Splificator

Well, there's your problem, right there.

In the 19th century, when labor was cheap and the sap ran high, they used to make a good deal of maple rum in upstate New York, New Hampshire and Vermont. I assume it was based on sap that was to some degree concentrated before fermenting. I'm planning an experiment one of these days and will report.

Gin. Vermouth.

I'd be very curious to see the results of that experiment. I definitely notice fluctuations in acidity, with the older, more tired limes having more, I believe, but nothing consistent or qualifiable. In general, with fresh-ish limes, I havent had enough fluctuation to experience real problems, but then again I've got a pretty good tolerance for tartness.

Absolutely. I find that by dint of constant repetition I've learned to eyeball it in the glass; since the lime goes in first, if it looks significantly over or under the half-ounce average for a half lime I can tweak the sugar to match. I think it's worth putting up with the variation since (for me, anyway) that rustic romance is an important part of the drink; its flair. For vast crowds, however, I'll juice in advance and use a standard half ounce of lime juice. It just doesn't look (or feel) the same, though.

More on the question of proof. That "n.e. 42 [degrees] proof spirit" in the ad I scanned has been troubling, because all of the uses for it in the ad suggest something of a lower proof than a standard spirit. Now I find upon investigation that, at the time, in Britain wines were defined for taxation purposes as being between 30 and 42 degrees proof spirit, so those degrees would have to be percentage points of proof (which was 50% by volume), rather than actual degrees of alcohol, and--more importantly--Hercules would in point of fact be a low-proof aperitif, rather than a high-proof digestif (I stand corrected). Complicated stuff, this.

For the record (from Harry's ABC of Mixing Cocktails, ca. 1928):

It's definitely different, and I don't really know why. It could be, as Sam says, a measuring thing, although I don't think so--I always just squeeze the lime into the shaker and stir the half-teaspoon of sugar into it, so there's rarely a precise sugar-lime juice ratio (what with the variation in limes). It could also be a dilution thing, with the syrup adding a little more water. But shake a little more or a little less or use slightly different ice and you'll have a similar variation in the amount of dilution. Although I suppose if you use a full half-ounce of 1:1 (or more) and then factor in the variations in dilution from the ice, you have the possibility of getting a significantly more watery drink. If only we could pull a team of crack lab researchers off of whatever trivial disiease they're trying to cure and point them at something really important....

I wish I had written that. Well said.

I had the same revelation, a while back. One of the very best drinks known to mankind. I generally use the proportions Bacardi was pushing back in the 1930s: 1/2 teaspoon superfine sugar, dissolved in the juice of 1/2 lime (generally 1/2 oz), then 2 oz of rum. Ambrosial.

It's really a feedback loop, isn't it. Of course, anything that can be done to increase the energy of the equation....

Actually, Boston is good for cocktails, in the same way as New York and San Francisco are: at most places, they suck, but know where to go and you'll get a drink as good as any poured on earth. And the number of places to go is increasing every year, as bartenders, managers, owners and customers catch the fever.

This would actually be British (Sykes) proof, which was generally expressed as degrees under (or over) 50, not 100. This makes it a high-proof aperitif spirit (42% abw = roughly 50% abv).

What's an OJT-type bartender? ← OJT = "On the Job Training"

I think it's there because the drink is so seriously out of balance if you cut the vermouth back to a vestigial amount that it's needed to make it palatable--or rather, "palatable." It serves as the sugar in an old-fashioned cocktail--a smoothing agent. Given the same 5- or 6- (or 10-) 1 Mixture of Maker's and red vermouth, one with maraschino juice and one without, I think most casual drinkers will percieve the cherry juice one as smoother. That still doesn't make it right, though, does it?

Actually, I've found that they do flunk it distressingly often. A great many of the OJT-type bartenders I encounter (outside of New York, anyway) construct it on the analogy of the Martini, wherein the vermouth is some sort of toxic waste whose role is to be minimized, while its smoothing function is assumed by the wholesome and pure maraschino cherry juice. Jesus wept.

If I may quote from myself, as I said in Esquire Drinks, "If the bartender can’t make a decent Manhattan, that 'house special' will probably suck, too." The Manhattan has always been my test drink, unless circumstances suggest something more appropriate.

Why in God's name would you want to do that, Sam? Be a sport and have some folks over! If you absolutely must, here's a recipe for Mississippi Punch (predating Jerry Thomas's by a couple of years) that calls for Batavia arrack; it's damned tasty, IMHO. Shake well with plenty of cracked ice: 2 oz cognac (VSOP or better) 1 oz dark Jamaican-style rum (I like Coruba in this) 1/2 oz Batavia arrack (the van Oosten works wonderfully well) juice of 1/2 lemon 1/2 oz rich simple syrup Pour unstrained into tall glass, garnish with half-wheel of orange and a few raspberries or whatever else is in season. Approach with straw and have at it.

