Splificator

Very good point. As far as I can tell from poking around in various old French drink books and books on Paris nightlife (Bruce Reynolds' 1927 "Paris with the Lid Lifted" is a classic--a whole book devoted to teaching the American how to misbehave in Paris), the answer has to be a nice, fat "yes and no." Many of the Paris bartenders were American or had American experience: for example, both Harry MacElhone of Harry's Bar and Frank Meier of the Ritz Bar had worked behind the stick here in New York, MacElhone at the Plaza and Meier at the Hoffman House (a true temple of mixology that was torn down in 1915). Many of their drinks are American in conception--lots of Martini variations, etc. And I would agree that the divine Sidecar, although it uses French ingredients (cognac and Cointreau), is sufficiently close to two popular American drinks, the Brandy Crusta and the Brandy Daisy, to render its Francitude (is that a word? I hope not) suspect. But the Vermouth Cassis is entirely French, and I have to consider the Rose to be so as well: it was invented, according to both MacElhone and Meier, by one "Johnny" Mitta, bartender at the Chatham Hotel (across the street from Harry's Bar), and it uses ingredients that are wholly French, in proportions--twice as much vermouth as booze--which are wholly un-American; unlike cognac, kirschwasser rarely turns up in pre-Prohibition American bar manuals (or post-Prohibition ones, for that matter). At a certain point, the American techniques became naturalized in Paris. There had been so-called "American Bars" there since the 1850s, and bartender's guides written in French by Frenchmen since the 1890s (Louis Fouquet, of Fouquet's, wrote the first one; it's terrible), so they had plenty of time to let the techniques and philosophy sink in. So yes, I think some of these drinks are truly French, and they make a nice change of pace. As for kirschwasser: it's an eau de vie, so it's dry and clear; the brand I like to use is the Alsatian Trimbach, which is fairly cheap (under $30), well-distributed and quite well made. The French 75 is rather an open question--with Cognac and no lemon juice or sugar, it's a French drink, although I don't think they called it that (officers used to drink it before going over the top in WWI). With gin, lemon juice and sugar (basically, a Tom Collins with champagne instead of soda water), it seems unlikely that it was originally French. Off the top of my head, I think it first shows up in the 1930 Savoy Cocktail Book, which is English. But the French cannon after which it was named wasn't used by the English in WWI and was used by the Americans, so I'd bet there's a Yank in the works somewhere.

There are actually lots of French cocktails, if you go back a bit to the Art Deco years. Unfortunately, that means securing long out-of-print French cocktail books, something not nearly as easy as it used to be. Among the better drinks are the Vermouth Cassis, aka the "Pompier," which used to be quite popular and isn't half bad, although not something to spring on a bourbon drinker without fair warning: In a highball glass, combine: 1/2 oz creme de cassis (=blackcurrant liqueur; this has gotta be among those "weird liqueurs") 3 oz French (=dry) vermouth ice Top off with chilled club soda and stir. This is an excellent hot-weather drink, light and refreshing. Another one is the Rose, which Beans was kind enough to post the other day; it was a very popular drink in Paris in the '20s, but has since been forgotten: Stir well with cracked ice: 2 oz French vermouth (Noilly Prat) 1 oz kirschwasser (use something imported; it makes a big difference) 1 teaspoon raspberry syrup or (if you're in France) sirop de groseille Strain into chilled cocktail glass and garnish with a rose petal (okay, that's not how they used to make them, but it sure looks nice). This is a very tasty drink, light and delicate but at the same time complex enough to give the tastebuds a little tickle. (5 Ninth, the new NY restaurant for whom I drew up the drinks list, will be serving these as soon as it's open--any day now!) There are plenty of others, including a pretty good rum drink involving Martinique rum and Pineau des Charentes (another odd French tipple, made from unfermented wine and raw cognac which are aged together). In general, the French formulae aren't as hard-hitting as the things Anglo-Saxons tend to come up with.

