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Where to Eat Right Now! (or Whenevs)

It is with the mildest of enthusiasm that I announce my new no-brow restaurant: TryLess ProVictuals, or Sans Effort.  A refreshing antidote to the exhausting attention to detail, and the frankly intimidating competency that pervades so many modern dining experiences, TLPV offers diners a meal that cares even less than they do.  It's anti-pretense, anti-foodie, and unabashedly anti-food.

It's going to be moderately huge.  Here's a sample of the menu.

Entrees:

Some Amount of Poultry.  Raised on, like, a farm somewhere?  Or a coop?  Whatever, it’s dead now.  With mangled potatoes and Stuff of the Day.

So Many Noodles, Struggling to Overcome Greasy Cheese.*  Topped with bread that met a violent end.

Overpriced Vegetables We Might Pretend We Bought at the Farmers’ Market, O'Gratin.*  Like the people at those stands are really farmers, anyway.

Beef in Beef Sauce.  With au jus (optional).

Pork-Fried Chicken Loins or Chicken-Fried Pork Loin.  Good luck!

Flesh-textured Eggs.  Smeared by onion-textured bacon.

*= vegetarian?

Dessert:

Flurn.

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You're welcome, George!  It was the least we could do.

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Deleted Scenes: Praying for Time with the St. George Michael Cocktail

 Adam Carolla is in hot water this week for calling the Wall Street Occupiers “ass douches.”  I’d like to nominate someone else for that appellation (besides Carolla himself): the fuckwits from “Christians for a Moral America,” who are praying for George Michael to die. 

The two news items are more related than they might seem (“like the parents of each ‘Christian for a Moral America’” … is what I might say if I weren’t more inclined than Carolla to take the high road). Carolla and those supposed "Christians" are both wrong, and the Occupy Movement proves that we need George Michael's music now more than ever.

It's easy to miss it amidst the supermodel cameos, fly aviator shades, and "GO GO" t-shirts, but George has always focused on the poor and the downtrodden.  He wore has passion for justice on his sleeve in songs like "Hand to Mouth," "John and Elvis Are Dead," and the criminally underrated flop "Praying for Time," from 1990's Listen Without Prejudice: Volume 1.  In fact, I would urge everyone everyone participating in our national conversation about income inequality to give “Praying for Time” another listen.

“Praying for Time” is the perfect distillation of three of George’s favorite themes: the persistence of social castes in modern Western democracies, the absurdity of religion in a world where God is blind, nihilistic, or dead, and the ways in which fame is a mask that eats the face.

No one but the poor escapes “Praying for Time” unscathed.  In a world where hunger and war and famine are daily realities for millions, where the only conclusion to draw is that “God stopped keeping score,” we are all culpable: from the rich who “declare themselves poor” to the those who give to charity infrequently and only in public, to those who can’t seem to navigate the distance between enough wealth and too much.  We all ignore the hungry and the downtrodden, George practically snarls, out of “ignorance/ And legitimate excuses” alike.

Not surprisingly, record buyers didn’t take the lashing well. Although it spawned both “Praying for Time” and the iconic video for “Freedom ’90," the Listen Without Prejudice album was regarded as a flop on par with Ishtar or E.T. for the Atari 2600.  Since then, the public has been only too happy to take the painful mask from George’s famous face.

In the years since it became clear that there will never be a Listen Without Prejudice: Volume 2, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about George’s health and his personal well-being. While he self-medicated with cannabis and Amitriptyline, I've often raised a glass of something spirituous to the hope that George will get his life back together and give the world more of the socially aware pop music it seems to need more every day.  I tipped a glass for George when he was arrested for a “lewd act” in a Will Rogers park restroom, when he passed out at the wheel of his Range Rover, and when he drove said Range Rover into a storefront.  I threw back more than one when I saw “Praying for Time” relegated to “American Idol Gives Back,” the precise kind of self-important, gaudy public charity that George was railing against when he wrote it.

All of those incidents made me sad, but none got my dander or my drinking arm up as high as this latest crusade by morally bankrupt morons claiming that George "has chosen a satanic lifestyle and must meet an appropriate end" in the Vienna hospital where he's battling pneumonia, and praying that "another sodomite bites the dust."

As if that bullshit wasn't enough to prove that God really has abandoned us all, there has also been public speculation that the pneumonia treatments may deprive George of his wondrous singing voice.  So I invented a cocktail as a sort of magical/alchemical exercise, a liquid incantation that I hope will counter all the bad mojo from Christians for a Moral America and generate the kind of positive energy that promotes healing.

The St. George Michael

2 oz. St. George Single Malt Whiskey (I used Lot 9)

1 tsp. St. George Absinthe

scant ¾ oz. Bonal Gentiane Quina aperitif

½ oz. Drambuie

1 sugar cube

In an old-fashioned glass, muddle the sugar cube and Drambuie with a few small pieces of ice.  Add Bonal, whiskey, and several large pieces of ice.  Stir well. 

Pour absinthe into a second, chilled old-fashioned glass and swirl until it coats the edges.  Strain the cocktail into this glass.  Twist a broad swath of lemon peel over the cocktail and then drop it in.

Avoid mixing with marijuana, prescription medications, Range Rovers, or public toilets.

To honor George’s father (a Greek Cypriot) and his birth name (Georgios Kyriacos Panagiotou), we rinse the glass with absinthe, a spirit whose strong anise flavors should conjure the Ouzo used to lubricate Greek celebrations.  (Say what you will about him, George has never been one to turn down lubricated public celebrations.)  To honor George’s mother, an English dancer, we choose a base spirit bearing the iconography of England’s patron saint.

To that we add Bonal, a slightly bitter aperitif made from gentian root, an anti-inflammatory thought to cleanse the system, lower fevers, and stimulate the appetite.   (Say what you will about him, George has never been one to turn down herbs that stimulate the appetite).  Gentian gets its name from the Greek ruler who discovered its healing properties.  Finally we sweeten with Drambuie, the favorite of a rebellious Bonnie Prince, to remember those leather-jacket-and-tight-Levi’s days when George was still the rebellious bonnie prince of the American Top 40.  The whole thing is prepared in the manner of a Sazerac … because I really like Sazeracs. 

Sipped reflectively in a manner befitting difficult times, the St. George Michael is as deep, rich, and profoundly nutty as its namesake.

As I drank the first successful formulation, I said my own little prayer for time: George survived Sony.  He survived Will Rogers Park.  Hell, he survived Limp Bizkit.  He can survive this.  And the Ass Douches for a Moral America can rot in whatever hell they’ve dreamed up for others, forever and ever.  Amen. 

 George was never much for the high road, anyway.

[largerdirks]

Liner Notes: Back to School

Column: Mixology Mailbag Majors in the Classics

Working Title: none, actually.  I was pretty fond of this title from the beginning, and fortunately GOOD liked it too.

Date Published: 17 August 2011

A tough question this week, from a very attentive reader.  I took a Vacation Day to float down the Russian River the day before my deadline, and I sacrificed much quality floating time agonizing over various combinations of bottles and strategies.  Apologies to my indulgent friends, who tossed out helpful suggestions even though they were trying to relax.

Coulda Shoulda Woulda:

I didn't get anywhere near addressing (or attempting to improve) the Alchemist's 6-, 9-, or 12-bottle bars.  In a way, there's less and less to talk about as the numbers go up (when do you add a Scotch?  Is it ever worth bothering with vodka?), but I still suspect I'll still shoehorn in a reference to one of them somewhere in a future column.

Not really a regret (because I pilfered enough already), but Wondrich's full Old Fashioned recipe from Esquire Drinks is really entertaining.  He concludes it with: "If you just can't resist the fruit, for whatever sentimental reasons, at least refrain from the common atrocity of muddling it with the sugar before pouring in the hooch -- this turns a noble drink into a sickly, gooey-tasting mess.  F.D.R. took his with only a twist, and he led us through depression and war."

Cutting Room Floor:

ODB jokes!  I'm sure it won't be the last time I try to squeeze them in, or the last time I fail.  Originally I had this in the opening paragraph: "Here at Mixology Mailbag, our motto is: 'speak the truth to the youth.'  I tell ‘em: youth, better start wearing bullet proof!  Oh wait, no.  That was the Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s motto (may he rest in peace).  My mistake."  And I closed with: "In the words of the great Winston Churchill: 'Shimmy shimmy ya shimmy yeah shimmy yay.'  Oh wait, nope – still the ODB."  I still love Dirt Dog, of course, but I readily acknowledge that the Churchill reference was wack. 

The "classics" approach I chose meant including a ton of recipes, but it also meant losing many of my original ideas.  For example, before we cut it down for publication, TiP's letter had more specific categories for which he wanted suitable drinks, and in my outline I tried to peg some recipes to those specific categories.  I thought of the Ward Eight and the Algonquin as drinks for "friends who are just learning to appreciate cocktails" (though that Algonquin is kind of an acquired taste, and the Ward Eight takes careful mixing to get the sweetness level right ... by contrast to either one, the Delilah is super-low in what the Alchemist would call "Taste Complexity").  For "date night," I had the original Pink Lady [gin, applejack, lemon juice, egg white, grenadine] or a Sidecar .  For "adult visitors," the Rob Roy or Pegu Club.  (Unless your "adult visitor" is Adrienne's Dad.  He's fond of sidecars.)  And finally for "thirsty groups": ... uh, Planter's Punch ?  I was hard pressed to come up with something simple and inexpensive there.  I blame Wondrich, and exhaustion from my previous "batch up some internal air conditioning" column.