First off, thanks to all for your support and curiosity about this beast. Here's a general idea of what the book contains: -A life of Jerry Thomas, with lots of never-before revealed incidents, interviews, etc. -A brief history of American bartending. -100+ drinks, divided into families and each with the original, unadapted recipe supplemented with historical and mixological notes as full as I could get away with. -A plethora of miscellaneous anecdotes, digressions, queries, thumbnail sketches and whatnot. -A section of drinks inspired by the Professor from many of the guiding lights of modern mixology. Here's what it doesn't contain: -The 35,000-word section I wrote on punchbowl drinks. Not only did this make the book unpublishably long, but it turns out that most of these were pinched from other books, not from Thomas's own experience and travels. I'm working on turning them into a book on their own. -Where to get pine splints (sorry, b.a.) -Pousse Cafes

I've had no problem getting the sky blue tint with the Monin creme de violette (unfortunately not imported here), but the R & W doesn't produce it unless used in prohibitive quantities. That said, it's a more natural-tasting product, and less sweet. You pays your money....

First of all, my caption to that picture should read 1889, not 1899; by 1901, Curacao Marnier was calling itself Grand Marnier (perhaps as a result of winning all those medals). And yeah, this pretty much proves that Grand Marnier is to orange curacao as Cointreau is to white or triple-sec curacao. As for the teminology. Unfortunately, the history of curacao is a sort of third rail for the would-be drink historian; I've found it so, anyway--as soon as you think you've got something figured out, something else comes up to prove you wrong. Case in point, that extract from Duplais. This could very well explain the "triple orange" in the poster. But then there's this, from Artaud de Montor's 1837 Encyclopédie des gens du monde & c.: A rough translation: So--a "triple" curacao is one that has been distilled three times, with a fresh batch of orange peel used in each distillation. All well and good, but by the time Curacao Marnier and Cointreau were on the market, pot-still distillation (a batch process) was being replaced by the continuous column-still process, which makes those three separate distillations obsolete. Then again, as far as I can tell these terms weren't regulated, so it could be mere empty verbiage, stating in effect merely that it's a high-quality product with a concentrated orange flavor. But I'm not sure what to make of the passage from Duplais, or how Grand Marnier's cognac base figures into things. P.S. I think this last factor explains the two MB products: most curacaos use a neutral spirit base, not a brandy base like the GM Cordon Rouge (indeed, there used to be--and maybe still is--a cheaper, neutral spirit-based Grand Marnier, the "Cordon Jaune," or Yellow Ribbon). Thus two grades of orange curacao, with an MB for each.

Something to toss into the debate about curacaos on page one of this thread. This advertisement, from 1899 or very soon thereafter, is one of the many interesting ads found nestleed among all the wack drinks contained in the 1985 Larousse Book of Cocktails.

The Casino Cocktail is as far as I know a New York drink of the 1890s-1900s, almost certainly named after the famous Casino theater, on Broadway and (if I recall correctly) 36th St. The Casino had a well-regarded bar and a roof garden, so the drink may have been the house cocktail there. This drink is one of the many that Craddock cribbed from Hugo Ensslin's 1916 Recipes for Mixed Drinks (another being the Aviation, although minus the creme de violette). Ensslin's formula is identical. I seem to recall an earlier appearance of the drink than in Ensslin's book; I'll have a look when I get a chance.

Two things to bear in mind, based on a close (ok, not all that unusually close, come to think of it) reading of the Fleming text. 1) Bond is ordering this drink not in London, but on the Continent. So what's a measure? The barman may have used an Imperial British standard 1/6 gill, or he may not. 2) Bond says that he likes his drink "large and very strong." this explains the choice of a (5 or 6-oz) champagne goblet, rather than the standard (small) cocktail glass. In other words, while I don't know the exact measure Bond was calling for, I don't think a 3 oz drink would cut it. Even if you factor in the fact that that gill would be an Imperial gill, or 5 oz, rather than the 4 oz Mr. Kinsey assumes, it still doesn't really cut it as a"large" drink.

These are all questions worthy of more detailed treatment than an off-the-cuff board post, but faute de mieux here's how I understand it: Mixing social drinks was part of a certain sporting kind of gentleman's accomplishments from the late 1600s to the mid 1900s. A gent was expected to be able to mix a bowl of Punch, a hot Toddy, even (in America) a simple Cocktail (spirits, sugar and bitters were kept on the sideboard). In fact, the first edition of Jerry Thomas's book was aimed at just such a constituency: bon vivants, amateurs who liked the good things in life and wouldn't trust a servant to concoct them. The mid-Victorian years saw Punch lose its cachet and bartending become professionalized. By the late 1860s, drink books are becoming more oriented towards the trade and less toward the amateur; the 1876 and, especially, the 1887 editions of Thomas's book are aimed at professional bartenders, not amateurs. A couple of generations later, though, home mixing was back: the first decade of the 20th century saw a bunch of home mixing guides published, and newspapers start advertising mixing gear as gift items. Whereas the earlier generations focused on Punch (Dickens, e.g., was famous for his mastery of the Punch-brewing ceremony), now the Cocktail was what everyone focused on. I don't have a ready exlanation for the two-generation gap or the shift in focus; it's just something I've noticed in poking around. Citizens could always buy booze for home tippling, just not necessarily factory-sealed bottles of it. There were elaborate liquor stores in 1840s new York and Gold-Rush California. But the truly modern liquor store was a creation of the 1890s-1900s. Advertising, standard brands of liquor, fancy bottles of imported this and that, the whole nine yards. And the tavern became the bar in the first one or two decades of the ninettenth century. it was an American thing. We were busy and liked a drink, as quick as possible.