uncocktail

[uncocktail]

Uncooked: Boston, I Love You, But Your Pizza Is Awful

The news media has been making a big to-do about covering a recent TripAdvisor list ranking Boston’s Pizzeria Regina as the best pizza in the country. The backlash from New York and New Jersey has been understandable. Even the Boston Globe doesn’t seem to endorse the ranking. So how did this happen? Is there any cheesy justice in this world?

There’s a very simple explanation for this. Bostonians revere Regina because the city’s pizza, on the whole, is beyond sub-par. It’s downright bad. I lived in Boston for five years on a diet of almost exclusively pizza. I tried every damn slice joint in the city during that time. The sheer number of crummy pizzerias I remember suffering through more than once is a testament to the dearth of quality offerings. Cappy’s? Boston House of Pizza? Cinderella’s? New York Pizza? All the other Cappy’s locations? The Afghans at most NYC Crown Fried Chicken locations sling a better slice than these hell-holes--and yet, six years after leaving Boston for good, every one of them is still open. Never underestimate the commercial power of drunk college students.

Is there edible pizza to be found in Boston? Sure. Galleria Umberto in the North End is open for less than four hours a day, only has three things on its menu, doesn’t take cards, and makes you wait in line 20-40 minutes to reach the counter. If they sell out before you can order, too bad--you didn’t get there early enough. Oh yeah, and the only pizza option is cheese Sicilian. That’s the kind of quest Boston makes you go on for a quality slice that’s actually worth the price.

These rankings are never quite right, though. Juliana’s Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, which also made TripAdvisor’s top ten and has previously been ranked #1, is easily NYC’s most overrated pizza. Still good, but not worth the price--and they drizzle olive oil on top for some reason which overpowers the other flavors. Not that the tourists visiting Washington St. to get a selfie with the Manhattan Bridge (before tagging it #BrooklynBridge) know any better.

[uncocktail]

Uncorked: Black and Blue and Orange All Over

Wine has a funny way of being behind on the times. In the Old World, producers seem hell-bent on meticulously re-crafting the same product, vintage after vintage, desperately attempting to reproduce or surpass past success. In the New World, producers face similar struggles, but under the pressure of a more concentrated timeline and with an occasional flair for the esoteric. Nevertheless, neither wine world is immune to fads. However, while the New World eagerly hopes to create its own fads, the old world sits back and waits for its undiscovered gems to resurface as “trendy.”

The best example of this dichotomy between the New and Old worlds is in current consumer curiosity regarding untraditional shades of wine. Red and White, while more popular than ever, are passe to the hip oenophile on the beat. Rosé is at its peak in both the New and Old worlds to the detriment of Red, whose grapes have been sacrificed for the sake of a more in-demand product that’s cheaper to produce and easier to make a profit on. Orange and Black wine, both relative fossils by winemaking standards, are the new hipster vins du jour, despite being relics of an era long gone. Even the New World has taken notice of the appeal, but doesn’t have time on its side, as both styles are peculiarly time-consuming arts, and hard to rush to market.

And then we have blue wine. Emphasis on the lack of capitalization. Jesus Christ, now we have blue wine. I’ll get to that eventually.

I will soon go over Orange, Black and blue wine in a way that I feel recent press coverage has been painfully deficient. I once read an article in the Washington Post that intentionally chose to gloss over what experts call “Black” wine in favor of what marketers were doing with the term. Most trend pieces on Orange wine will describe the ancient libation as “like, totally perfect for your Instagram.” We can do better, wine writers, and goddamnit I’m going to try.

[uncocktail]

Uncocktail Uncorked: Indie Wine

So in our last post I went over what I perceived to be the twenty most popular wine varietals in a stream-of-consciousness rant. I had fun, but rather than getting directly to the runners-up like I said I would, I want to explore the other end of the spectrum: the most overlooked varietals. A little more editing went into narrowing down the final ten, but the commentary is equally spontaneous. I started off with 25 varietals, narrowed it down to 13 and trimmed off a little extra to wind up with 10. Easier for me to write, easier for you to read. Cheers.

Petite Sirah - We might as well start off with something fun. Petite Sirah (aka Durif) is the most overlooked of California’s major reds. Less jammy than Zinfandel, more playful than Cabernet Sauvignon, less temperamental than Syrah, Petite Sirah is the perfect starter wine for people transitioning from sweet wine to full-bodied reds. It’s the perfect alternative for consumers used to Mega Purple-infused, bourbon-casked, blueberry-ripe reds that retail for $20 in stores that only seem to carry Constellation Brands products. It’s a big, silly, party in your mouth.

Albana - Orange wine seems to be hotter and more in demand than ever this year which is why it surprises me that more independent distributors aren’t jumping on the Albana bandwagon. While Ribolla Gialla might have a slight edge in orange prestige due to legendary Slovenian expressions, Albana is known in the United States mostly as the “orange” grape of the equally-overlooked Emilia-Romagna region (better known for its cured meats and Parmigiano Reggiano). The most famous wine from this area is red sparkler Lambrusco, which is a good indicator of how weird the wines coming from it are. Albana is no exception, and while the orange wines it produces may not be world-class, they’re easy, passable, and consistently indicative of the style.

Pais/Mission - This is South America and Southern California’s dirty little secret, and I do mean dirty. One of the very few grapes to be transplanted by the Spanish (it’s really more of a French and Roman tradition), Pais is having a moment. Customers looking for a more funky, “natural” flavor profile with a lighter body can’t really go wrong with Pais’ approachable weirdness. Sure, no two expressions taste the same, but they share a common thread of tenuity and peculiarity. Maybe that’s due in part to the producers that still choose to play with the obsolete-church-wine-grape.

Pineau d’Aunis - France’s Loire Valley is basically only known for two kinds of wine: white and Cabernet Franc (plenty of Pinot Noir is grown, but most of it gets turned into rosé). Chenin Blanc, Sauvignon Blanc and Melon de Bourgogne all find their most famous expressions in the area, yet this unique and spicy grape sees almost no fanfare stateside. Did I emphasize enough that this grape is hella spicy? While Chinon’s Cab Francs might give you notes of dirt and green bell pepper, Pineau d’Aunis bypasses the vegetal straight into notes of black pepper and coriander. The most popular Pineau d’Aunis I ever encountered was a cheap rosé expression, a perfect representation of the grape’s wasted potential.