Nothing like the old Kiev's kielbasa and eggs after a long night of absorbing the Holiday's watered-down drinks or cheap beer at the Blue and Gold. Leshko's on Avenue A was another reliable source of early-morning grease, if perhaps somewhat less sanitary than the Kiev.

Funny how, except for Maxims's, all of these fall into the cheap eats category. Is it just because we were younger and poorer when they were around, or is there something about cheap ethnic restaurants per se (insert pun here) which makes them special? Yet come to think of it, I miss the old Lutece, too, and that wasn't cheap. It was homey, though.

Yes, yes, yes. A totally unpretentious, neighborhoody place that wasn't (overly, anyway) clannish or hostile and cared about real food. That was one of the first places in town to get real italian mortadella when it became legal to import it.

Great topic--it's always pleasant to wallow for a bit in the lower depths of nostalgia. My elegy: The Petite Soochow at the foot of East Broadway, which had the best scallion pancakes and the saltiest waiters...Moishe's, on Bowery, for their soups (and Ratner's, agreed)...the Czech restaurants in Yorkville, for roast goose and dumplings when the weather turned cold...and a whole lot of bars--The Park Inn, on Thompson Square; McBell's, on 6th Ave; O'Donnell's, on 3rd Ave; the joint on Bowery whose name I can't recall that kept its bartenders behind armored glass; the old Shark Bar, in Little Italy...

Um...I'm afraid that should be 1896. But why ruin a good story....

Great article--particularly the stuff about the author's dad and shaking the bowling-alley Manhattan. It does, however, bring up a pet peeve (as did R. W. Apple's NY Times rye article a few weeks back) when it repeats the story of the Manhattan being invented for a dinner at the Manhattan Club hosted by Jennie Jerome to celebrate Samuel Tilden's election etc. etc. About 5 minutes of half-assed googling will uncover the fact that Tilden was elected in November, 1874, when La Jerome was in England, giving birth to Winston Churchill. (In fact, the banquet was held on the day Winston was christened; Jenny Jerome's only connection with the Manhattan club was the fact that the club later moved into a mansion which had once belonged to her father). This kind of thing comes up in drink articles with numbing regularity, even ones by otherwise excellent writers such as Apple. It's as if they view the very act of writing about a cocktail as exempting them from their usual standards of research and accuracy. After all, it's just a cocktail.

I know that this is heresy and I fully expect to be buried under a large pile of rocks, but has anyone tried a Julep with brandy instead of bourbon? Folks in the South were making them like that even before there was such a thing as bourbon, and I have to say, it's really not bad. It helps to use a decent cognac, and--to add to the heresy--tip a tablespoon or so of dark Jamaican-style rum on top. I wouldn't try it that way at the Derby, though.

That's exactly how I usually take my martinis, but I like the sweet vermouth ones too, sometimes quite a bit. The secret, I think, is not to call it a Martini--call it a Bradford (with a dash of orange bitters and a lemon twist) or a Brighton (same, but no twist), a Chanler (twist, no bitters) or a Hearst (no twist, but orange bitters again and a dash of Angostura)* or anything you want but "Martini" and it'll somehow mysteriously taste better--in my experience, anyway. Once I get that image of a crystalline, icy-cold "see-through" out of my head, one of these stops seeming like a Martini that's made a wrong turn somewhere and appears as a cocktail in its own right. Maybe I just like fooling myself. *These are all from the Old Waldorf-Astoria, pre-Prohibition. Also wonderful is the old San Martin (aka Sand Martin, wrongly), which is simply two parts gin to one part sweet vermouth, with a dash of yellow--not green--Chartreuse.