Ephemera/Effluvia/Flotsam/Jetsam:

I was surprised when the Pegu became a cocktail menu staple around SF (and when a high-class NYC cocktail lounge opened with that name), mostly because my experience drinking that beverage began with the Alchemist's unbalanced recipe, in days before I really knew how to balance a flawed cocktail for myself.  I used Ted Haigh's recipe for this column because it's much closer to the version that has become justly acclaimed.  The Alchemist calls for only 1/2 oz. lime juice (whereas Dr. Cocktail has 3/4), which is not nearly enough to counterbalance the spirits and bitters.  For all I know, it may be a typo.

Martinis and Manhattans mean getting into shaking vs. stirring, a topic which strikes me as both inevitable and a little depressing, like the ads for that VMA "Tribute to Britney [who is totally not dead, but you might be forgiven for thinking otherwise given the tiny lifespan of most pop cultural artifacts, the generally hysterical tenor of the coverage of her life over the past several years, and the really shitty hand she was dealt, childhood- and upbringing-wise]."  I guess people still like talking about it, even though (or perhaps because?) the conversation tends to take on this kind of cable news tenor, where one side is all matter-of-fact rationality ("stir if you want less temperature and dilution; shake if you want more") and the other side is all hysterical jargon ("but: Bruising the Gin!").   So on the one hand, it's kind of a public service to Get Into It in a booze column, but on the other, even raising the subject like there's a "debate" to be had feels like giving the hysterical side more validity than it deserves.  You know?  No?  Alright, fine, forget it.

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Liner Notes: Drink Through the Heat

Welcome to Larger Dirks “Liner Notes,” where I supplement recent columns with extra references, jokes I wish I’d thought of before my deadline, or pointless digressions that didn’t make the final cut.  This week: advice on simple tequila drinks!

Column: Mixology Mailbag: Drink Through the Heat

Working Title: “Mixology Mailbag: Heat Advisory”

Date Published: 3 August 2011

A lot of stuff didn't make it into the column this week -- not because of anything to do with the editing process.  I just outlined a column that would have ran several thousand words if I'd hit all the original points.  By the time I turned in a first draft, I'd shed maybe half of my initial ideas.

Coulda Shoulda Woulda:

Some discussion of the Margarita belongs in any tequila column.  Sure, the reader I dubbed "Lazy Cuervo" asked for tequila drinks other than the Margarita, but I was prepared to disregard that, based on: (a) my track record -- in my first column for GOOD, the writer asked for brunch cocktails "beyond the Mimosa," and I included a (sort of) recipe for Mimosas anyway; and (b) the reference to a blender in the question, which suggests to me that ol' Lazy has never really had a Margarita.  Not a particularly good one, anyway.  With more space to work with, I would have been sure to talk up that SF classic, the Tommy's Margarita.  My notes say: "... named after the first U.S. bar to be certified by the state of Jalisco as a purveyor of fine tequilas.  [Recipe -- just good tequila, limes, and sugar or agave nectar.]  You do need ice, but you don't need a blender or that bottle of triple sec that will take up room in your liquor cabinet for months."

Speaking of San Francisco drinking, my notes also say: "Once the weather does cool off a little (insh'Allah), you could go more 'artisanal' with the Paloma -- e.g., make the grapefruit soda at home, flash-infuse the tequila ..."  I hope I get a chance to talk about homemade sodas and flash infusions some time soon.  My delightful sister-in-law bought me a contraption for the latter as a Christmas gift, and I need a good excuse to try it out. 

From the Diablo, I'd hoped to segue into a discussion of the Buck -- i.e., any base spirit with lime juice and ginger ale.  Gin, bourbon, rum all hit the spot when "Bucked up."  If you've got a bottle of any of those spirits, plus access to a market that will sell you a good, spicy, cane-sugar-sweetened ginger ale and some fresh limes, you're in good shape for a summer weekend.

If it comes up again, I'll try to put together a coherent discussion of the Bucks vs. Rickeys vs. Horse's Necks.  Yes, folks, this is the kind of thing that gets me excited for the future. 

Also in the category of "things the question writer specifically asked me to avoid": straight tequila.  I was tempted to discuss some excellent varieties for straight sipping, nonetheless (see above re: track record).  But I'm sure I'll get to sing the praises of my beloved Tequila Ocho in a future column.

Another thing I'm sure I'll get to down the road: tales of my long infatuation with Paul "The Alchemist" Harrington, and his sadly out-of-print book, which got me started on this whole cocktail kick.

Cutting Room Floor:

I tried out a couple sets of sub-headings before settling on the series of films noir (Border Incident, Touch of Evil, and The Set-Up).  First I had "Rock En Español" (genre), "Pretty in Pink" (song), and "You Got to Put On That Party Dress" (lyric).  These were just things that had been floating around my head and seemed to match the recipes.  (Since I've been obsessed with the Kenny Powers 666 mix lately, I owe that first one to Molly Lambert, and/or to whomever "DJ Fuck Y'all" might be.) I didn't even realize they were all music-related until my editor asked why there was a movie title between the genre and the lyric.  Which led to a whole explanation of how the Psychedelic Furs song predated and inspired the movie, and how I am very old and remember the Eighties and watch nothing but the show VH1 Classic now calls "120 Minutes" (pending the Pinfield Resurrection).  My editor thinks that no one associates "Pretty in Pink" with anything but Molly Ringwald anymore. I'm sure she's right.  I'm also sure it's a shame, because the song is awesome.

I kind of liked my original description of the Wray & Nephew & Ting as "classy but ass-kicking." I kind of wish someone would use that phrase to describe me.

In the first draft, I promised this won't be the last time you see David Wondrich's name in the column.  I still intend to keep that promise.

Ephemera/Effluvia/Flotsam/Jetsam:

I'm sure no one noticed, but I used a different format for the Wondrich and Harrington credits, to set them apart from the Sevillean and Pimm's Punch credits in the brunch column.  The idea is to set apart classics from modern originals -- from what I can tell, Kimberly Patton-Bragg is the actual creator of the Sevillean, whereas Messrs. Wondrich and Harrington supplied my favorite recipes for drinks much older than they are.

Wondrich has a section in Killer Cocktails on highballs, which he titles "Internal Air Conditioning."  I love that, and wish I'd thought of it first.

I think I've only ordered or sampled a Diablo at two Bay Area establishments: NOPA and the Grand Tavern in Oakland.  I wasn't kidding when I said it's underappreciated.

Finally, huge props to my very good friend Erin, who sent in the week's second question (re: children's birthday parties and the like).  I tried to give her the nom de boisson "Early Reader In Need," but my editor must have thought it was too obvious a shout-out.  Bummer.  Hope I answered your question in a satisfactory manner, Erin.

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Test Kitchen: Improving the Sevillean

In Larger Dirks Test Kitchen, I try out variations on a classical cocktail, or tweak a popular cocktail recipe in search of something closer to the Platonic Drinking Ideal.

The Challenge: Improve the Sevillean

In my first Mixology Mailbag column for GOOD, I recommended "a pistol-packing sweet tea" called the Sevillean, for moderately boozy summer/brunch refreshment. Here is the recipe, which I borrowed from Imbibe Magazine:

The Sevillean

by Kimberly Patton-Bragg of New Orleans’ Dominique’s on Magazine

2 ounces bourbon [Four Roses works well]

1 ounce Seville orange marmalade

½ ounce mint syrup*

4 ounces Luzianne [or plain ol' Lipton] brewed tea

Shake ingredients without ice. Pour without straining into an ice-filled Collins glass and garnish with a sprig of mint

* = make a simple syrup with ½ cup of sugar and ½ cup of water. Remove from heat. While syrup is warm but not hot, add ¼ cup of fresh, packed mint leaves and let steep until they darken, about 15 minutes. Remove mint and let cool.

This Sevillean is very tasty (bourbon, sugar, mint, and tea being natural allies), but as I made batches for picnics and summer get-togethers, I found myself thinking the recipe could be improved. 

The Dominique's/Imbibe recipe has three major drawbacks:

 The mint syrup works alright in the drink but has sort of an acrid, burnt smell to it, and just seems overall like a poor substitute for fresh mint.  (Fresh mint grows in my wife's community garden plot.  It seems like a shame to waste it on a syrup.)

Chunky, rind-containing marmalade like Dundee causes all kinds of problems for the mixing process.  The tasty bits of rind sink to the bottom of the cocktail or batch, and the marmalade itself stubbornly refuses to be incorporated into the body of the beverage, no matter how much you stir.  I found myself taking a whisk (a whisk!) to my pitchers of Sevilleans before and after shaking the hell out of them, and straining the finished product through a fine-mesh sieve -- a far cry from the recipe's call to "pour without straining" into a tall glass.  Even with all of these precautions, the last few Sevilleans in each batch tasted far sweeter and fruitier than the first few, owing to the marmalade that descended through the solution.

What is "1 ounce" of marmalade, anyway?  Is it 1 fluid ounce (a measure of volume), like "1 ounce" of gin or lime juice?  Or is it 1 solid (avoirdupois) ounce (a measure of mass), like "1 ounce" of chopped ginger?  It could be either one, given that marmalade is one of those substances that sort of sits at the border of solid and liquid.  It doesn't flow very easily, like a solid, but like a liquid it assumes the shape of its container.  (Pondering this made me think back to early chemistry lessons in school.  Teacher: "There are three states of matter: solid, liquid, and gas."  Young Ken: "What about pudding?")  Making my research drinks for the Mailbag, I guessed that Ms. Patton-Bragg did not intend to switch back and forth willy-nilly from units of volume to units of mass, and I crammed the marmalade into a liquid measure delineated by fluid ounce.  The drinks tasted fine, but it would have been nice to know I was using the proportions the inventor intended.     

