Splificator

[sound of head exploding] Isn't this the same ThinkingBartender who's always ripping people new ones for relying on "seems to me" rather than what was actually written? Does not compute. You might not think that the lemon peel is an essential part of the Crusta, but judging from the only evidence available nineteenth-century American barkeepers certainly did. I cover this in my book, and my publisher will kill me if I keep giving away what they will be charging for. It is unworthy of you. There are. His name was actually Santini. Final "i" tends to become a schwa in the Southern U.S. (e.g., several early Southern references to the Martini call it the "Martina"). As far as I know, though, Thomas remains the only source for his recipes.

Well then we need to look at what the original recipe called for, rather than stating our own personal preferences. If the original recipe called for a sugared rim, bitters, and lemon juice, then that is what the original recipe is. The other recipes are just someone elses preferences. This analysis of the Crusta should also bring into question (again) the actual amount of input that Jerry Thomas had on his named merchandise (i.e. the book). The Crusta/ Santina connection is always quoted from Thomas' book, is it not? So it would seem only natural, to me at least, to give greater credence to Thomas' recipe, unless Santina's actual recipe is quoted somewhere else. Cheers! George ← I'm confused here. Here's Jerry Thomas: What part of this suggests in any way that the lemon peel isn't part of the drink? There's even an illustration, with the peel right there as in the Motac photo.

This is one of the drinks I "inherited" from Esquire's 1949 Handbook for Hosts, which was compiled from the various "Potables" columns published in the magazine from 1934 to 1948 or so, when they let it peter out. I'm not sure which issue the Dubonnet Cooler originally appeared in, but I'll have a look when I get a chance. Simple and tasty, anyway. In any case, all it is is a version of the Dubonnet Citron, which appears in the first edition of Harry MacElhone's ABC of Cocktails (i.e., either 1919 or 1922, depending on whom you believe), under the heading "Various Continental Beverages."

Ooh, snap! The Alexander had nothing whatever to do with Cato Alexander--creme de cacao was pretty much unknown in the early 1800s, at least in these United States, as were iced cocktails and fancy mixtures of cream, booze and liqueurs. A quick whip through the professional literature fails to disclose any trace of the drink before the 1910s, at which point we are presented with not one but two Alexanders (generally a sign that the drink's name is derived from something floating around in the cultural atmosphere; cf the three different Aviations circulating at the same time, or the Shaved Brittneys you can no doubt order in any college bar). In this case, I strongly suspect theat Mr. Myers has it right and it was named after the leader of the bestest band what am. As for the origins, etc. I checked four up-to-date books from the 1910s, two from San Francisco and two from New York. The drink is not found in those by San Franciscans Bill Boothby and Ernest P. Rawling. An Alexander that's 3/4 rye and 1/4 Benedictine, with an orange twist, turns up in Jacques Straub (I'd call that a Frisco, myself). Hugo Ensslin's 1915 Recipes for Mixed Drinks offers the following: "Alexander Cocktail 1/3 El Bart gin [a sponsor--DW] 1/3 Creme de Cocoa 1/3 Sweet Cream Shake well in a mixing glass with cracked ice, strain and serve." So. A New York drink of the 1910s? That's the way the evidence points, anyway (it's indicative that Harry MacElhone, who worked at the Plaza before the war, includes it in the first edition of his ABCs. As for the Panama. I don't have time to dig into it now, but originally it was a mixture of whiskey or brandy and quinine (as taken by the canal diggers) or a plain Whiskey Cocktail with a dash of tabasco (I once served these at an event to go along with a plate of chef Zak Pelaccio's awesome Pork Belly Fries; rock & roll). I don't recall if the Panama with brandy, cream and creme de cacao turns up before Prohibition; I'll look into it when I get a chance.

Andy-- This one is definitely about fine-tuning the brands. Sometimes when I make it it's ambrosial, other times not so much. It's definitely an odd one. I've had good luck with the WT rye and Coruba rum. I think the secret is to go for a lush, rather sweet rum. Come to think of it, I've got some Zacapa Centenario 23 in stock right now, and I think that might just work. If you do fine tune it, I'm curious to hear your results. And I'm glad to see people playing around with the old Metropole. A very sophisticated drink, IMHO, yet so simple. I'll have to try one with Hotaling's.