Silvaner - Sure, Silvaner may not taste as similar to Gruner Vetliner as your local wine merchant solemnly swore to you, but that’s fine. It tastes better. Entry level Silvaners consistently outperform their Gruner counterparts, and top-shelf ones are gorgeous, structured, balanced, age-worthy crowd pleasers. You can think of Silvaner as somewhere between Riesling and Gruner. It has Gruner’s approachability with Riesling’s minerality--without Riesling’s overwhelming acidity or Gruner’s bland finishes. Silvaner is thankfully obscure enough that if you come across one that’s been imported into the US, it’s almost guaranteed to be high-quality and a great value.

Bobal - Do you like overly-approachable, medium-bodied, oaky, juicy, vanilla bomb reds? Perhaps a Rioja Crianza without so much damn weight? Are you broke? If you answered yes to all of the above questions, congratulations, Bobal from Utiel-Requena is the wine for you. This is not a wine for oenophile snobs, it’s a basic-ass crowd-pleaser that is dirt cheap and criminally overlooked in favor of Spain’s many uninspired expressions of Tempranillo. Bottles rarely fetch more than $15 on the American market and your uncle is going to love it.

Grolleau - Much like its Loire-native sister Pineau d’Aunis, Grolleau lives its vintages in the shadow of the more renowned Cab Franc. That isn’t to say it has nothing to offer. Falling somewhere in profile between Cab Franc and Gamay, this grape is easily more fun and approachable than the former in its best expressions. While it may not be able to eclipse premium Gamay, its entry-level expressions regularly do.

Malvasia - This is almost cheating. In Europe, Malvasia usually translates to “native grape to this region and we don’t know what the fuck it is.” This is why you’ll see it more commonly coming from Eastern Europe, where varietal genetics aren’t as well-documented. Nevertheless, Malvasia is synonymous with “generic white grape” in most of the wine world and its expressions are boundless. Equally capable of producing robust orange wines, lean whites and the finest white wines Portugal has to offer, Malvasia is a true workhorse varietal, and a critically important connective fiber in the wine market. Sure, every country seems to have a different genetic strain, but the obscurity of the varietal and the preponderance of its expressions makes that nagging fact irrelevant.

Loureiro - This zesty, lemon-lime-noted grape from Portugal’s Vinho Verde region is a true unsung hero. It’s the rare example of a mixing grape that works better as a single-varietal wine. Sure, Vinho Verde’s best wines may be Alvarinho-based, but that’s only due to the ubiquity it has in the region’s vineyards. Its single-varietal Loureiros can taste like drinking flat 7-Up with less sugar. Need to share a bottle of wine with someone who can only tolerate off-dry Mosel Rieslings? If you can find a bottle of single-varietal Loureiro, it makes a perfect substitute.

Pinot Meunier - Is it fair to call one of the trinity grapes of Champagne overlooked? Absolutely, especially when the only descriptor it usually gets in Champagne write-ups is “mixing grape.” Blanc de Blanc always means all Chardonnay. Blanc de Noirs usually means all Pinot Noir. Pinot Meunier is the awkward middle child that shines as a single-varietal, bubble-free expression just about anywhere else in the world--particularly in Germany where they call it Schwarzriesling (literally “Black Riesling”). Small growers in Champagne are increasingly playing with Meunier-only bottlings thanks to its reliability compared to Champagne’s more tempestuous signature grapes. Sure, it doesn’t have a distinct character of its own, but part of the excitement of the grape is just how disparate their expressions of terroir can be.

Photo by Rohit Tandon on Unsplash

[uncocktail]

Uncocktail Uncorked: Pop Wine

I was reading my “wine” tab on Google News the other night and was struck by the opening paragraph of one of the articles (more than the article, which I can’t find anymore). The author brazenly stated that 20 grapes make up the majority of American wine consumption. Much like Claudette’s notorious “I definitely have breast cancer” line from The Room, the assertion didn’t have much to do with the rest of the article and wasn’t brought up again.

I frantically got to work on my phone’s Notes app trying to see if I could list the twenty most popular grapes from memory and experience. The order they came into my head is how they’re listed below.

There are some omissions that might be controversial. I left a few of my favorite grapes intentionally out of my initial twenty because I knew the demand wasn’t quite there for them except among hardcore oenophiles (sorry, Chenin Blanc). However, keeping with the stream-of-consciousness nature of the list, I’ve decided to elaborate on the initial varietals I came up with using my initial reaction to each grape. If I have fun, maybe I’ll do the same with the runners up and extra credit grapes.

Sauvignon Blanc - So you graduated from Cloudy Bay to mediocre Sancerre but you think asking for Pinot Grigio will make you look like a real housewife. This grape is currently synonymous with the bitter, mass-produced expression from New Zealand that tastes like grass and grapefruit. Its popularity in this form hinges on its predictability. An average customer knows exactly what to expect from a $13 bottle of Marlborough Sauv Blanc because they all taste exactly the same. Uniformity at its finest. Sancerre is for the hoity-toity crowd but only because of the price tag that comes with it. Nobody asks for Bordeaux Blanc, which is often dirt cheap and conveys a more amped-up expression of SB’s signature aromatics.

Merlot - This grape is all over the place. Velvety and spicy in some expressions, reeking with pyrizines and tasting more like Cabernet Franc in others. Despite its unpredictability, the demand is still there, but usually only in Yellow Tail or hidden in Bordeaux blends. Ask a wine seller about the “Sideways effect” if you want a 20-minute lecture on the rise of California Pinot Noir.

Cabernet Sauvignon - The king grape of the world’s two most famous wine regions: Bordeaux and Napa Valley. Fun notes of juicy cherries and blackcurrant at its cheapest and most basic makes it an easy gamble for producing a crowd pleaser. The better expressions shed more and more of the sweet cherry notes with every extra $5 you throw at a bottle. A frequent victim of over-oaking, cheaper California expressions risk overdoing it on the vanilla. Thanks to global warming, the grape is growing out of favor with Bordeaux producers whose crops are growing overripe from the extra heat. This would make CS-based Bordeauxs fruity and jammy in a way that the French simply can’t abide by.

Malbec - Look at this trendy little slut. Everyone seems to love you these days, Malbec. Cheers to you, Malbec. Sure, everybody thinks you’re native to Argentina (lol) and sure, you’re only exciting when you’re expensive, but at least you’re not Torrontes. There is something fundamentally wrong with Torrontes and nobody will acknowledge it but Argentina needs to cut it the hell out. Like from the ground. Rip up those vines. They can keep the Malbec. Let’s hope for Argentina’s sake that nobody finds out about Uruguayan Tannat.

Chardonnay - Fruity and bright, bland and mineral, buttery and viscous; there are so many expressions of the noblest of grapes, perhaps the most legendary white of all. The basis of some of the finest wines in the world, most Americans’ first exposure to Chardonnay was through Kendall Jackson (vigilant crusaders for #whitewineemoji justice) and that’s probably why most people think they hate Chardonnay. Sure, exciting unoaked counterpoints to Kendall Jackson’s supremacy do exist, but they’re outnumbered by humdrum Chablis knockoffs.