I speculated in my Liner Notes post that I might be able to improve the Sevillean by fixing all three problems.  Time to find out if my ideas work.

The Approach

For Operation: Save the Sevillean, I started with the aforementioned fresh mint from the aformentioned community garden plot.  (Thanks, Adrienne!)  I resolved to put the mint directly into the shaker for each drink, and so pulled the leaves from the stems, à la Menéndez.  Since the sweetness in the cocktail comes from two sources -- sugar in the mint syrup and sugar in the marmalade -- I set about creating a syrup that would preserve the orange flavor, add the appropriate sweetness, and eliminating the descending rinds and other solids.

Setbacks

I did two things wrong the first time I attempted this improved Sevillean.  The first was a rookie mistake, borne of pure impatience.  I mixed the first drink before my syrup cooled all the way, melting the ice in my shaker and creating a watery drink.  Don't do that.  The second thing was to pour the syrup too freely.  Don't replace the ounce of marmalade and ½ ounce of mint syrup in the original recipe with a full 1½ ounces of the marmalade/honey syrup, unless you're accustomed to drinking your tea Deep South sweet.  If, like me, you prefer a more bourbon-centric experience, back it down to an ounce of the new syrup.  

Results

A rousing success, overall. This improved Sevillean is fresher and brighter tasting, and I dare say it spotlights the bourbon better.  If I could just get my hands on some actual Luzianne bags (the tea of choice for sweet tea drinkers), this Sevillean might be just about perfect.  Here is the new recipe (with apologies for the approximate measures):

The Test Kitchen Sevillean

2 ounces bourbon [Four Roses works well]

1 - 1½ ounces marmalade/honey syrup*

4 ounces Luzianne [or plain ol' Lipton] brewed tea

Leaves from 2 sprigs fresh mint

Roll ingredients gently in an ice-filled shaker, to release mint flavor without pulverizing the mint leaves.  Double-strain into a Mason jar filled with fresh ice.  Garnish with a lemon wheel.

* = cram Dundee Seville orange marmalade into a Pyrex liquid measure until it measures just shy of the 2 oz. line.  Fill gaps/cover crags in marmalade with clover honey, until new honey meniscus reaches just below the 3 oz. line.  Transfer to a saucepan and add 2 ounces of water.  Bring to a boil.  Reduce heat slightly.  Simmer for 1-2 minutes longer, then remove from heat.  Cool completely.  Store in refrigerator.

Future Improvements

As noted, it would be nice to get my hands on some actual Luzianne tea.  I'd also like to pin down the exact amount of marmalade/honey syrup that works best in the cocktail, and the exact measurements of marmalade and honey that work best in the syrup.  I'd be curious to know if marmalade and honey, like sugar, make a good "rich" syrup when combined 2:1 with water, or if something closer to 3:2 (like the ratio I've been using) will always be preferable for this drink.

[largerdirks]

Liner Notes: Mixology Mailbag Does Brunch

Welcome to Larger Dirks "Liner Notes," where I supplement recent columns with extra references, jokes I wish I'd thought of before my deadline, or pointless digressions that didn't make the final cut.  This week: Mixology Mailbag Does Brunch!

Column: Mixology Mailbag Does Brunch

Working Title: "Mixology Mailbag: 'I Just Call That Morning'"

Date Published: 20 July 2011

Coulda Shoulda Woulda:

Since I borrowed the Pimm's punch from their Little Black Book, I wish I'd been able to say a little bit about LUPEC (Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails), an awesome organization whose members include several of my very favorite people.  Do check them out for yourself.  Join your local chapter if you can.  And on a related note, I wish the first recipe I'd borrowed from LUPEC had been one by an actual lady.  (Nothing against Mr. Gersten, otherwise.)

I wish I'd had space for my friend Kerry's favorite lines from that Harto video: "At brunch people whine about problems that aren't actually problems: ... You know, I was tempted to just not buy the clutch! I think Whole Foods has really gone downhill ..."

I wish I'd had time to actually make the Sevillean the second way, with fresh mint leaves and marmalade syrup.  I swear I will, eventually, and I will try to report back here on the results.  If you try it in the meantime, please let me know how it turns out for you.

Since I love a good media critique, I wish I'd had time to delve into this New York Times piece on summer cocktails (which are pretty much the same thing as brunch cocktails, to my mind).  Their fancily-formatted list includes one or two winners -- I'm sure I'll be writing about the Italia Libera in the future -- and quite a few pointless drinks.  Case in point: the "Sumo Collins" ... a very large Tom Collins.  Get it together, New York Times.

Cutting room floor:

The proper garnish for a Pimm's Cup is a cucumber slice -- not to be confused with Cucumber Slice, though I’m sure he makes a lovely and well-behaved brunch guest.

Originally I made one more stop on the Inebriation Spectrum, between the Sevillean and chugging bubbly, Harto-style.  For the benefit of San Franciscans and those visiting our fair city, I gave one more shout-out to 15 Romolo, specifically Brandon's Bloody Hammer: Death’s Door white whiskey, tomato juice, homemade vegan “Worcestershire sauce,” whiskey-barrel-aged smoked pepper sauce, a pickled assortment, and a five-spice rim. I know the question said to go “beyond the Bloody Mary,” but I can vouch: the Hammer is pretty damned beyond. And in the time it takes you to make one batch of mint simple syrup, you can order and down 4 or 5 of them.

Ephemera/Effluvia/Flotsam/Jetsam:

I swear I made, like, two whole batches of Sevilleans before I figured out that the name is a pun.

Besides Romolo, I really like Nombe in the Mission for brunch.  And Brenda's French Soul Food ... but then, I also like avoiding hour-long lines.  Where do you like to brunch these days, and what's the wait like on a Sunday around noon?

[largerdirks]

Glen Grantland

Or: What We Write About When We Write About Whisk(e)y

by Ken Walczak

I am baffled by this Grantland article on Pappy Van Winkle (“the best bourbon you will never find in time for Father’s Day”), by Wright Thompson.  The thrust of it seems to be: There is some really great bourbon out there, but you’ll have to take my word on it.  I’m not going to elaborate on what makes it so great, and you’ll never find a bottle on which to test my assertions. 

I don’t know Mr. Thompson personally; he seems like a genial Southern fellow and a pleasant and well-educated drinking companion.  I would like to have a drink with him, if he were willing … and if he were, I would be sure to ask him what he was hoping to accomplish with that article. 

Seasoned whiskey drinkers aren’t likely to join the “cult of Pappy” to which Mr. Thompson without any tasting notes, or any way to differentiate between the 15 year, 20 year, and 23 year varieties.  I suppose a bald, confident assertion of superiority – “Trust me; this is the best” – might be enough to intrigue neophytes … but only until they see the price tag.  Even the “youngest” Pappy will run you about $100/bottle, which is on the high end for non-single-malt whiskies, and positively stratospheric for bourbon.  And I’m not sure it’s in Mr. Thompson’s interest to expand that cult in the first place.  Any successful converts will only further deplete the country’s Pappy reserves, which he assures us are already stretched to the breaking point.[1]

Things are more straightforward here at Drinking Made Easy.  We believe in public service.  Our motto[2] is: “drinking information you can use.”  Which is why I hope to describe one of my favorite distilleries – the Springbank Distillery of Campbeltown, Scotland – without falling into any of Mr. Thompson’s pitfalls.  Please feel free to correct me if I fail (and to send word over to Grantland that I can follow the house style.  I understand they pay well over there.)

Reason #1 to drink Springbank.  The younger Springbank whiskies make an excellent introduction to the single-malt experience.  They are affordable, as single malts go (the 10 year lists for about $60 in California; the 10 year 100 proof for about $78; and the 15 year for $124, and all three are routinely available at discounted prices well below those). The flavors associated with Campbeltown malts, and with Springbank in particular, are approachable for drinkers more experienced with American or Irish whiskey than Scotch.  What I mean to say is: Springbank makes lightly peated whiskies, and for most new Scotch drinkers, peat puts the “acquired” in “acquired taste.”  Give a newbie a glass of Lagavulin or Lahproiag neat, and that blast of foreign, smoky/mossy flavor may be enough to make him swear off Scotch forever.  But start your drinking buddy off with a Springbank 10 with a small splash of water, and he may find that the familiar flavors – maple and vanilla, honey, caramel, dried apricots – balance the earth, smoke, and brine pleasantly. 

Which is not to say that Springbank is a whisky designed to appeal solely to novices, or that Campbeltown malt drinkers are less sophisticated than the peat-seekers that gravitate toward Scotches from other regions.  There is much for the experienced Scotch drinker to love about Springbank, from its famously “chewy” mouthfeel to its progression of flavors – first flowers and ripe fruit on the nose, then spices and sweet pastries, then a satisfying splash of peat and a twinge of earthiness (this is the stage where writers resort to non-edible comparators like “shoe leather” and “wet dog”), and finally a slow, salty finish that quickly brings you back for another sip. 

Reason #2 to drink Springbank. While everything I just said about flavor tends to be true generally, the various Springbank releases (and there are many) have flavors that differ from one another in ways both expected and surprising.  The 15 year is noticeably richer and mellower than the 10 year, from the additional time spent in bourbon barrels, but also more pungent and earthier, from its finish in sherry casks.  The 12 year cask-strength has a similar relationship to the 10 year 100 proof.  Springbank is reportedly phasing out the latter in favor of the former – a shame, since the 2007 bottling of the 10 year 100 proof might be my all-time favorite Scotch.