I've been wanting to try this. How much piloncillo to how much water do you use? ← This question slipped by me. But if it's not too late, for syrup, I usually use a one-pound block of piloncillo and a cup of water. If I'm using it to sweeten up a bowl of Punch, I'll double the water, which makes it a bit easier to melt, and subtract that extra cup from the total water in the recipe.

These were mostly drinks of local popularity--i.e., not available in every American Bar in creation, but popular in a certain city at a certain time. The Journalist, the Old Pal and the Rose were Paris drinks from the '20s; the Rose in particular was quite popular. The Metrople--one of my favorite drinks--was a New York drink of the 1890s and 1900s, house cocktail at a popular sporting hotel of that name. The Widow's Kiss was a George Kappeler drink, and appears to have been popular at his bar. The Straits Sling is simply an alternate name for the Singapore Sling (Singapore being the former Straits Colony). Etc. etc. Out of curiosity, where pray tell are you going with this? I'm always very suspicious of this kind of classic-policing. If we restrict "classic" status to the narrowest handful of poems, drinks, whatever; to the towering figures who come along once a generation; we both misrepresent the period we're supposedly validating and impoverish our own culture as well. This kind of classifying always contains a value judgment, and that judgment, often based on ignorance, has real consequences. In Late Antiquity, the monks in their scriptoria applied this kind of reasoning to their literary heritage, deeming Vergil and Ovid classic but not Catullus or Lucretius (both difficult to understand and less famous). As a result, we are very lucky indeed to have a tiny handful of corrupt manuscripts of the latter, while hundreds of copies of the Aeneid and the Metamorphoses survive. Not to mention the dozens and dozens of second- and third-tier authors whose works only survive in fragments quoted by grammarians. In other words, I tend to favor a much more generous approach to the canon, be it of poems or cocktails. Edited to add a mis-

Ok, I'll play. Here are a couple of recentish creations with whiskey (rye, natch, although both will work fine with a bonded bourbon), both pretty antique in their conception. D-40 Cocktail [Created for a friend's fortieth birthday; he's a New Yorker and I tried to use old-school New York ingredients.] Stir well with cracked ice: 1 1/2 oz bonded rye whiskey 1 1/2 oz Madeira (Malmsey) 2 dashes orange bitters Strain into chilled cocktail glass and twist thin-cut swatch of orange peel over the top. Old Mount Vernon Created for the Mount Vernon Hotel Museum, which used to be a coaching hotel in the country and is now a house in the far reaches of East 61st Street. This one is based on the individual Punches in Jerry Thomas' book crossed with a favorite old Julep recipe, which uses cognac as the base and rye as an accent.) Shake well with cracked ice: 1 1/2 oz VSOP-grade cognac 1/2 oz bonded rye whiskey 1/2 oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice scant 1/2 oz (2 to 2 1/2 teaspoons) raspberry syrup Strain into chilled cocktail glass nad grate nutemg over the top. Then smile.

Oh goodness me yes!

This is a charming story, but alas it is most unlikely that it has the added advantage of being true. I'll save specifics for my book, but it should be noted that nowhere did Thomas actually claim to have invented the drink, while others did claim it with some degree of plausibility. As for execution: there is no need to preheat the whisky. That's certainly something that would not have been possible in an old time saloon. The best way I've found to make this drink work is to pour the boiling water into the mug, briefly stir in the sugar, and then carefully pour the whiskey in on top, in effect layering it (and yes, a cask-strength single malt is very useful here). The water volatizes the whisky, and then it should light. When pouring, also never pour more than half a mug at a time. This keeps the flames going. I wish I could post film here....

Do what they did on the frontier: use sour beer, or vinegar--or just drink whusky.

It's not entirely over, since I just finished writing up the White Lady for the. But I'm not entirely sure what format it's going to be in from here forward, or if it will be available on newsstands. And thanks for the kind words--much appreciated!

A quick note--Rhys Thomas was an opera singer (you there, Sam?), and very unlikely to have invented the drink he "introduced." Agree though that the grenadine was an American innovation--it was the hip ingredient of the late 1900s and early 1910s, and went into everything (e.g., the Jack Rose, the September Morn--a grenadine Daiquiri with egg white--and a whole host of other even more forgotten drinks). What is it about pomegranates? Every hundred years... Edited to correct unidoimatic capitalization.