Pinot Grigio/Gris - If Pinot Grigio were put on a Dungeons and Dragons moral alignment chart, it would be Lawful Neutral. People looking for the cheap Italian stuff just want water-flavored wine. People looking for more potent and complex expressions are still looking for something completely inoffensive and easy-drinking. Sometimes you’ll get funky, weird-ass orange versions from Eastern Europe that defy logic by exhibiting infinite depth.

Pinot Noir - Ohhh yeah, baby. You’re a hot, sexy one Pinot Noir. Someone decided you go good with fish one day and your profile skyrocketed. No grape, however, has a more direct price-to-quality correlation. Even then, while there may be a Pinot for everyone, no singular Pinot style can fill the role entirely. The austere, cold-climate Pinots of Burgundy, Oregon and New York’s Finger Lakes are great food wines, but the riper, concentrated styles of California and New Zealand are more fun and approachable. Cheap Pinots that hide their warm climate origins are often so fruity that they no longer taste expressive of the varietal. If not a total fruit bomb, cheap Pinot can be bitter and bland.

Gamay - Most Americans experience Beaujolais in its “nouveau” variant at Thanksgiving thanks to a bizarre tradition that confounds me. Maybe this is all a lie, since I’ve never seen anybody consume a bottle of the stuff, which amounts to dark, shitty rosé. Entry level and premium expressions alike adhere to the signature “carbonically macerated” style that gets progressively less spicy and more supple with each increase in price point. Some of the most high-quality Gamays out there are still dirt cheap compared to their Cab Sauv and Pinot Noir counterparts. Fun, fruity, easy--it’s basically what people expect Pinot Noir to taste like before they discover the reality.

Gruner Vetliner - I’m biased to include Gruner in my list because I work in Brooklyn where I routinely see the stuff outsell Sauvignon Blanc. Gruner’s popularity comes from three things: its Pinot-Gris-rivaling neutrality, relatively low cost and the packaging (most popular in liter bottles, German and Austrian Gruners give New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc drinkers an extra third of a bottle at the same price). Best served cold, like the German temperament.

Sangiovese - The most ubiquitous Italian red, far better known in the states as “Chianti” Maybe you know it as “house wine” or “table wine” in its Super-Tuscan form at your nicest local pizzeria. Sangiovese is an easy sell to anyone asking for something to pair with a tomato-based Italian dish. Or most other Italian dishes for that matter. The trinity of premium tuscan Sangioveses (Chianti Classico, Vino Nobile de Montepulciano and Brunello di Montalcino) are renowned the world over--but are consistently overshadowed by the premiums of Piedmont to the North.

Tempranillo - Tempranillo is synonymous with Rioja, and Spanish wine in general. It comes in many forms, but retains its inherent character regardless. Most other grapes have unique and anomalous expressions that defy the varietals and taste like something else altogether. Tempranillo, on the other hand, is surprisingly consistent, and only has three things you need to look for: concentration, age and oak. Spaniards have a weird, almost German approach to the production of the stuff, inadvertently making it one of the most accessible wines for beginners. The classifications of Rioja and Ribera del Duero have oak and bottle aging standards that add distinctive characteristics which are easy to decipher for novices. Knowing which style of Tempranillo is for you is an easy segue into other red wines of the world.

Grenache/Garnacha - Grenache is pretty much the perfect grape. Few other varietals have as drastic an array of expressions. Light and ethereal, robust and structured, fun and fruity; The grape is the backbone of two of the world’s bougiest wine regions: Priorat and Chateauneuf du Pape. A temperamental grape for sure, the beauty of Grenache lies in its vast possibilities. A delicate lavender-colored expression from Oregon for Pinot Noir drinkers that don’t like tannins? A hearty Rhone expression to give your Barolo-glugging dad for Father’s Day? An approachable $9 Spanish value wine? Grenache can do it all.

Syrah - Best known in the States in the overripe form of “Shiraz,” Syrah may not have the same versatility as its Rhone cousin Grenache, but what it lacks in that it makes up for in depth. Where Grenache can be ethereal or robust, Syrah is by its nature a big wine. Granted, it’s a tough sell when merely labeled by the name of the grape. Warm climate stuff can reach 16% alcohol and taste like drinking fruit juice in contrast to the legendary, overwhelmingly structured and almost fruit-deficient expressions of Syrah’s most famous regions: Côte-Rôtie, St. Joseph, Cornas and Crozes-Hermitage. None of these are ever fun or cheap, but they’re always “good” by expert standards. Syrah finds a happy medium with California expressions that more resemble the jammy fruit of South Africa and Australia, but with enough structure to give them depth, just nowhere near as much depth or structure as the Northern Rhone (Washington Syrah, on the other hand, straddles the line between the two styles effectively).

Zinfandel - It’s fascinating. Walk into any basic-bitch liquor store and somewhere close to the Dekuyper and Veuve Cliquot, you’ll find the Zinfandel section. It won’t be labeled that way. In fact, it’s probably just the store’s California Domestic section. But make no mistake, 80% of those flashy-labeled, $20 Cali red blends are made mostly of Zinfandel and Mega Purple. And then we have White Zinfandel, the sugary sweet “most popular rosé in America” which doesn’t merit much discussion. Cheap red Zinfandel is almost cloyingly fruity, making it a great pairing for food slathered in barbecue sauce or just about anything else that combines sweet and savory. High-end $50 expressions from centenarian vines produce some of the deepest, most rewarding reds out there, but the hypothetical customer for these Zins would rather drop their dollars on an inferior Cab Sauv.

Moscato - Sure, there are bone-dry, hyper-floral expressions of moscato out there (usually from France or Spain and going by “Muscat”), but the average Moscato drinker only cares about one thing: that their wine is sweeter than drinking juice. Oenophiles will regularly pooh-pooh the most famous expression, Moscato d’Asti, as too sweet for their palates, but there’s still a lot of flavor to be had from this delicate and easy-drinking “wine soda.” The alcohol content is comparable to beer, so you risk diabetes if you try to get drunk off the stuff.

Riesling - Riesling is “that bitch.” She bridges the divide between the experts and the novices. She can be dry, she can be sweet, she is a true hooker that can be whatever you want her to be. Wine critics are inherently addicted to good acidity that isn’t “vinegar-y.” Dry Rieslings have it in spades, as do the sweeter, over-sulphured, age-worthy expressions that eventually develop enough to balance out their sugar altogether. Riesling stands alone in this regard, making it the favorite grape of about half the experts you’ll talk to. Bartenura Moscato may have dethroned Riesling as the sweet white wine du jour, but any sweet white drinkers over the age of 50 are probably still Rheinhessen Auslese devotees and clever product placement on urban radio has kept certain sweet Riesling brands relevant in the age of Moscato.