Reason #3 to drink Springbank. I say “the 2007 bottling” because the flavor of any given Springbank release also varies, both from year to year and (to a lesser extent) from bottle to bottle.  Two aspects of Springbank’s old-school process seem to be responsible for this.  (1) Scotch is made from malted barley, and Springbank makes theirs via old-fashioned “floor malting,” wherein the barley is soaked in water to begin germination and then laid out on a distillery-room floor to dry.  The temperature in this room is not kept constant by any sort of computerized or even electrical means – an attendant simply opens or closes a small window.  As a result, each batch of barley malts differently, and each year’s distillate develops a unique flavor even before barreling.  (2) Springbank does not bottle its Scotch (i.e., take it out of the barrels) until it receives an order from a distributor.  So a“10 year old” Springbank purchased early in the distillery’s year will be aged several months less than a “10 year old” Springbank purchased (and therefore bottled) later that same year.   (If you really like to geek out about this stuff, you can learn more from this excellent podcast.)  While the folks at Johnnie Walker aim for consistency, hoping that a Red Label today tastes indistinguishable from a Red Label of 50 years ago, Springbank gives you something new to discover every time you buy a bottle.

Of course, all of the very general things said at the top of the column are also true here: you should drink Springbank because it’s terrific, and because people in the know about these things will look at you appreciatively when you order it in an airport.  Fortunately, Springbank is also relatively easy to acquire and sample at your home bar, in plenty of time for the next Father’s Day (or Flag Day, or Bobby Burns Day, or Repeal Day).

As I say, if Wright Thompson would like to compare notes, I’d happily buy him a Springbank the next time he’s in town.  Hell, I’d even share some of that Pappy I procured on Polk Street.  Booze writers have to stick together, after all.

Thanks to ZK for research assistance and additional tasting notes.

[1] I found both the Pappy 15 year and the 20 year at a smallish store on Polk St. recently, but then, we really are spoiled for good liquor here in San Francisco.   For all I know, the rest of the country may indeed be the Pappy-free wasteland that Mr. Thompson describes.

[2] Or a motto, that I just now made up, for the purposes of this column.

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Songwriters, Speakeasies, and Southern California

by Ken Walczak

In which our intrepid correspondent manages to escape the reality distortion field surrounding Prohibition-style cocktail bars, and to secure a decent drink without a password or a reservation.

This “speakeasy” thing has been going on for a while now, and I am still not sure how I feel about it.   On the one hand, adherence to the overall speakeasy concept – place is really hard to find, little or no signage, password at the door, maybe it’s a private club and you need a reservation, lots of persnickety rules about how to order – is a pretty reliable indicator that a bar will serve you a quality cocktail.  On the other hand, passwords and memberships and the whole rigamarole … it adds up to a lot of effort just to do something (i.e., drinking) I’m ostensibly doing to relax.  And if you live someplace where the speakeasy trend has caught on, chances are there are also bars nearby that will make you a quality cocktail without any hoops dragged over from the Dark Times, when folks had to jump just to stay ahead of the law.

The way that people talk or write about speakeasies also contributes to my ambivalence, in ways  that are best explained if I tell you a little about the television show Platinum Hit.  On Platinum Hit, judges Kara DioGuardi and Jewel preside over the weekly songwriting efforts of a gaggle of deluded narcissists, lunatics, and hipsters.  It’s just like Top Chef, except the Quickfire is a “Hook Challenge,” the “Elimination Challenge” is a group songwriting exercise that inevitably devolves into screaming and tears, and both of the judges are the gorgeous, ass-kicking one (aka “the Gail Simmons”).  It’s a really good show.

This being the DVR age and all, of course I began my experience with Platinum Hit by watching the first three episodes in rapid succession.  As a result, I’ve spent the past week with a head full of stitched-together song snippet earworms.  As I commute or wash the dishes, my brain will conjure up the best few seconds from one songlet or another: arresting hooks ruined by groupthink, beautiful scraps of melody left on the cutting room floor, awesomely bizarre turns of phrase (“paint this club with amazing”!) buried in the middle of mediocre songs.  Then (and this is where I take my cue from the delusions of Talent and Potential Fame that I just mainlined) I start trying to mentally stitch together this bric-à-brac into some best-case-scenario version of the bland ditty Bravo will sell you for $1.29 each.

People who write about speakeasies tend to have a similar problem.  They splice together all the best elements from their memories (attention to detail in the drinks and décor, a more personal approach to service, the overall ambience) while leaving out all the less desirable stuff (membership fees, reservations, passwords, overall rigamarole).  After all, the hassle is mostly over once you’ve made it in the door and convinced someone to set a drink in front of you.  The end result is a reality-distortion field that surrounds the whole speakeasy discourse, and is sub-optimal for the speakeasy seeking reader/drinker/consumer. 

Which is why I am extra-thrilled to report that, with a bare minimum of rigamarole and only a soupçon of advance planning, I recently enjoyed several delightful beverages at two Southern California speakeasies. 

In DME: San Diego, Zane wisely paid a visit to Noble Experiment, where Anthony Schmidt and his staff are treating classics with reverence without shying away from recent developments in cocktail culture.  The name may be a suspicion-worthy callback to the aforementioned Dark Times, and the entrance may be hidden behind a fake wall of kegs at the back of a burger restaurant called Neighborhood, but the Neighborhood staff had no problem explaining the “secret” entrance to me, and the Noble Experiment hostess even found me a seat at a bar when I arrived without a reservation (although this may just have been good fortune – others are advised to call ahead.  Feel free to subtract one star for rigamarole if you do). 

Thanks to a serendipitous miscommunication with the bartender, I began my session at Noble Experiment with a delightful variation on Neyah White’s White Manhattan (Charbay Doubled & Twisted light whiskey, Cocchi Americano, orange bitters).  Even better (and here is where you can add that star back for being accommodating), Mr. Schmidt was kind enough to indulge my off-menu cravings for a Benjamin Menéndez Special and a Réveillon.  To paraphrase Judge Jewel: in the cocktail business, there are hits and misses … and Noble Experiment is a hit.  

The entrance to Caña Rum Bar in Los Angeles is at the back end of a ground-floor parking structure near LA Live.  Once you’ve Yelped it, it’s not especially hard to find.  There is a sign and everything.  Caña is a members-only establishment, but it does not require reservations, and you can get yourself on file as a member by paying the one-time-only fee when you plop down at the bar, as I did on a Friday around Happy Hour.  Caña General Manager Allan Katz is not kidding around.   The bartenders I met were jovial, knowledgeable, and efficient.  And the drinks menu – you might say it paints the club with amazing.

My old-school daiquiri (Don Q Cristal rum, fresh lime juice, and sugar), was terrific – and  discounted for Happy Hour!.  Since Caña passed that crucial rum-bar test with flying colors, I searched the cocktail menu for something more adventurous.  “Adventurous” doesn’t even begin to describe the “Tennessee Isle” (Prichard’s Fine Rum, overripe mango-infused absinthe (!!), and coconut Peychaud’s bitters), a kind of mutant Sazerac clearly forged in the warped imagination of a madman.  “Brilliant” and “awful” are the only possible outcomes for such a cocktail.   Fortunately, this one fell squarely in the former category.  I will say no more; you must taste the thing for yourself.  Personally, I will return for the Caña take on a Zombie: the utterly unhinged “Twenty Eight Days Later,” with Gosling’s 115.5 proof rum, Don Q Añejo, reposado mezcal, Tuaca, Smith + Cross overproof rum, pineapple juice, fresh citrus juices, passion fruit, pomegranate, bitters, absinthe, something called “Don’s Mix,” and a scary-looking ellipsis that suggests there may be even more devilry at work.

Best of all, Caña has a selection of cigars and a lovely little patio, so you can feel like a real industry mogul, drinking Montecristo rum while smoking a Montecristo cigar.  As the L.A. sun sets and the temperature starts to drop, if you still feel like your speakeasy experience is lacking in exclusivity, go ahead and throw on a Members Only jacket. 

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Larger Dirks MASCOT!

Please welcome Andy Dirks, of the Detroit Tigers, Official Baseball Mascot of Larger Dirks:

(I assume you already know our Official Basketball Mascot.)

We like Andy so much, we're willing to forgive him for his choice of employer. 

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Pet Peeve

Rappers of the world: the Italian Mafia is also known as LA COSA NOSTRA.  "This thing of ours."  Not, I repeat NOT, "La Costra Nostra."  That might be ... rhymier, but it makes no damn sense.

That is all.

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Derby Day and the Derby Cocktail (4 Ways)

by Ken Walczak

I don’t have anything against the Mint Julep.  Far from it.  The Julep is a delicious tipple and it makes one hell of an accompaniment to a horse race.  It’s also a really tasty way to consume large quantities of Maker’s Mark bourbon. 

In fact, Derby Day has become essentially the only time a year that I interact with either horse racing or Maker’s Mark, and our annual reunion is always pleasurable.  (For me, anyway.  I can’t speak for the feelings of the whisky, or the horses.  Or Calvin Borel, for that matter.  Dude always looks like he needs a sandwich.)

Having said all of that:  Let’s say you’re not quite as set in your ways as I am.  Maybe you’ve done the Julep thing a few times, and you’re eager for a change.  Maybe your local dive stocks Maker’s and not much else, and you feel like you’ve quaffed your yearly allotment for 2011 already.  Or maybe you’ve got schmancy friends coming to your Derby – like, the kind that buy hats for the occasion, whether they’re at Churchill Downs or not – and you’d like to drop a little knowledge, just to impress them.  Seems like a cocktail called the “Derby” would be just the thing, right?