Thanks, Sam! And to think that all that brainpower could have been lost to mixology. I always use cracked ice, BTW, FWIW and any other initials that apply.

No, it is not about the cold gin rather than the actual cocktail. Be nice, George--who knows, you might enjoy it. I've only been storing a mixing glass in the freezer for a few weeks, mostly because I found myself with an extra one and, like Johnder, I had some space there (and nowhere else in the kitchen, especially once I broke down and bought the huge Ra Chand juicer). But I haven't noticed a conspicuous lack of dilution in the drinks made with the cold glass, and I've made a good sampling of sours, vermouth drinks and old-style Cocktails with it and they seem to have come out properly balanced, to my palate anyway. Then again, when it comes to drinks I do rather like them the way Bertie Wooster does: "stiffish, Jeeves, stiffish." Then look harder.

I like my Martinis very cold. If that's pompous, then I'm pompous. But I still like a cold, cold Martini. Edited after much visualizing of fluffy kittens.

Alternatively, you can get new friends.

I kinda figured that out about the layering. But what adult non-bartender needs to know how to layer a pousse cafe? Really, now. As for the Martini and nonsense...again, really now. Nobody with a brain ever said making a good Martini required special manual skills. It simply requires judgment, something that seems sorely lacking around here from time to time. And yes, there are dozens, even hundreds of gin-and-vermouth mixtures found in old cocktail books. But they were all variations on the Martini, records of how one particular customer or bartender liked his. Back then, when they monkeyed with drinks, they had the good grace to change the name so that the innocent or unwary would not be lured by a familiar name into ordering something unsavory. (Shakes head. Removes mixing glass from freezer. Fills it with gin and vermouth in just proportion and dashes in orange bitters. Cracks ice, adds it to glass and stirs using circular motion of the wrist. Removes cocktail glass from freezer, strains liquid into in, cuts twist of lemon peel, twists it over drink and signs off eGullet.)

The Willard of the City Hotel and the Willard of the Willard Hotel were two different people, although some sources say that they were related. The name of the book is "Imbibe!" (like the magazine, but with a lengthy subtitle) and it's due in the fall. All will be revealed then. Ok, maybe not all, but as much as I've been able to squeeze between the covers of a book. Plus recipes.

B-52. ................ I may be in the minority, but I'd suggest ignoring Martinis. ← Wow--this is like the English Lit survey that dumps Shakespeare (who can read all those hard words?) and includes Jacqueline Susann. Fun, anyway.

Leo Engel copied Jerry Thomas, and shamelessly. He no doubt got Thomas' book when he was tending bar at the Ridgewood Shades in Brooklyn. He moved to London in the 1870s.

Along with Cato Alexander, Mr. Willard--aka "the Napoleon of the Bar" was America's first celebrity bartender. He's featured prominently in my forthcoming book, so I won't say more. But he rocked.

Yes.

I've been bothering the folks at Beam--from the president of the company on down--about this for at least five years, and have gotten precisely nowhere with them. As Sam says, all they'd have to do is age the Overholt a little longer and bottle it at a higher proof and they'd instantly lead the market. The people I've talked to realize this. But still nothing. Ironically, Overholt has an excellent claim to be the oldest continually-maintained brand of whiskey in America, and is approaching its 200th anniversary. Maybe we'll see something then. But I doubt it.

Here's the thing. There are two ways of parsing "Sazerac Cocktail." One, it's a Cocktail made with Sazerac de Forge-brand cognac (this is how it appears in the 1908 version of Boothby's World Drinks, the earliest actual recipe I've found for it). Since Thomas doesn't brand his drinks, there'd be no reason to make special room for such a thing. Two, it's a Cocktail as made at the Sazerac House. When Thomas was in New Orleans, in the mid-1850s, the Sazerac House was anything but an institution--it was simply one of the many bars there, and by no means the most famous one (that one was probably the one at the St. Charles Hotel, and you'll not that there is a St. Charles Punch in his book). The Sazerac Cocktail didn't become a phenomenon or institution until 1900 or thereabouts, a good fifteen years after Thomas' death, at which point everybody outside of New Orleans had switched to Manhattans, Martinis and Bronxes, and a whiskey Cocktail with a dash of absinthe was something of a novelty.