Nebbiolo - More bitter and tannic than its Barbera counterpart, yet not as tannic or heavy as Dolcetto. The “middle ground” grape of Italy’s Piedmont region, Nebbiolo is good for one thing: food-pairing wines. Since Italian wine is all about food, that effectively makes Nebbiolo the king of Italian grapes. Sure, Chianti Classico and Amarone de Valpolicella have their place, but nothing gives a wine boner to an Italian vino bro quite like a Barolo or Barbaresco.

Barbera - Barbera is the Michelle Williams of Italian red grapes, perhaps with Sangiovese as Kelly Rowland and Nebbiolo as Beyonce. There’s so much potential there, but it’s consistently overlooked and rarely taken as seriously. Ironically, Barbera works in a more vast array of climates and soils than its counterparts.

Montepulciano - Sorry, am I getting lazy with the Italian grapes? Maybe that’s because of boring predictable stuff like Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. Synonymous with inherently inoffensive red Italian table wine, people love ordering this juice at restaurants because it’s easier to pronounce than “Sangiovese” (San-jo-vay-zee? San-geo-vay-zay?). Also, people associate Chianti with Hannibal Lecter, it’s just out there in the zeitgeist.

Glera/Prosecco - It has bubbles in it. More than half of Americans will believe what they are drinking bears some resemblance to Champagne. Many of those Americans will buy a bottle at a liquor store after asking where the Champagne is. Prosecco is not Champagne and you don’t know to ask for Franciacorta or Cava. Go home, Prosecco, you’re drunk.

Runners up: Viognier, Albariño, Gewurtztraminer, Verdejo, Chenin Blanc, Pinotage, Mourvedre, Cabernet Franc, Touriga Nacional, Picpoul, Melon de Bourgogne, Pinot Blanc, Nero d'Avola, Cinsault,  Dolcetto, Carignan, Malvasia

Extra Credit: Pinot Meunier, Semillon, Marsanne/Rousanne, Lambrusco, Garganega, Corvina, Ugni Blanc/Trebbiano, Bobal, Aligoté, Airen, Viura, Xarel Lo, Parellada, Pedro Ximenez, Palomino Fino, Godello, Mencia, Petite Sirah

Photo by John Jennings on Unsplash

[uncocktail]

Uncocktail Uncorked

Hello readers,

This site has been on hiatus for a few years, and I feel like I owe you an explanation. To begin, I started writing Cocktailology posts on here as an experiment in writing about bartender stuff from a beginner’s perspective. These articles were never intended to make me money or to be published on a larger scale like the stuff I wrote in journalism school. I founded the blog so a friend could syndicate my posts on his own blog pro bono while retaining first publishing rights for myself. I treated it as an experiment in voice-finding with regard to writing about the beverage industry.

I started writing this blog to cover cocktails because as a young bartender, it was an exercise for me to convey not only the recipe behind a particular cocktail, but also the drink’s context. I was never interested in giving history lessons à la Gary Regan. Rather, I tried to write each article from the perspective of a bartender explaining each drink to a trainee. There were times where this worked better than others, but overall I’m proud of the work I did--warts and all.

(My first bar crew: Skytown, Brooklyn, c. 2013)

A little over two years ago, I had just left my third bartending job in a row, disillusioned with the entire profession. I knew how to bartend, I had good teachers along the way, and I liked mixing drinks, but the more money I made, the less happy I was. Bartending was fun in the beginning, working in mom-and-pop watering holes for what usually amounted to just barely above minimum wage. What followed were two lucrative gigs at high-volume, fast-casual, Italian restaurants with name recognition. I made a killing, but I was increasingly unhappy.

Between the two gigs pouring Chianti and the occasional Sidecar, I trained at a cocktail lounge across from what some would call the most famous restaurant in New York. An exercise in embarrassment, I lasted a week before quitting when I overheard the new ex-Marine-drill-sergeant bar manager making fun of my posts on this blog to the GM. Nobody needs that shit.

I was a little lost after that. I got offered some new mom-and-pop gigs that I was smart enough not to take on monetary grounds. I eventually settled on a brand ambassador gig for a whiskey company that had a one-product portfolio and only paid on commission, making the job particularly fruitless and challenging.

One bar took pity on me and ordered a case of my whiskey as a sign of goodwill (my first sale!), but they had ulterior motives. The owners also had a boutique liquor store in need of support staff, and they offered me a job on the spot. I had no choice, financially speaking, but to accept, and it wasn’t long before I started diving head-first into the world of wine. I started at a paltry $12 an hour for 14 hours a week, but I refused to squander the opportunity. Selling wine is virtually impossible without education, and my handicap frustrated me, so I spent 14+ hours a week studying different grapes and wine regions. I subscribed to every wine-related channel on YouTube and became addicted to vintage episodes of Jancis Robinson’s Wine Course that the BBC had produced in 1995. I became the wine geek the store needed me to be and in less than a year I was promoted to a position scouting and buying new products.

I should have known sooner that I was more suited to the world of wine than that of overpriced drink-mixing. At age 12, my father poured me a small glass of California Cabernet and challenged me to taste the notes he was picking up. After sipping and sniffing delicately at the glass for ten minutes I finally muttered “apples flambé,” my dad’s favorite dessert dish to make, consisting of caramelized apples, which he served à la mode. The answer he was looking for was “caramel,” and I had far exceeded his expectations. A few months later he was toiling away in our basement and garage, producing homebrew wine--a hobby that lasted three or four years, but taught me everything I didn’t think i would need to know about the chemistry of wine production.

Annnnnd, yeah. That’s what I do now. I’m a professional wine geek and damn fucking good at it. Better than I ever was at bartending. Yes, on the service side I could talk the talk, but on the retail side I walk the walk and it feels good to know that I have a skill I can take with me anywhere. It’s gratifying to occasionally outsmart certified sommeliers without having spent the thousands on classes they did. I learned what I know about wine on the streets of Bed-Stuy and I’ve found that street-smart approach to the industry invaluable in furthering my career.

So what does all this mean for uncocktail.com?

Who knows? I certainly don’t, but over the past year I’ve been planning on transitioning the site’s subject matter from classic cocktails to wine education. Still from the same beginner perspective, but way more wine-focused. To those of you that have been with this blog since the beginning, I hope you continue to follow Uncocktail into this new chapter. I call it Uncocktail Uncorked and it’s gonna be awesome, I promise.