But which Derby cocktail?  Trader Vic’s 1947 Bartender’s Guide lists three variations, all with very different ingredients and qualities.  Fittingly, the only thing the three have in common is a mint leaf.

Derby Cocktail #1 (Haigh Imprimatur Version) 

1 oz. bourbon ¾ oz. fresh lime juice ½ oz. sweet vermouth ½ oz. orange curaçao  

Shake; strain into a chilled cocktail glass.  Garnish with a mint leaf – spanked, let’s go ahead and assume.

This Derby has the blessing of “Dr. Cocktail” Ted Haigh, who included it in his essential Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails.  I tried it with Four Roses bourbon, Carpano Antica vermouth, and Combier orange liqueur.  The result was a surprisingly tart, citrus-forward drink that wouldn’t seem out of place on a brunch table.  Combier has a sharp, zesty orange flavor, so it’s possible that you’d get a more well-rounded, richer result with something like Cointreau or (better yet) Grand Marnier.

Not that you should feel the need to tinker.  Any way you make it, this Derby  is a mild, easygoing cocktail and a fine reason to drink bourbon before post time.  Party bonus: my very citrus-forward Combier version paired perfectly with chips and salsa

Derby Cocktail #2 (Savoy Version)

1 ½ oz. gin 2 dashes peach bitters 1 sprig mint 

Stir gently, or “roll” with cracked ice (see below).  Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

This one appeared in the venerable Savoy Cocktail Book long before Trader Vic got a hold of it.  As with all things Savoy, I defer to Erik Ellestad’s Under-Hill Lounge for the final word.  Erik suggests that you “roll” the cocktail instead of shaking it: “That is to say just pour it back and forth for 15 seconds or so between two shaker tins or glasses.  Not quite shaking, but not quite stirring. If you shake it you’re going to pulverize the mint and all you’ll taste is bitter plant guts.”  Listen to Erik; he’s a pretty smart dude.

I will say this for Derby #2: it provides a fine excuse to sing/holler my current favorite song.  (D. Simon, what up!)  Otherwise there’s not much to recommend it over our other options, particularly not for afternoon, horse-race-adjacent drinking.  Let’s move on.

Derby Cocktail #3 (Romolo Improv Version)

2 oz brandy (Germain-Robin) 4 dashes curacao (Cointreau) 4 dashes pineapple syrup (homemade caramelized pineapple syrup) 2 dashes orange bitters

Shake; strain into a chilled cocktail glass.  Garnish with a mint leaf.  Spanked?  Sure, why not.

For this one, I turned to an expert.  I didn’t have any pineapple syrup at home (though Small Hand Foods makes a lovely one), so I stopped in to 15 Romolo to see bartender and Friend of the Column Ethan Terry.  I thought Romolo might have the Small Hand on hand; I hadn’t even imagined the possibility of a homemade caramelized pineapple syrup.  But that’s San Francisco for you. 

Surprisingly, the Derby #3 Ethan made me had all of the flavors I expected from Derby #2.  The pineapple and orange flavors brought out a fruity quality in the brandy, such that the whole cocktail tasted primarily of peach.  And not fresh peach or that really nice crème de pêche, either.  More like a medicinal peach, of the kind I associate with Fee Brothers peach bitters, or the cheap peach brandy I’ve used to mix Fish House Punch.

In sum, not the most sophisticated cocktail experience I’ve ever had.  Derby #3 tasted nice, in a fruity kind of way (and Ethan did mix mine expertly), but ultimately it seemed like a bit of a shameful thing to do to Germain-Robin.

Fortunately, Ethan reminded me of one other cocktail commonly listed as a ��Derby,” this one mint-free:

Derby Cocktail #4 (Bourbon Frisco Boogaloo Version)

2 oz. bourbon (Robert Hess uses Maker’s) ¼-½ oz. Bénédictine (½ oz. if you’re HAM like me) 2 dashes angostura bitters

Stir with cracked ice; strain into chilled cocktail glasses.  No need to spank anything, but if you’ve got something spankable handy, don’t let me stop you.

The Frisco cocktail is a subject worth its own column, but one way to make it is essentially to swap out the bourbon in this recipe for rye.  Made that way, the Frisco is a quick-hitting, bracing little thing that will start your evening off right … and then end it prematurely, if you’re not being careful.  Same principles apply to this “Bourbon Frisco” version of the Derby.  It’s tasty alchemy, but protect ya neck.

If the sun has set and you’re still enjoying the company of the guests who arrived hours before post time and started in on sweet drinks like the #1, a simple, spirituous cocktail like the #4 is a great way to reward yourself for a successful Derby Day.  Make a few for your guests, while you’re at it. 

Or else pull out the last of those mint sprigs and toss together another pitcher of juleps.  It’s tradition, after all, and I have nothing at all against the Mint Julep.

Post time for the 137th Kentucky Derby is 6:24pm Eastern time, May 7th.  The early favorite is … a horse, I imagine.

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Larger Dirks Trading Card: Casa Noble Tequila

by Ken Walczak

This is the first in an occasional series of brief spirits profiles, intended to give you (the aspiring drinker) just enough information to make an educated Happy Hour decision, without overwhelming you with needless detail -- like the statistics printed on the back of a baseball card. 

Thanks to Casa Noble, Public House, and Mijita for hosting the tasting at which I obtained most of this information.

Spirit: Casa Noble tequila.  One of only 3 certified organic tequilas in the world.

Aka: “The One” (per their own marketing copy).

Helping You Get Tipsy Since: approx. 1996.

Proof: 80 (40% abv).

Price per bottle (in California): $36 (“Crystal” (silver)); $42-$64 (reposado); $53-$65 (añejo); $100 (single-barrel añejo).

Distributor: Infinium Spirits.

Distilled From: 100% blue agave.  According to CEO Jose “Pepe” Hermosillo, Casa Noble grows its agave on steep hillside slopes with dark, loamy, permeable volcanic soil.  The company believes this terroir produces a more earthy, complex tequila.

Aged: Casa Noble Crystal is unaged.  The reposado and single-barrel reposado are aged 364 days in French white oak (new oak for the regular reposado; slightly charred for the single-barrel).  The añejo is aged in new French white oak barrels for two years.  The single-barrel añejo spends five years in #1 char French white oak.

Tasting Notes: 

Crystal: Grass and citrus notes on the nose, like the 2009 Plata from Tequila Ocho, one of my all-time favorites.  Nutty flavors upfront, then the grass and honey flavors common to most tequilas, along with some alcoholic heat.  A bit brackish.  Brief, earthy finish.

Reposado: A smokier, nuttier nose, with less citrus and some honey.  Smooth and well-balanced flavors, with honey and maple notes before the grassy agave and the heat.  The most bourbon-like tequila I’ve tasted.  A longer, more pleasant finish than the Crystal, with the same earthy notes but less brackishness.  

Añejo: A big, fruity nose with hints of honey and bitter orange.  Surprisingly tart flavors up front -- orange and smoke and oak, then a smooth, spreading heat.  If the reposado is bourbon, this is cognac.  A deceptively long finish.

Single Barrel Añejo: Vanilla, honey, and bitter orange on the nose, with a bit of sweet citrus and some faint smoke.  Exceptionally light, smooth agave flavor, followed by citrus, clove, smoke and a very mild heat.  The finish spreads smoke and vanilla pleasantly on the palate, making the taste experience a complete circle.  An end-of-the-evening tequila, for sure, but one that manages to retain its agave flavor rather than giving itself over fully to the flavors of its barrel.

Cocktail Applications:  The earthiness of the whole Casa Noble line comes through well in a simple, dry Crystal Margarita -- just Casa Noble Crystal, agave nectar, and lime juice.  No need for salt. 

At the tasting I attended, bartenders also mixed Casa Noble Crystal with jamaica, lemon juice, and agave nectar, for a refreshing pink beverage they called a Pelliroja.  The tart, slightly tannic jamaica provided a perfect balance to the earthy notes in the tequila, and the well-balanced drink paired wonderfully with spicy food.  The interplay of the fruit and the spirit made me wonder if a Casa Noble margarita might be even better with the traditional triple sec than without.

Possible Food Pairings: Apparently Casa Noble reposado and roquefort cheese are a match made in heaven.

What Others Think:  Every Wednesday night, Padma Lakshmi reminds me that the most important thing a professional can strive for is the elusive feature in Food and Wine magazine.  Casa Noble has already had a feature in Food and Wine magazine.  And it didn’t even have to win a reality show!

At tequila.net, the commenters are impressed.  They give the Casa Noble reposado an average score of 93 out of 100.  Sample comment: “Hands down, probably one of the best tequilas I've ever had.”

In Closing:  Some who watch the industry closely speculate that a “tequila reckoning” of sorts is on its way.  As a category, it certainly seems that tequila has grown too much too quickly, and dozens if not hundreds of brands currently on shelves may not be available a few years from now.  Fortunately, it looks like Casa Noble has assembled a reputation for quality and a unique flavor profile (not to mention the appeal of its 100% Organic certification) that will allow it to survive the coming purge, and remain a viable option for discerning tequila drinkers.

