead of the orange bitters. The amount of sugar should be regulated to taste, and likewise the grenadine. The important factors are good liquor and care in mixing. Properly made, the drink is very pleasant, although highly potent.

  SOURCE: G. SELMER FOUGNER, ALONG THE WINE TRAIL (1934)

  NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: This is always considered to be a rye drink, and is described as such in that sole pre-Prohibition recipe, from The Cocktail Book: A Sideboard Manual for Gentlemen (numerous editions from 1900 through the 1910s; the early ones don’t have the Ward Eight, though). I say use the fresh mint instead of the crème de menthe and the orange juice instead of the orange bitters.

  NOTES ON EXECUTION: The man knows what he’s talking about, but it’s a little hard to untangle what he’s saying. I offer this as an aide to construction:

  Combine in mixing glass,

  JUICE OF 1 LEMON

  JUICE OF 1/2 ORANGE

  1 BARSPOON SUPERFINE SUGAR

  Stir until sugar dissolves, and add:

  3 OZ RYE WHISKEY

  1 SPRIG OF MINT

  Add ice, shake gently so as not to brutalize the mint and strain into a large beer-goblet containing 1 or 2 large ice cubes. Add grenadine to taste (a half-ounce should be plenty) and fill with chilled seltzer. Fruit as above.

  IV. ENTER VERMOUTH

  Until 1880 or so, all Cocktails, be they basic, Fancy, Improved, Evolved, or Crusta, shared a basic philosophy. Unlike Punches, which always sought to be a blend of flavors without one dominating, Cocktails were built to point up or accent the flavor of their base liquor without disguising it. With rare exception (i.e., the Japanese Cocktail), the other ingredients were measured in dashes or spoonfuls, not ounces or glassfuls. The resulting drinks were pungent, boozy, and strong. They were also delicious, but they demanded a consumer who was acclimatized to the taste of liquor and knew how to stow it away.

  As the Gilded Age unfolded, cutting-edge Cocktail drinkers began to look for something lighter and more urbane than a shot of bittered booze; something more refined and Epicurean and with less savor of riverboat bars and tobacco chaws, bare-knuckle bouts and faro dens. One result was the birth of the Cocktail Punch (and no surprise that it was born in Creole New Orleans). When that was still in its infancy, though, another path suddenly suggested itself. In 1871, Bonfort’s Wine and Liquor Circular was already on it:

  If we must have an appetizer before dinner, Absinthe or Vermouth deserve the preference over the antiquated and fiery cocktail; and of the two we consider the Vermouth the more desirable beverage. If it is of good Italian origin and properly cooled . . . it is a decidedly good thing.

  Vermouth had been known in America for some time. Its Italian and French makers had made several attempts to penetrate the bibulous American market. The precursor to Martini & Rossi may have tried as early as 1836, and Noilly Prat was shipping its dry vermouth to New Orleans in 1851 and San Francisco in 1853; for the rest of the decade, it turns up in liquor ads in gold-country newspapers, so somebody up in the hills must’ve been drinking it (there were lots of French miners and whores up in those hills).

  In any case, as the passage from Bonfort’s suggests, it was the Italian stuff—the red, sweet kind—that was getting the traction. By the 1860s, anyway, it was pretty well established in New York and had even reached places like Galveston, Texas, and Dubuque, Iowa. If not exactly a sensation, this “vino vermouth,” as it was known, enjoyed enough of a reputation for Delmonico’s and the Metropolitan Hotel to carry it on their wine lists, the latter selling it for a respectable $3 a quart (its best cognac was only $8). It wasn’t until the 1880s, though, that it took off, first with the help of the Manhattan, then, in the 1890s, with the Martini, and then, as the new century opened, with, well, just about everything.