Peace + Love,

Rob

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Cosmopolitan

One thing matters above all else when making a cosmo: it has to be pink. This is known as the quintessential “chick drink” and while it hurts my feminist mentality to say this: only women will order a cosmopolitan. Even most gay men will be too afraid to buy a bright pink drink with a feminine reputation (unless they’re trying to get in touch with that side of themselves).

You can fuck around with the ingredients and the preparation. You can serve a rocks cosmo (it will probably taste better that way), but most customers will expect it be served up in a cocktail glass.  You want to make sure you can taste the alcohol, but the drink also has to be sweet. Not sickeningly so, just enough to make it go down easy.

I frequently attribute the popularity of the cosmo to Sex and the City. Before it, I don’t imagine too many people ordered them. I say this because bartenders don’t usually push them, and rarely like making them--the customers who buy them are the pickiest kind of cocktail consumer, and finding a solid ingredient ratio that satisfies everyone is a bit of a pipe dream.

Bartenders need to gauge the person who ordered the cosmo. How sweet will they want it? How pink will they want it? Should I ask them if they’d prefer a much tastier version in a highball glass or should I just assume they’re drinking it because they want something served in a cocktail glass but can’t seem to gulp down a Manhattan or martini? These are the things going through a bartender’s head when you order a cosmo, and it requires them to make unflattering flash judgments about you, ones you could easily avoid by ordering a basic vodka-cranberry.

If I have any advice on the cosmo, though, it is to not omit citrus juice just because you’re using citrus vodka. It will taste like crap. The lemon or lime juice is necessary. This is actually the most common preparation I’ve seen in bars and restaurants and it is dead wrong.

The cosmo can still taste good, though. It doesn’t have to be a nightmare. We can reclaim the drink, and the color pink itself.

For an at-home go-to, here’s my favorite ratio:

2 oz vodka (they’ll want citrus vodka, but you’re already adding citrus juice)

3/4 oz triple sec

3/4 oz cranberry juice

1/2 oz lemon or lime juice

1/4 oz simple syrup

Shake over ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a lime wedge or lemon twist, depending on which juice you used.

Cosmos can be mighty tasty and they’re cheap to make well. Even the most ill-stocked bars can usually whip one up with what they have laying around. Let’s take back the cosmo, and the color pink while we’re at it. The goal of feminism is for women to be equal in the eyes of society to men. That will never happen if we let trivial  things like colors shape our assumptions of things.

(Photo: RDLT Media)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: Moonshine

I know, I know. Moonshine isn’t a cocktail, so why am I giving it the Cocktailology treatment? The answer lies in the misconceptions Americans seem to have about the unique spirit. The confusion is all a matter of denotation vs. connotation. The basic denotation for moonshine is “whiskey that hasn’t been barrel-aged.” This results in a whiskey mash distillate that doesn’t pick up the color and woody notes of normal types of whiskey. Instead, moonshine straddles the line between whiskey and vodka, the only arguable difference between the two being dilution.

Vodka usually refers to pure distilled alcohol that has been diluted down to an alcohol content (ABV) of about 40%. Before the dilution, Americans call the stuff Everclear. In Poland and much of Eastern Europe, it’s called Spirytus. The water source used for dilution will often impact the flavor of the vodka more than the base spirit itself since it has typically been distilled to the degree of pure ethanol.

By contrast, moonshine is typically distilled to its end-result ABV and bottled immediately. Most whiskeys (and brandies for that matter) are distilled at an ABV above consumer grade and given time to age and mellow in oak barrels, during which a small but notable portion of the alcohol content evaporates through the porous wood. With moonshine, this defeats the purpose (both of legal and illicit varieties). Historically, American moonshine producers in the wake of prohibition have had one goal: to distill hooch with the highest proof possible.

This brings us to where moonshine falls in the modern zeitgeist. Yes, hill people in Kentucky are still producing the stuff illegally. The pot stills their grandfathers built during prohibition work fine, so why pay for plastic handles of the cheap stuff when they can make something even cheaper (and less palatable) at home? To the remaining moonshiners, it’s almost a political statement. This perpetuation of an anachronistic tradition has kept the idea of moonshine somewhat taboo, despite the literal definition of the word. Companies have since come into the liquor market to capitalize by offering unaged whiskey as “moonshine” because it sounds more adventurous than “white whiskey.” Unfortunately, the two best known brands, Midnight Moon and Georgia Moon, are distilled from a corn mash to an industry-standard ABV of 40%, making it cheaper and more delicious to just buy plain old vodka. A new NYC-based brand, Manhattan Moonshine, boasts a more appealing 47.5 ABV and eschews corn in their mash for oats, resulting in something you can actually drink (but it comes with a price tag).

As I said, moonshine is more about the connotations attached to it than the actual product. The American vodka boom of the 50′s made the stuff irrelevant as a marketable product. Vodka is inherently more neutral in flavor, while white rum will usually taste better in a cocktail. Moonshine has something those two don’t have however: the allure of the taboo. Like absinthe, moonshine’s reputation precedes it. From the perspective of a bartender, it makes for an easy sell. “Want to do a shot of moonshine?” will get a more universal response than, “Want to try a shot of this hand-crafted small-batch mezcal from Oaxaca?” Despite all the quality markers of the latter choice, a typical bar customer will go with the thing that sounds more fun, and moonshine always sounds like a good time.

Speaking of a good time, here’s a nifty recipe for a drink I call the Platinum Rush:

2 oz Manhattan Moonshine

1 oz lemon juice

1 oz simple syrup

orange bitters

Shake moonshine, lemon juice and simple syrup over ice. Strain into a coupe glass and float orange bitters on top. Alternatively, it can be served over rocks with a splash of soda. Increase moonshine to 2.5 oz for this method. Honey syrup can substitute the simple syrup for a cocktail with a more complex flavor and golden hue.

[Update: Full disclosure, after the publication of this article, I joined the sales team at Manhattan Moonshine. I was not affiliated with the company prior, nor had I had any communication with them until after this post was written.]

[uncocktail]

Uncocktail: The Formation

I didn’t quite get the ruckus when “Formation” was released, but when Beyoncé dropped #LEMONADE, everything became crystal clear. There’s nothing I can say about the album that hasn’t already been said, but has it inspired a lot of cocktails? Seriously, I’m asking--I don’t know. Even if it has, this particular concoction is the Bey-all and end-all.