[largerdirks]

Misty Johnnie Walker Memories

(Or: A La Recherche du Scotch Perdu.)

by Ken Walczak

As I walked to the “T” from an upscale Boston restaurant on a spring evening in 2002, I thought: Man, marketing is a waste of money.  I’d just completed a tasting session run by blended Scotch legends John Walker and Sons, and the session had devolved into relative chaos, relatively quickly.  It seemed to me that the evening’s lesson was: don’t hand a passel of rowdy law students invitations to your marketing event, then give them carte blanche to swill free Scotch for several hours.  They’ll ignore your highly trained kilt-wearing marketers, double fist the hooch, and the second you announce: “There is no more Scotch.  No one has ever drank it all so quickly before!” they’ll all rush out of the place, feeling hard done by.  None of which seems like a recipe for cultivating the Johnnie Walker drinkers of tomorrow.

Nine years later, I walked to my car from San Francisco’s Fort Mason center on a spring evening, thinking: Man, marketing is a waste of money.  I’d just completed another tasting session run by John Walker and Sons; this one had gone off rather smoothly.  The RSVP’s were handled by strikingly efficient iPad-wielding hostesses, the organizers enforced kept a careful eye on the Scotch consumed (a mandatory $5 donation earned each taster one pour of Johnnie Walker Black Label, plus tasting pours – maybe half an ounce each – of the Red, Black, Gold, and Blue Label blends), and the event was carefully paced to avoid double-fisting or general rowdiness.  Still I wondered: How many people really left this tasting newly converted into the Johnnie Walker drinkers of tomorrow?  Surely the vast majority of these people are either dedicated JW drinkers, or moochers just in it for the free whisky. 

Which led to the inevitable question: which category includes me?  The first, of course: Johnnie Walker may not be my single favorite Scotch, but it’s been a reliable and relatively frequent selection for me since at least … a spring evening in 2002, when I first I had Black Label and ginger ale at that tasting session in Boston …

That revelation left me shaken.  Had I always been wrong about the powers of Madison Avenue?  Could I be the kind of patsy whose predilection toward suggestibility pays for boats, summer homes, and trophy wife customizations for the Don Drapers of the world?  After mulling this over for a few days, I did the only thing I could do: found a local watering hole, ordered a Johnnie Black with a couple of ice cubes, and got my Proust on.

{sip}

I relaxed for a moment, leaned back, closed my eyes … and saw myself back at that 2002 tasting in Boston, telling the condescending kilt-wearer to back off.  He mocks me for being a bourbon drinker (the nerve!) and then – perhaps based on the errant assumption that I have some high-paying corporate law gig lined up, post-graduation – he goes straight to the upsell: “If you like bourbon, you really should be drinking Johnnie Walker Gold Label.”  Me: “Oh,I’m a student.   That’s much too expensive for my budget.”  He: “Well, some bars don’t price it correctly.  You really shouldn’t be paying more than about $20.”  Me {skeptically}: “… a bottle?”  He: “An ounce.”  Me: “I can get a whole bottle of Red for less than $20!”  He {scornfully}: “Pshaw!  Red Label.  No one in Scotland drinks that.  We just slap that stuff together to ship to Americans who don’t know any better.”  My God, what an idiot.  Marketing is so dumb.

{sip}

Now I’ve graduated and taken a job back home in Cleveland, and moved into an apartment in the Warehouse District downtown.   As a federal employee, my schedule has room for quite a few Happy Hours, including many at a struggling bar with pretensions of grandeur and a sort of vague “local artist” theme, where the major draw is 2-for-1 drinks at Happy Hour … As in, any drink, 2-for-1.   Suddenly Johnnie Walker Black Label looks like just the right bargain. 

Tonight’s Black Label tastes like all of those Ohio summer evenings at a sidewalk table with some friends more stylish than I.  While they toss out critiques of passersby and their attire, I toss back half-price Black Labels.  Sometimes with ginger ale; sometimes on the rocks.  Either way, it’s a tasty beverage and a healthy pour (the Warehouse District barkeeps are never stingy, especially if they know you live in the neighborhood).  One evening we run into Jerry Springer, who is downtown pressing the flesh with an exploratory committee, trying to decide whether he should run for office again.  I tell him I’m in favor of it, as long as he pays the prostitutes with cash this time.  (At least I think that’s what I said.  I’d had quite a bit of Scotch.)

{sip}

Then I’m sitting in a hotel room an hour or so south of Pierre, South Dakota, a GameCube controller in one hand and a half-bottle of Red Label in the other, drinking to shake the vision of myself covered head to toe in tiny shards of glass in the passenger seat of a Ford Focus.   Just a few hours before, I’d shaken off all that debris and confirmed that both I and the the driver, my buddy John, were uninjured.   The leaping deer had hit the windshield square and, shattering it, bounced off.  There was a little blood mingled with all the glass, but none of it was human.

So John pulled the car to the side of the road and found an old Nerf football among his possessions weighing down the back seat.  We tossed the ball back and forth lackadaisically next to the highway until South Dakota Highway Patrol arrived.  The patrolmen surveyed the wreckage, pulled out a shotgun, sauntered over to the median, and put the crippled deer out of its misery.  We turned down his offer to keep the carcass and use it as the centerpiece of a barbecue for the locals.  He’d assured us it was tradition, but we preferred to find an auto mechanic and a hotel where we could set up the Nintendo and calm down. 

Now I have the Red Label to help with that.  John was never a drinker, but I pass him the bottle and I think he takes a swig, too.

{sip}

Back in Cleveland, at the wonderful Velvet Tango Room.   It’s starting to feel a bit like a second home, so I’ve brought my girlfriend, her parents, and a family friend with a little bit of money.  The family friend: “I understand Johnnie Walker Blue is the best.  You’re a whisky guy.  You should have one.  My treat.”  I try to resist, more than half-heartedly.  Three-quarters-heartedly, even.  Sure, it’s terrific whisky, but I’m pretty new to Scotch at this point in my life, and I wouldn’t really appreciate what makes it so special, and the price is just obscene, and – “Nonsense.  I insist.”  So I relent.   Of course I do.  Wouldn’t want to be impolite, after all.  “How does it taste?”  Like fucking good Scotch!

{sip} 

I’ve made it out to San Francisco, and I’m among both new friends and old, making Blood and Sand  cocktails with Red Label, for a Halloween poker game.  {sip}  Or I’m telling yet another SF bartender how to make the Benjamin Menendez Special “with Sheep Dip or Pig’s Nose if you’ve got it.  Otherwise Johnnie Walker Red works just fine.”  {sip}  Or I’m in one of a hundred different airports or hotels, looking over case files for the next day with a glass of JW Black, “just one or two ice cubes,” silently praising the bartender for the decency and sense of good judgment displayed by his heavy pour.  Sure, it’s not the Warehouse District pour, but it’ll do just fine. 

{sip}

And finally I’m back at that tasting from a few weeks ago, marveling at the flavors imparted by some of the rarer single malts in the Blue Label, marveling even more at how different it all seems to me now, so many Scotches later in life.  I find myself even more surprised by the depth and sophistication of the Gold Label, and then I remember that I know a place to get said Gold Label at a very reasonable price indeed … So that suddenly I find myself mumbling a quiet little mea culpa back through the ages, for one well-meaning marketing guy in a kilt.

{sip}

My Black Label exhausted, I ordered a beer and changed a couple bucks for pinball.   I thanked the bartender, and resolved never again to doubt the powers of advertising, marketing, or Planet Diageo.  As I slid the coins into the pinball machine, I considered what I really learned from two Johnnie Walker tastings, nine years apart.  Spirit producers of the world: keep giving out free booze.  It works even better than you think it does.

[largerdirks]

Falernum: History, Heresy, and Homebrewing

by Ken Walczak

(originally published in Drink Me Magazine, Issue 13, April/May 2011)

Maybe you were flipping through the pages of a favorite cocktail book. Maybe perusing the classic rum-based drinks on the menu at a fine tiki bar. Under any of these circumstances you may have encountered the word “falernum” and wondered about this unusual item cropping up amongst familiar ingredients.

Wonder no more, fellow cocktail enthusiast: falernum is a tasty and accessible liqueur that adds essential spice to certain traditional island or island-inspired drinks, and one or two modern classics. You’ll need falernum if you want to make yourself a Corn ‘n Oil, or a Chartreuse Swizzle — and you should want to, because those drinks are delicious (more on them in a moment). If you cannot find a bottle of falernum at your local liquor store, it is easy enough to make a tasty batch at home – provided you can locate a decent overproof rum, some limes, and the right spices. 

Falernum is by all accounts from Barbados and therefore Barbadian (or “Bajan,” if you’re serious about this kind of thing). The primary flavors in falernum are clove and lime, frequently accented by other spices such as allspice or ginger. It appears to have evolved from a sort of streamlined, bottled rum punch to a mixer for very dark rum that adds citrus, sweeteners, and spice all at once. The proper pronunciation is “fah-learn-um.” Per the 2003 book A-Z of Barbados Heritage: “There is a joke making the rounds which purports to explain how falernum got its name. In one version, the tourist, after tasting the drink, asks the old man how he made this delicious liqueur. After a few moments hesitation the old Barbadian replies ‘you have fuh learn um’ (you have to learn it).”

Like any good cocktail enthusiast with an overflowing liquor cabinet, I started my falernum research by hunting down a bottle of the stuff. I learned that one Bajan producer, John D. Taylor, exports its “Velvet” brand falernum to the United States, thanks to the fine people at Haus Alpenz. The Fee Brothers from Rochester, New York, also make a non-alcoholic falernum.