  VERMOUTH COCKTAIL

  Once people noticed vermouth and began poking at it, it was inevitable that sooner or later somebody was going to try to make a Cocktail out of it. After all, this was America, and Cocktails were what we drank. We don’t know who served as guinea pig or where the experiment was conducted or, for that matter, who conducted it, but its protocol was recorded in 1869, in the invaluable Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual. While not a world-beater, for a number of years after that the Vermouth Cocktail maintained its place in the pharmacopoeia. In the field, it was most commonly prescribed as—what else?—a hangover cure. But its use wasn’t limited to that; there were plenty who appreciated its gentle touch. As an 1885 newspaper squib noted, “James R. Keene [Robber Baron and horseman extraordinaire] cheers himself to vermouth cocktails because ‘they don’t break you up.’ ” If, by the turn of the century, it was getting pretty old-fashioned, the anonymous author of The Banquet Book (1902) could still note that “This cocktail is liked by not a few and generally secures constant advocates.” After that, while we still hear of the Vermouth Cocktail here and there until Prohibition, it’s rarely spoken of with much affection and one gets the impression that the people who ordered it secretly in their hearts of hearts lusted after something with just a little more, well, alcohol in it.

  The first recipe for a “Vermuth [sic] Cocktail” is a simple affair, but then again, it’s not a drink that needs a lot of looking after.

  One wine glass [2 oz] of vermuth; one very small piece of ice; one small piece of lemon peel. Serve in a thin stemmed glass with curved lip.

  SOURCE: STEWARD & BARKEEPER’S MANUAL, 1869

  NOTES ON INGREDIENTS: This drink will work just fine with the standard red Martini & Rossi or Cinzano. If, however, you can find the Carpano Formula Antica, all of the sudden you’ve got a real drink on your hands. The tiny piece of ice is to avoid dilution; if you keep the vermouth refrigerated, you’ll be able to use more ice, and you should. Some later recipes specify bitters; depending on the vermouth you use, this may or may not be an enhancement. With the heavily aromatized Carpano, they’re superfluous. In 1884, O. H. Byron printed a version of the Vermouth Cocktail made with 1½ ounces of French vermouth, 3 dashes of Angostura bitters, and ½ teaspoon or so of gum syrup. This is a most pleasant tipple
, particularly in summer. For a Fancy Vermouth Cocktail, as delineated in the 1887 edition of Thomas’s book, use a couple dashes of Angostura and 1 teaspoon of maraschino and replace the twist with a quarter-wheel of lemon, which can be perched on the rim or floated on top. What the hell.

  NOTES ON EXECUTION: The 1887 edition of Thomas’s book recommends that this drink be shaken and strained; again, overdilution is a concern here—which way to go depends on if you prefer a very cold drink or a concentrated one.

  MANHATTAN COCKTAIL

  The Vermouth Cocktail is no doubt a fine thing, offering as it does a bold presence on the palate while still being low in impact—perhaps too low. You go to all the trouble of hitching your foot up on the rail, engaging Ed in conversation, supervising his movements as he dashes and splashes and waltzes everything around with ice, and the straining, and the twisting, and the sliding, and the paying, and what do you get for your fifteen cents? Something with no more kick to it than the little glass of sherry your maiden aunt takes when the fantods have got her. But what if you put a stick in it? Rye, gin, brandy, it doesn’t matter. Just a little something to make you feel like you’ve had a drink.

  That’s one possibility. On the other hand there’s this one. The Whiskey—or Gin, or Brandy—Cocktail is no doubt a fine thing, offering as it does a smooth presence on the palate while still being high in impact—perhaps too high. You go to all the trouble of hitching your foot up on the rail and all the rest, and what do you get for your fifteen cents? Drunk, that’s what. The problem with these things is they go down so easy that you want to treat your throat to a couple or three just to show your appreciation for the fine job it’s been doing you, but next thing you know it’s next Thursday and you’re in Oakland with what feels like three black eyes and an anchor tattooed on your arm. But what if you turned the damper down a little, took that new vermouth stuff—plenty flavorful but no John L. Sullivan—and replaced some of the booze with it? Maybe you could have a drink or two without all the vaudeville.

 

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