When crafting it, I was inspired by this moment:

The original name for the cocktail was the Solange Knowles, but I went for subtlety. Two of the ingredients here I should mention ahead of time. Bitter lemon soda can be hard to come by but most international markets will have some stashed away. If you can’t come across it whatsoever, a mix of two parts sparkling lemonade to one part tonic water can be used to substitute. As for honey syrup, make sure not to use honey straight out of the jar. The cold temperature of the ice solidifies it, making it harder to dissolve during shaking. The honey has to be diluted to a lower viscosity, usually 50-50 with water. Now we’re set:

3 blackberries

2 oz white rum

1/4 oz lime juice

1/2 oz honey syrup

2 oz bitter lemon soda

Macerate the blackberries in the bottom of a rocks glass and set aside. Combine the rum, lime and honey and shake over ice. Strain into the glass and top with the bitter lemon. Add ice. No garnish, it’s pretty enough just as it is.

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Gimlet

I’ll let you in on a little bartending secret: nobody really knows what a gimlet is. Various sources will claim that a gimlet is similar to a gin or vodka daiquiri; other recipes purport that the cocktail is nothing more than the base spirit and Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice. While there is a lot of disagreement on the exact composition, a few things remain constant.

First off, the base spirit in a gimlet must be gin or vodka. It is a liquor-forward cocktail, meaning that it is generally understood to be heavier on the booze than the mixers.

Let’s talk about Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice for a second. It is one of the most ubiquitous cordials behind less sophisticated bars, but even some of the most well-respected bartenders in the country swear by it in a gimlet. The balance of tart and bitterness is reminiscent of key lime juice, but that’s probably just oxidation. I’m of the school that Rose’s isn’t as important to the success of a gimlet as fresh lime juice.

Rose’s is just another common thread to the gimlets of yore: the presence of a cordial. Switching up the cordial or liqueur in a gimlet can yield a variety of results, which is why I say toss the little green bottle and stick with fresh lime juice. People are paying you for a fancy drink; who needs a bottle of corn syrupy goodness when you can pick a different cordial and elevate the cocktail?

For this post, I’m going to do something a little different. Rather than provide you with one authoritative recipe, I’m going to provide three perspectives of what a gimlet can be.

Gary Regan’s Gimlet

2 oz Plymouth Gin

1/2 oz Rose’s Lime Juice

Shake over ice and strain into a coupe glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

Regan claims in The Bartender’s Bible that Rose’s is an essential component and probably the progenitor of the cocktail. Despite this, the proportions of his recipe are almost martini-like in stiffness.

The Modern Basic

2 oz gin or vodka

3/4 oz simple syrup

3/4 oz fresh lime juice

Shake over ice and strain into a coupe glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

This version is essentially a stronger daiquiri without the rum. It’s a simple recipe to remember, and it can be made without any bar non-essentials like Rose’s.

The St. Germain Gimlet

1 3/4 oz gin or vodka

1 oz St. Germain Elderflower Liqueur

3/4 oz lime juice

1/2 oz simple syrup

Shake over ice and strain into a coupe glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

This is an original cocktail although I have no doubt somebody has concocted something similar before. The inventor of St. Germain, Robert Cooper, passed away last month at only 39 years old, and I wanted to include this in his honor. The distinct and some would say life-changing flavor of St. Germain led to the term “bartender’s ketchup” because they can put it in anything. We have lost a cocktail genius too young, but thankfully St. Germain won’t be going anywhere.

(Photo via Aviation Gin)

[uncocktail]

Redesign Time

Uncocktail was looking a little dated, so we gave it a new [retro?] look, dusted the cobwebs off some old posts, and most excitingly, got a new e-mail address. That’s right. Complaints, sexual advances, suggestions for Cocktailology posts, and drunken rants [especially drunken rants] can now be sent to rob@uncocktail.com. If you send something fun maybe it could end up here. Stay tuned for the inaugural post of the Uncocktail series, where I show off my own cocktail creations. Come have a look around and check out the new digs. Cheers.

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Vodka Martini

In a previous post, we went over the metrics of preparing a classic martini. Gin martinis can indeed be complicated for a novice bartender who doesn’t know the vocabulary: up, dry, perfect, dirty... etc. The vodka martini, like its base spirit, is a different, typically more simple animal--but the myriad contradictions in its preparation can throw off someone who hasn’t mentally divorced it from its gin-soaked Franco-Italian cousin.

Vodka martinis exist for people who want to drink a big, strong, fancy cocktail out of an unwieldy glass. The closest comparison would be to call it a “sugarless, colorless, flavorless cosmopolitan.” For this reason, we should distinguish it from the gin martini in a few ways.

The first distinction is that unless specifically ordered, vermouth can be left out. While vermouth can compliment the flavor notes of gin in a classic martini, it will overpower if mixed with vodka, which is distilled to be flavorless.

The next distinction is your garnish. Where a classic martini bears the question “olive or twist,“ the presumed garnish for a vodka martini is a lemon twist. An olive plopped in a glass of what otherwise amounts to very very cold vodka will bring in a hint of brine that will be amplified by the cold, flavorless alcohol. When a lemon twist is used, the same effect occurs, except the drinker gets an effervescent hit of lemon aroma instead. Few cocktails are elevated by a lemon twist on the same level as the vodkatini.

The final and most peculiar distinction is that many bartenders will shake a vodka martini. This seems to directly violate two “rules” of bartending: first, that you always stir a martini and second that you only shake a drink with juice, cream or egg. Despite this, there are a few reasons to justify the shake. The method leaves a halo of crystals around the rim of the drink that increase palatability. It is also ultimately faster than stirring, saving precious time that could be spent preparing less basic-ass drinks. Since the concept of stirring a martini traces back to fears of “bruising the gin,” it’s safe to say that vodka, without the dissolved oils and aromatics of gin, can take a bit more of a beating.

If you actually still need a recipe, you probably weren’t reading. Let me remind you:

3-3.5 oz Vodka (quality does matter)

Shake over ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Serve with a lemon twist. Did you really need that recipe? Are you still reading? It’s a recipe for really cold vodka, not brain surgery. Go practice your shaking or something.

(Photo Credit: Lewis Ronald/Wikimedia Commons)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Negroni

There are drinks, and then there are drinker’s drinks. The distinction is made not by ABV, but rather by the presence of alcohol in every ingredient. Some good examples of a drinker’s drink: the Manhattan, Martini, Rusty Nail, Black Russian and even some lighter fare like the St Germain Cocktail, Kir Royal and (regrettably) the Irish Car Bomb. However, the be-all-and-end-all of drinker’s drinks has got to be the Negroni.