I found the Velvet Falernum to be a sweet, slightly syrupy, pale amber liqueur that tastes strongly of cloves and more meekly of ginger, cinnamon, and lime. Quite lovely. Since the Velvet brand is only 22 proof, I tried a few sips neat and then placed the bottle in my refrigerator for safe-keeping. (A good rule of thumb: an opened bottle of anything less than 50 proof will eventually spoil sitting on your counter or in your liquor cabinet.)

Having established that I liked to drink falernum, I set out to learn what others thought — how they use falernum in cocktails, and which brand or style they prefer. In so doing, I learned that perhaps the most interesting thing about falernum is its propensity to spawn controversy and confusion, without the need for a single sip.

To read about falernum, especially online, is to wade into a disorienting morass of conflicting opinions. One self-styled expert on a tiki-phile web forum swears that the Fee Brothers’ version is unsurpassed for use in the cocktail recipes made famous by renowned tiki pioneers “Trader” Vic Bergeron and Donn Beach (a.k.a. Don the Beachcomber). Another expert swears that the old paper-umbrella crowd would never have been caught dead using non-alcoholic falernum, and that the Velvet brand is precisely the same as the stuff poured in the first legendary tiki bars like Trader Vic’s and Don the Beachcomber’s half a century ago.

The issue is complicated further by what we might regard as gaps in the historical record. For years, falernum of any kind was unavailable or sporadically available to Americans, due to distribution issues. The Velvet brand obtained distribution in major cities near the beginning of this century but severed ties with that distributor in 2007.  In 2008, Haus Alpenz began distributing Velvet Falernum in major markets. During the gaps in availability, desperate drink writers and mixologists began circulating their recipes for homemade falernum, and comparing notes. Diving into those waters yields even more questions, with predictable dogmatic energy on both sides. Is a 151-proof demerara rum necessary, or desirable? Should one toast the spices, or at least “wake them up” before adding them? Regular simple syrup, or “cold process”?  It’s like something out of the French New Wave classic Last Year at Marienbad: corridors that end in doors opening out onto more corridors …

Better just to dive in and start making drinks.I started with a batch of falernum made according to Paul Clarke’s “Falernum #8” recipe:

Falernum #8

6 ounces Wray & Nephew overproof White Rum zest of 9 medium limes, removed with a microplane grater or sharp vegetable peeler, with no white pith 40 whole cloves (buy fresh ones — not the cloves that have been in your spice rack since last Christmas) 1 1/2 ounce, by weight, peeled, julienned fresh ginger

Combine these ingredients in a jar and seal, letting the mixture soak for 24 hours. Then, strain through moistened cheesecloth, squeezing the solids to extract the last, flavorful bits of liquid.

Add: 1/4 teaspoon almond extract 14 ounces cold process 2:1 simple syrup (two parts sugar to one part water, shaken in a jar or bottle WITHOUT HEAT until all the sugar is dissolved) 4 1/2 ounces fresh, strained lime juice

Shake it all together and serve.

Falernum Jargon, Decoded

Demerara rum: A rum, of any color and proof, made from demerara sugar.

Demerara sugar: A brown sugar made by partially refining sugar cane extract.  Aka “natural brown sugar,” “turbinado sugar” (Non-demerara brown sugar is made by adding molasses to fully refined sugar).

“Waking up” spices: a process of lightly crushing whole, fresh spices to enhance flavor.  Commonly done with a mortar and pestle.

“Cold process” simple syrup: sugar syrup made without heat, as in the recipe for Falernum #8 below.

I sampled this falernum side-by-side with the Velvet brand, slightly chilled and then in two different cocktails. I did not sample any non-alcoholic falernum, on the grounds that it constitutes heresy (ok, it was really because I couldn’t find a bottle quickly enough for this experiment). And I eschewed more elaborate tiki drinks (like the Bermuda Rum Swizzle or the Jet Pilot) based on my firm belief that it is impossible to keep that many kinds of rum in the house at the same time. That’s why God (and Martin Cate) invented San Francisco’s Smuggler’s Cove.

The homemade falernum was unquestionably brighter and more citrus-forward than the Velvet brand, with a predominant lime smell. The overproof rum also played more heavily into the homebrew’s flavor profile, leaving telltale grassy notes in the finish. Both varieties were appropriately thick and syrupy, but the Velvet Falernum’s flavors seemed more gently layered, and the clove notes were much more substantial in the Velvet brand.

Likely for that reason, the Velvet played better with Cruzan Black Strap Rum in the classic Bajan beverage, a Corn ‘n Oil (crushed ice; 2 oz. rum; 1 1/2 oz falernum; juice of half a lime, with the hull dropped in for garnish; dash Angostura bitters). Although the difference was slight, Velvet’s stronger clove notes paired with the dark rum to create a taste sensation closer to rum-and-Coke, a classic that became a classic for a good reason.

By contrast, the homemade falernum worked slightly better than the Velvet in renowned bartender and cocktail creator Marco Dionysos’s modern classic, the Chartreuse Swizzle (1 ¼ oz. green Chartreuse; 1 oz. pineapple juice; ¾ oz. lime juice; ½ oz. falernum; swizzled with crushed ice). The fresh citrus notes in the homebrew brightened up this drink and shone a spotlight on the delicious harmony between herbaceous Chartreuse and sweet pineapple, which makes the Swizzle such a revelation.

For my next batch of homebrew, I resolved to implement bartender/blogger Jeffrey Morgenthaler’s changes to the Clarke recipe. In his variant Mr. Morgenthaler soaks the cloves in rum for 48 hours before adding the lime zest and ginger. He soaks these ingredients another 24 hours before straining and mixing with the almond extract, syrup, and juice. I expect this would amplify the volume of the clove flavors to the proper level.

Of course, that decision raised a whole new set of questions: What of cocktail historian Darcy O’Neil’s research showing that nineteenth century falernum was basically a rum punch: just lime juice, sugar syrup, rum, and water — no almonds, ginger, or cloves? Should I honor that tradition by cutting back on the spices considerably? I became dizzy, picturing myself lurching down those endless Marienbad hallways again.

Just then I received an e-mail from Eric Seed, head of Haus Alpenz. On the difference between Velvet and other brands of falernum, he wrote simply: “The VF recipe is the Barbados tradition … other recipes and styles reflect other origins and preferences.”

In other words: calm down, it’s only falernum. We like it this way, but there are lots of other tasty ways to layer these flavors. Choose one that you like and mix yourself a nice strong drink. Soon you’ll forget about the disorienting hallways of endless possibilities, and start imagining the brilliant rays of the warm Barbados sun.

[largerdirks]

Homemade Lime Cordial: A Rose's By Any Other Name

by Ken Walczak

Ok, so usually I leave the DIY beat to Matt.  But to quote a favorite scene from one of the seminal films of my generation: “this is different; this is important.”  I’ve finally solved my Gimlet dilemma, and all it took was some homemade lime cordial.

But let’s start from the beginning.  The beginning is where I met the Gimlet, actually – when I was first learning to drink and appreciate cocktails.  The Gimlet is perfect for those with few ingredients or supplies on hand and no idea which drink to learn about first.  It’s simple, approachable, and made from readily available ingredients.  Basically, you buy a bottle of gin and some lime cordial and you’re good to go.  Not familiar with lime cordial?  Sure you are.  It’s that little 12-ounce bottle at your neighborhood grocery store, right next to the strong stuff, possibly buried beneath the club soda, grenadine, and sulfur-bathed cherries.  See the one marked “Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice”?  That’s it, right there.

(I should mention this, before we go any further: if you want to mix vodka and limes together in some proportion and call that a Gimlet, go right ahead.  Free country and all that.  I just won’t be saying anything more about “vodka Gimlets” here, except that I hope you like yours very much, and that you make yourself another and find you like that one, too, and then you find yourself ordering them when you go out, and that you keep ordering them, one vodka Gimlet after another, until eventually you see someone order one with gin, and you wonder about how that would taste.  So you order it that way for a change … and you find that you absolutely adore your first “gin Gimlet” – Such a refreshing change!  So many more flavors! – and you follow it up with an Aviation or a Tom Collins, and later a Pegu Club, and then before you know it you’re shaking your head sadly and biting your bottom lip with your front teeth when that annoyingly chipper airport terminal barkeep is shaking – shaking, mind you! – your Martini, and you really don’t want to say anything, let alone risk the chance that he’ll re-make it and do something even worse to it, but he is going to charge you $15 for the damned thing and you wanted it to taste like gin and a little vermouth, not like ice, dammit!  And then I’ll look over at you and nod sympathetically – what? I might be hanging around the same airport bar.  You never know!  It could happen! – and we can both have a nice, hearty laugh and remember that the less said about the “vodka Gimlet,” the better.  Ok, back to the column.)

There’s something really wonderful about a Gimlet made with good old Rose’s lime.  The sweetness pulls you in, the gin knocks you around or smooths you out, maybe both, and the tartness keeps puts a happy little twinge at the back of your taste buds, to pop up a day or two later and remind you that, hey, Happy Hour is coming up soon – and wouldn’t another Gimlet be just the thing? 

Back in those early days of cocktail exploration, my atlas was Cocktail: The Drinks Bible for the 21st Century, by Paul Harrington, aka The Alchemist.  So I’ve generally mixed my Gimlets the Alchemist way: 2 ¼ ounces gin; ¾ ounce Rose’s lime; stirred and served up.  Add a dash of bitters if you’re feeling frisky (or as the Alchemist puts it, if you’re in need of “a pick-me-up for the soul”).  Delicious. 

Plus the Gimlet has a bad-ass pedigree.  Phillip Marlowe drinks Gimlets in The Long Goodbye.  It doesn’t get more respectable than that.