In one of those "oh damn I'm out of everything" moments last year I was driven to match Lillet and Irish whiskey, to extremely pleasant effect. The drink, which I call the "Weeski" (that's French for "whiskey," sez me), is assembled as follows: Stir well with cracked ice: 2 oz Irish whiskey (I like Jameson's 12 or John Powers for this) 1 oz Lillet blanc 1 teaspoon Cointreau 2 dashes Fee's orange bitters Strain into chilled cocktail glass and twist patch of thin-cut lemon peel over the top, which you may then drop in or discard as the spirit moves you. I find the subtlety of Lillet tends to get drowned out by strong flavors, as does that of Irish whiskey; here, they complement each other.

I must confess to the same irritation the estimable JAZ had with the x-tini. I can't help but see a certain parallel with how "sports fan" has come to mean somebody who primarily watches others engage in strenuous excercise on television. It's a case of glamour by association--at least, that's how it was at first. Nowadays, I don't think somebody ordering a lightly-alcoholic beverage mixed to taste like a cold, wet toll-house cookie, wedged into a v-shaped glass and garnished with chocolate syrup and crumbs of this and that makes any mental connection with ol' Nick and Nora. In other words, it's a lost battle, and I, too, am trying to get over it--although I'm still not going to say "th' hell with it" and call whatever new formulae I throw together Martinis. If somebody else does it, fine. And Huntington? Definitely Huntington.

Mmmmmm...Hot Scotches.... And yeah, great story--like so many of his. O. Henry oughta be on the $5 bill. So sez me, anyway.

If not there, then where? Locust Valley, I suppose, and Greenwich; maybe Pound Ridge, Pelham, Mamaroneck...

That's funny--that was my first cocktail book, too, only mine was the cheap Pocket Books version, revised by James Beard, and the year was around 1980. I've still got it, somewhere, dog-ears, ring-stains and all.

Yeah, it's "Memoirs of a Yellow Dog," but I couldn't remember off the top of my head what actually transpires in that saloon that the "son of a door mat/seltzer lemonade" drags his master into...and a Gin Fizz happened to be high in my thoughts. Sic semper. "The Moses Causeway"--there's a romantic name from the old days. I was on the North Shore, on the peninsula fka "Cow's Neck." The local high school had to be one of the few places in America where you could find kids mixing gin Martinis and G & Ts without intending to be ironic about it (drinking age was 18, then).

As long as there's a Gin Fizz at the end of that monicker it suits me fine. We called it "Port." Others, well.... Ask LibationGoddess; she knows it all too well. And you?

Not last time I checked, although I've been known to bite at a seltzer lemonade. And Doc--while bitters in a Martini are a fine thing--particularly orange ones--I cannot help but regard them as a hindrance in its achievement of the Platonic ideal. When I was a youth, on Long Island in the 1970s, the grey-maned, suit-bearing advertising men--commuters to a man--who were the dominant species in my town would have become positively thrombotic at the thought of sullying their "see-throughs" with bitters, and I'm afraid their living influence must trump anything I've read in an old book.

Thanks folks for the warm welcome--much appreciated! I'm with Doc and Gary on this one: as much as it galls me to see a dessert-in-a-glass walking around calling itself a Martini, that's the way language goes. In the early 1600s, "Punch" meant arrack, lime or lemon juice, sugar, water and spices. Period. In the early 1800s, "Cocktail" meant liquor, sugar, water and bitters. Period. I've got no problem calling something with brandy, rum, maraschino, lemon juice, orange juice, sugar, water and champagne a Punch, and something with brandy, lemon juice and Cointreau a Cocktail, so I figure my right to complain about the misapplication of "Martini" is pretty much forfeit--taking the long view, anyway. (Secretly: a Martini is gin and vermouth, period. Everybody knows that deep down.) And while I too have heard (on Drinkboy, I believe) that some bartenders "in Europe" will respond appropriately to the order of a "Kangaroo," it's one of those things that must be confirmed by ocular evidence--in other words, "show me." --Dave "Splificator" Wondrich

If you'll pardon a passing stranger for butting in, a Martini made with vodka is, or at least was for a time, known as a "Kangaroo." Not that any bartender on earth will recognize such an order. The Esquire Drinks Database