Negronis have had a resurgence as of late thanks to an odd trend of Campari consumption among twentysomethings in Portland, Austin and Brooklyn. I’m not sure which came first: the hipsters ordering the Campari cocktails or the bartenders pushing it on them. The ease with which a Negroni can be made makes me suspect the latter. All you need is:

1 oz Campari

1 oz Gin

1 oz Sweet Vermouth

Stir over ice and serve on the rocks with an orange twist. If you wanna make it really fancy, do a wash of something anisette (preferably absinthe) in the glass. For less experienced drinkers, add club soda or prosecco to dilute the strong flavor.

As you can see, not only does the Negroni have three ingredients, but it requires them in equal measure. Bartenders love any kind of drink that doesn’t require them to think or use multiple jiggers for measurement. With the Negroni, all three ingredients go successively into the same jigger with no measuring disparity. The only way to make it any easier for the bartender is to just order your liquor neat.

Oh, did I mention ordering them makes you look cool?

With all that said, allow me to make a disclaimer about “craft” Negronis. I used to work at a well-known place with nightmare management that chose to infuse the gin for their Negronis with beet. I get it, it makes the bar manager nostalgic for the heyday of Nickelodeon’s Doug or something. Still, infusing your gin with something bitter and then pouring a bunch of Campari on top overwhelms the palate with bitterness. A “beet-infused” Negroni is an inherently bad idea for a cocktail. Even if you see one on the menu, ask your bartender if they can make one with normal gin.

(Photo Credit: Achim Schleuning/Wikimedia Commons)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Manhattan

It would be a cheap cop-out to describe a Manhattan as a “whiskey martini.” Despite being from the same cocktail family, there are enough differences to distinguish the two. The first major disparity is the inclusion of aromatic bitters, something almost never associated with any form of martini--not even the appletini. The go-to is Angostura, but the niche bitters market has exploded in recent years. Just steer clear of cheap glycerine-based bitters and splurge on the good stuff.

Further distinguishing itself from the martini, vermouth plays a much bigger role in the Manhattan. Where a martini may only call for a wash or at most a half-ounce, a Manhattan may call for anywhere between 3/4 and a full ounce of sweet vermouth (another variance--no martini drinkers want only sweet vermouth.) There’s more room to play with the Manhattan’s proportions. It could be ordered dry, “perfect” or anywhere in between.

I haven’t looked into the history of the Manhattan like I did with the other cocktails on this site. It wasn’t a necessary step to let you in on the people who drink them. Manhattan drinkers, like martini drinkers, do NOT mind the flavor of alcohol. Their personalities can even be predicted by their choice of whiskey.

Rye Manhattan: Men who love cocktails and don’t like gin. They usually own books--if they don’t, fuckboy alert!

Bourbon Manhattan: Gay and/or female drinkers who’ve watched EVERY episode of Sex and the City but don’t want to be made fun of by their bartender for ordering a cosmo.

Canadian Whiskey Manhattan: Canadians, eh?

Scotch Manhattan (Rob Roy): Alcoholics.

The traditional choice is rye, but if you actually like your first Manhattan, try them all. Rye will yield a more dry finished product while bourbon and blends will enhance some of the sweet notes. In a pinch, you could even try Scotch or Irish whiskey just for the fuck of it.

2 1/2 oz whiskey (rye preferred)

1 oz sweet vermouth

1-2 dashes aromatic bitters

Pour ingredients over ice in a mixing glass and stir (slightly longer than you would stir for a martini.) Strain into a martini or coupe glass and garnish with a marasca cherry on a toothpick.

Those unfamiliar with marasca cherries (mistakenly called “black cherries” at some bars) should take note: a “marascino” cherry in your manhattan will only detract. Excluding drinkers who exclusively order Manhattans for the neon cherry center, most people have lukewarm feelings at best about marascino cherries. They should only be served in the Shirley Temple, a cocktail for children. Marascas, on the other hand, have a rich cherry flavor that can be appreciated by almost anyone.

(Photo Credit: Hayford Pierce)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Margarita

Nobody knows the exact origin of the margarita, and few cocktails contain as many genesis theories. New Orleans has been proposed. As have Los Angeles, San Diego, Houston and every city in Mexico. Mythology seems to dictate that the libation was invented for a female stage performer. Beyond that, its popularity can probably be attributed to Jose Cuervo’s marketers.

Before we get into making a margarita, let’s clear something up: margaritas do not need to be served in a margarita glass. The margarita glass is the least functional of all the cocktail glasses. A subtle exercise in cultural appropriation, the only function this stemware serves is to resemble a sombrero. They’re hard to drink out of, hard to clean, easy to break, unideal for a rocks cocktail, and the rim is so wide that salting it doubles the number of crystals in the cocktail, making it taste like crap. You don’t need a margarita glass, a rocks glass will do just fine.

Now that your choice of glass is clear, here comes the tricky part: actually making it. As a member of the New Orleans Sour family (credit to mixology historian Gary Regan for the classification), it is inherent that the margarita be sweetened in some way by triple sec. This presents two challenges. The first: most triple sec brands on the market aren’t sweet enough to compensate for the other two dominant flavors in the cocktail: lime juice and tequila. The second and bigger challenge? Triple sec brands are incredibly variable in relative sweetness, orange flavor, and alcohol content. Unlike the no-frills daiquiri, which is nearly impossible to fuck up, even a seasoned bartender can be thrown off making a margarita with an unfamiliar brand of triple sec. Simple syrup will almost always have to be brought in to compensate in some way shape or form. Even if you order a “Cadillac” margarita (one using top-shelf tequila and triple sec), it doesn’t guarantee a tasty cocktail if the proportions are off.

Now for recipe time. Take note, these were the last successful margarita proportions I used. For you, it will be a process of trial and error until you get the knack for your ingredients:

1 3/4 oz favorite tequila (if your favorite is Jose Cuervo, just give up and buy a plastic bottle of Montezuma. It tastes better.)

1 1/4 oz triple sec

1 oz lime juice

1/2 oz simple syrup

Pour all ingredients over ice, shake vigorously and strain into a salted rocks glass. Top off with fresh ice and garnish with a lime wedge.

Another margarita trick that has yet to see widespread adoption, but deserves more attention is the use of salgar. Yes, I’m talking about the 50/50 salt and sugar combination Liz Lemon invented on 30 Rock. Bartenders have actually been using the stuff for years to rim cocktails (rim, lol) because it’s a lot easier to lick than pure salt. To moisten the rim before salting, use the garnish lime to rub a quarter-inch line around the outside of the rim. Try to avoid moistening the inside of the glass or risk doubling your dehydration factor with a salty cocktail.