But what the Alchemist doesn’t mention is that Rose’s isn’t quite the same product it was in the hard-boiled Fifties.  Since Chandler wrote about the lime cordial’s seductive “pale greenish yellowish misty look,” Food Science has intervened.  Like seemingly all of the products featured in Food Inc. and Super-Size Me, Rose’s lime is chock full of high-fructose corn syrup.  Sure, it’s tangy and sweet, but it’s also kind of slimy and gross and high-calorie and industrial – not to mention symbolic of all of the 21st century epidemics those movies taught us to fear.  And who wants to spend Happy Hour thinking about obesity, diabetes, and our nation’s ass-backwards, blindly pro-agribusiness farm policy?  Aren’t we drinking to avoid thinking about that kind of thing?

Maybe for those reasons, maybe for others, the trend lately has been to serve gimlets with fresh lime juice and a dash or two of simple syrup.   Adorably, the Alchemist calls this a “Gimblet.”  I wouldn’t recommend ordering it that way, personally.  (Unless your favorite bar happens to be named something like Corporal McCutesky’s Plushy Paradise.  In which case, you’ve probably got issues a Gimlet can’t solve.)

Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite happy with the fresh-lime solution.  Bartenders never seem to arrive at the right proportions, the drink is never quite tangy enough, and the texture just seems off.  A fresh-juice gimlet just doesn’t leave quite the same twinge, making me crave another during my next visit.   

So what’s the contemporary, corn-syrup-averse cocktail connoisseur to do?  Why, hit the stove, of course!  I found my Goldilocks Gimlet (not too light, not too syrupy … but just right) using this recipe from my friend and former Spirit World colleague Sonja Kassebaum:

Lime Cordial

1 1/2 cups Water

3/4 cup Sugar

3/4 tsp Citric Acid

3/8 tsp Tartaric Acid

Juice of 5-6 good-sized limes, preferably organic (you’re using the rind here, and it can hold all sorts of chemicals)

Rind of 2 limes, cut into pieces Stir sugar, citric acid and tartaric acid together with a whisk. Bring water to a boil, then add sugar mixture. Stir thoroughly to dissolve sugar mixture into water. Add lime juice and rind, and stir. Heat mixture for 1-2 minutes on high heat, then cover and cool to room temperature. Refrigerate overnight in a sealed container, then strain out lime rind. Refrigerate for another day before using (the flavor continues to change a bit). Stored in the refrigerator, it should keep better than simple syrup.

* = DIY FYI: you can order citric acid and tartaric acid from Amazon.  If someone is likely to sign for your packages (like a landlord or your roommate), make sure to assure them that these are foodstuffs, not components for a homemade explosive device.  No one likes coming home to bomb-sniffing dogs.

Following Sonja’s lead (from the comments on her original blog piece), I increased the lime in my homemade cordial, from the juice of 4 limes to the juice of 5-6 (depending on size).  The lime cordial I made turned out sweet but subtle, and pleasantly tart.  It had just the tang I’d been missing in the fresh-juice variant, and I didn’t miss the texture of the corn syrup one bit.  (Although in the next batch I would likely up the sugar, too.  Maybe a full cup?)

Conveniently, Sonja is also the mastermind behind North Shore Distillery, whose botanical-heavy Gin No. 6 may be my all-time favorite Gimlet gin.  If you like the cordial recipe as much as I did, you can thank Sonja by mixing a:

Goldilocks Gimlet

1 ½ oz. North Shore Gin No. 6

1 oz. homemade lime cordial

Dash bitters (optional)

Stir and serve up, with a squeeze of fresh lime.

If you really like the cordial recipe, you can go all the way to equal parts gin and cordial – proportions blessed by Mr. Chandler himself.  To quote the Alchemist, quoting Chandler’s “war-scarred sot” Terry Lennox in The Long Goodbye: “A real Gimlet … is half gin and half [lime cordial], and nothing else.  It beats Martinis hollow.” 

I’ll drink to that.

[largerdirks]

Larger Dirks Mailbag: Mint Cocktails, Part II

by Ken Walczak

Booze questions?  Send ‘em to ken@largerdirks.com.  Today: more exploration of off-the-beaten-path cocktails featuring fresh mint.

Welcome back to the Larger Dirks Mailbag, the most trusted source for solutions to your spirits stumpers and cocktail conundra!  In our last installment, we discussed three delicious, lesser-known cocktails using fresh mint: David Wondrich’s 19-B, a forgotten classic from Cuba called the Benjamin Menéndez Special, and a whiskey-less Mint Julep from 1902.

Today, we continue our foray into the wonderful and refreshing world of mint, starting with two variants on the Sensation cocktail. 

Version one is the Sensation recipe listed in the Savoy Cocktail Book.  As with all things Savoy, I would be remiss if I didn’t point you to blogger Erik Ellestad’s effort to replicate the drink under modern conditions:

The Sensation (Savoy Version, à la Ellestad)

3 dashes Maraschino (7.5ml Luxardo Maraschino) 3 sprigs fresh mint 1/4 lemon juice (1/2 oz ½ - ¾ oz. lemon juice) 3/4 dry gin (1 1/2 oz Beefeater’s Broker’s gin)

Shake well and strain into cocktail glass. (Garnish with spanked mint tip.)

As you can see from my annotations, I substituted Broker’s Gin for the Beefeater.  (What can I say, I’m a sucker for that tiny hat on top of the Broker’s bottle.

The Ellestad Savoy as I mixed it was simple and efficient, if a bit on the dry side.  I can see why Erik recommends adding a splash of simple syrup to balance the drink and to account for modern preferences.  I also found that an additional splash of lemon juice helped. 

It may be important to use crushed ice rather than cubes when shaking your Savoy Sensation.  I suspect (though I don’t know for sure) that cubed ice may be more prone to pulverizing the mint, adding more bitter oils to the drink.  In a cocktail where the flavors are as spartan as this, those unpleasant bitter-mint flavors have nowhere to hide.

If you read Mr. Ellestad’s article, you might have guessed that our second version of the Sensation comes courtesy of Jeffrey Morgenthaler, renowned writer, bartender, and drink ambassador from Portland, Oregon.  Mr. Morgenthaler loses the maraschino liqueur in favor of plain old sugar, and calls his drink the “Richmond Gimlet.”

Richmond Gimlet

2 oz gin 1 oz fresh lime juice 1 oz simple syrup large sprig mint 

Shake ingredients well over ice and strain into a chilled 9-ounce (at least) cocktail glass.  [I adjusted for reasonable-sized glassware: 1.5 oz gin, ¾ oz. lime, ¾ oz. simple.]

Despite the heaping helping of sugar, my Richmond Gimlet was remarkably light and fruity.  I found it better balanced than the traditional Sensation, a delicious midpoint between that drink and a traditional Gimlet.    

Best of all, the lime, sugar, and mint all provided a perfect backdrop for the gin’s botanicals.  So where a London dry gin works best in the Savoy Sensation, you’ll want to pull out something with strong herb/vegetable/fruit notes for the Richmond Gimlet.  Morgenthaler’s recipe suggests Tanqueray 10; I used the green-label Ethereal, from Berkshire Mountain Distillers.  (BMD describes Ethereal as “brimming with botanicals,” and they are not kidding.) 

So often a writer will talk up “entry-level” gin drinks that will make converts of gin skeptics, then give you a recipe for something that masks the flavor of juniper and other botanicals.  In other words, a gin drink that tastes like it might be made with vodka.  I say better to serve your favorite skeptic a Richmond Gimlet instead.  If he or she doesn’t appreciate a soft, floral gin whose flavors are backlit by lime, sugar, and mint, it’s probably a lost cause.

To my mind both the Sensation and the Richmond Gimlet stand head and shoulders above the Southside, a summery concoction traditionally associated with Yale University.  I’ve stolen this recipe from William L. Hamilton, who stole it from New York’s “21” Club.  Mr. Hamilton’s column on the cultural resonance of the Southside is not to be missed.

Southside

2 ounces of gin juice of half a lemon sugar to taste leaves of fresh mint 

Combine ingredients in a shaker with ice, and shake. Strain into a double Old-Fashioned glass filled with ice, and garnish with a sprig of mint.

Me, I find that Southsides have much in common with the Topsider-wearing Yalies who sip them at regattas.  Sure, they look great on paper, but spend enough time with them and you’ll discover: there isn’t much there there.

Ok.  One more question before we close the book on mint for a while. 

I remember seeing something delicious that involved Lillet and mint ... which I hid during my pregnancy because it just made me want to drink.  But I can't find the recipe now.  Is this a problem that Larger Dirks can solve?

-- Erin B., Oakland, California

Thanks for writing, Erin!

All signs point to the Lillet Sin, which combines Lillet blanc with mint and ginger.  Whoever runs Lillet’s Facebook page was proud enough of this one to run the recipe twice in the past 15 months:

Lillet Sin

 2 ounces Lillet blanc 3 or 4 fresh mint leaves 1 wedge lime 1 thin slice fresh ginger 1 tsp “sugar cane” (I used plain granulated sugar) Fizzy water 

Muddle the ginger and lime together with the sugar in a tall glass. Add the Lillet and ice, and top with fizzy water. Garnish with a sprig of mint.

Halfway between a Lillet spritzer and a mojito, the Lillet Sin certainly seems like a lovely summer breeze of a cocktail.  In fact, it makes me want to throw a party, just as soon as the weather warms up.   I’d serve mojitos and these Lillet-poached peaches.

Mmmm … peaches.  Anyone have any questions about Southern Comfort, or crème de pêche?