Finally, a note on cultural appropriation. Chances are, the margarita was probably invented in America, as was the celebration of Cinco de Mayo: a day as important to Mexicans as Flag Day is to Americans. Do we really need to continue the annual tradition of getting drunk on margaritas in Mexican restaurants while eating San Francisco-invented burritos? It’s not really even cultural appropriation anymore, it’s cultural bastardization.

Know what was invented in Mexico? Caesar salads. Look it up.

(Photo Credit: Jon Sullivan)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Daiquiri

Rum is your friend, and rum’s best friend is hands-down the daiquiri. For many drinkers, the word “daiquiri” conjures images of the frozen,  2-for-1, neon-colored concoctions Aunt Bernice downed like mini Slurpees during TGI Friday’s happy hour. “To bring the men closer and keep the sad away,” she would say, haphazardly adjusting her underwire. Oh, Aunt Bernice.

I’m here today to tell you that Aunt Bernice has given the daiquiri a bad rap. What was once the simplest cocktail in the Caribbean has been perverted by American tourists who want their vacation cocktails to be sweeter and more frozen. A real daiquiri only requires 3 ingredients, which are:

2 oz white rum

1 oz simple syrup

1 oz fresh-squeezed lime juice

That’s it. Shake vigorously with ice and single-strain into a coupe or cocktail glass.  [I advise single-straining over double-straining for the daiquiri to prevent the larger ice crystals from being lost. If made properly, a ring of ice crystals should form around the edges of the drink.] Garnish with a lime wedge on the rim, because nothing more greatly signifies alcoholism than not garnishing your cocktails.

The beauty of the daiquiri is its versatility as a base cocktail--perhaps this is why it was so heavily bastardized by frozen variants. The flavors and cocktail elements are basic enough to make it an ideal drink for testing the flavor interactions of new bitters or simple syrup infusions. It’s also the ideal drink for single-gulp alcohol delivery to your bloodstream--they go down very easy.

The origin of the daiquiri is unknown, but its closest ancestor is the swash-buckling classic grog. You may have heard the word “grog” used in pirate movies as a replacement for “beer” but it was actually a mixture of water (sometimes weak beer), lemon or lime juice, unrefined sugar and rum. Basically a room-temperature daiquiri used by 18th century sailors to prevent scurvy. Some things in life can keep you drunk and healthy.

(Photo Credit: Achim Schleuning/Wikimedia Commons)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Martini

Chances are, you've ordered a martini before. You probably had no idea what you were doing at the time—you may have even begrudgingly drank an entire one, unaware during your order that you were paying $12 for what amounts to a glass of cold, diluted gin. The trauma may have even turned you off gin for good. For most drinkers, the first martini is the last, but there is a fraternity of martini drinkers keeping the prohibition era's favorite cocktail alive.

The martini is by far the most complicated classic cocktail to understand. It comes from what mixology historian Gary Regan classifies as the French-Italian school of cocktails (basically any cocktail that contains vermouth). Traditionally, the base spirit is gin, but vodka can be substituted. That being said, nobody will take you seriously for ordering a vodka martini just because you don't like gin. If your goal was to impress someone, especially the bartender, order anything else. If you just adore the flavor of vodka, go ahead.

When ordering, there are two specifications that will help make you look like a pro: your vermouth preference, and your choice of garnish. The most popular preparation is the “dry” martini, prepared with only dry vermouth. You can also order the martini “perfect,” meaning with equal parts sweet and dry vermouth. Finally, the elusive “dirty” martini, which just means “a dry martini with a splash of olive juice.” I know, sounds delicious, right? Well some people like it, anyway—people who really love olives. It isn't unheard of to order a martini with only sweet vermouth, but you might get a funny look.

For garnish, olives are traditional, but you can also order with a “twist” of lemon zest. If you order a dry martini with a cocktail onion instead of an olive, you've ordered a Gibson, and that's somehow an entirely different cocktail altogether. Don't question it, just know you're wrong and move on.

There's no need to specify whether you want your martini “shaken or stirred.” Any trained bartender will stir your martini by default, and some may even fight with you if you ask them to shake it. There's no set rule that says martinis have to be stirred, but it is the standard prep. I know, James Bond seems so much less suave now.

With the improvement of consumer gin over the past century, vermouth has become a less critical component, with some bartenders eschewing it entirely. Instead, the cocktail is now more of a way to highlight the quality of its base spirit. The mix of dilution and chilling provided by martini preparation make the liquor more palatable than it would be straight out of the bottle, highlighting the gin's botanical oils and cutting the alcohol's bite. 

I told you it wouldn't be easy, but if you're still here, you're ready. You know everything you need to know. In fact, you probably don't even need a recipe at this point. Of course, I wouldn't leave you without one. Let's make a martini, perfect:

2 oz premium gin

1/4 oz dry vermouth

1/4 oz sweet vermouth

1 olive, for garnish

Combine liquid ingredients over ice in a mixing glass. Stir with a long bar spoon for 30 seconds or until the resulting liquid could not possibly get any colder. Strain into a martini or rocks glass and garnish with an olive.

So simple, yet so complicated.

(Photo Credit: Hayford Pierce)

[uncocktail]

Cocktailology: The Mojito

As the weather gets warmer, and the fireball shots you’ve been chugging all winter become increasingly more nauseating, it’s time to find a refreshing alternative. Something cheap and cold with an ABV that won’t dehydrate you after one glass.

The obvious choice is beer. It’s cold, it’s low in alcohol, and it’s relatively cheap. However, unless your friends and suitors subscribe to BeerAdvocate, any impressive craft brews you impart on them will probably be imbibed without much consideration for hops and malt. No, you need a refreshment that can be appreciated by a wide audience: not too sweet, not too strong, not too weird. You need a mojito.

Here’s what you’ll need to get started:

2 oz of white rum (go cheap, most white rums taste the same)

about 15 fresh mint leaves, plus a sprig for garnish

1 oz of simple syrup

1 oz of fresh lime juice (bottled juice will taste like poison)

club soda

Before combining anything, muddle your mint leaves in a mixing glass until virtually pulverized.  Next, add your liquid ingredients (except the club soda) and stir until well mixed. Strain into a highball glass filled 3/4 with ice and top with club soda. Garnish with a mint sprig.

Contrary to the rule of thumb that all cocktails with juice should be shaken, the mojito should not be. Because the drink will be heavily diluted with club soda and served on the rocks, it’s perfectly fine to skip shaking.

As a Cuban-American, the mojito holds a very special place in my heart. Just as all Cuban food could be called “peasant food” the mojito could be called a peasant cocktail. The base ingredients themselves are very cheap, but when brought together they create something delicious that feels fancier than it is. It’s the spirit of Cuban cuisine in a glass. ¡Salud!

(Photo: Stephan Braun / Wikimedia Commons)