Autumn Leaves

The Autumn Leaves

• 2 ounces rye whiskey.
• 1/2 ounces orange liqueur
• 2 dashes orange bitters
• 2 dashes black walnut bitters
• 1 bar spoonful maple syrup
• Stir with ice for at least two minutes, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass

I used Jim Beam Rye.  I think as a general rule, if you make a drink with whiskey, you should use one you enjoy, and I enjoy Jim Beam Rye.  But I don't think there's any reason to bust out your Templeton for a drink that has sugary mixers.  Same goes for the orange liqueur.  You could use Cointreau but I just don't think there's any reason for it; I would have used our orange Curaçao but I found Triple Sec first.

The keys to this drink are the bitters, and the real maple syrup.  Real maple syrup is incredible, tastes almost nothing like Mrs. Buttersworth on pancakes, and is really expensive.  So get a small bottle and use it for recipes like this.  Black walnut bitters are also incredible, and impart a nice nuttiness to anything like coffee.  This is the only cocktail I've found that uses black walnut bitters but I'm going to try to find more because this cocktail is fantastic.  It tastes just like fall.  I wonder how it would work with a cinnamon stick garnish.

The New Englander

Probably not all that surprisingly, when I'm traveling I enjoy taking in the local tastes; when we were on Cape Cod last year, I found myself some Moxie, which purports to be an example of an early soft drink.  It's a bit like a cola, but a bit like Dr. Pepper in that it seems to be made with a whole bunch of botanicals and herbs that give it a spicy, bitter character not dissimilar to Jägermeister.

I came home with a two-liter of it, but didn't want to drink it as I don't have a reliable supply.  That is, until my brother and sister-in-law visited her grandma a couple weeks ago in Chatham, and brought me back a half case of the stuff.  Jackpot!  It's time to try a Moxie cocktail!  With that, I present...

The New Englander

• Ice in rocks glass.
• Add 1.5oz. gin (I used Plymouth.  It just seemed the right thing to do.)
• Top with Moxie.
• Float a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce.

I often think that New Englanders and Chicagoans are kindred spirits.  Our propensity to engage in quixotic fan behavior for long-unsuccessful sports teams is one reason. Our mutual distaste for and borderline obsession with New York City is another.  But I think the most important similarity is that we wear our mutual sufferings of some truly terrible winter weather like a badge of honor.  That's this drink.  It's a whirlwind of flavors in a glass that would make a lesser breed cringe.  It's vegetal and sweet, but not enough to overpower the bitterness, which isn't strong enough to counteract the savoriness.  It's a strange drink, for a strange people.  I'm proud to think I'm the right kind of strange.

Plymouth Gin and the Vesper Martini

I have been by no means a connoisseur of martinis, and it's not the gin.  A gin and tonics was my very, very first mixed drink I had ever had, when I had just turned 21 down in Champaign-Urbana and was hanging out with Toby, Richard and Jacqueline, transfer students from the University of Sheffield, England, who accurately (to my limited palate at the time) described a gin and tonic as described as "drinking Christmas".  So I was pretty well used to the unusual juniper quality of gin pretty early in my "career".  I also learned pretty quickly that every gin is a little different, and that, for my taste, I preferred, for instance, Tanqueray to Bombay and the like in a gin and tonic.  The G&T remained my "go-to" cocktail for a number of years, but, to be honest, even despite becoming increasingly interested in expanding my palate for cocktails, the venerable martini never really piqued my interest.

I can't say I'm more or less likely to try more of them now, but having developed a serious taste for vintage cocktails lately, I was delighted when Kelly returned from a trip to Binny's with some St. Germain, Pimm's No. 1, and a bottle of Plymouth Gin.  Having never tried Plymouth, I decided the best way would be to throw myself into the deep end -- mixing it into a martini.  But not just any martini; I also wanted to try my hand at making perhaps one of the most famous martinis, the Vesper.

The Vesper

• To ice in shaker, add
• 3 oz. gin (I used Plymouth Gin),
• 1 oz. vodka (I used Smirnoff 80),
• ½ oz. Lillet Blanc,
• Shake until cold and strain into chilled cocktail glass,
• Express with lemon peel, and garnish.

This is a classic James Bond martini, first ordered by the main character in the Ian Fleming classic Casino Royale but with different, now unattainable ingredients.  You can't get, for instance, real Kina Lillet anymore.  (Kina, derived from the French word for "quinine", I suppose used to be quite substantially bitter than our Lillet Blanc, which is still a concoction of French wines and citrus liqueurs which has made its way into a surprising number of my recipes lately, but which lacks the quinine which might have given Mr. Bond's drink a bit more complexity than mine.)  Gordon's, the brand of gin specified by Mr. Bond, is actually a top shelf distillate in Great Britain but is a much maligned facsimile here, more on par with "rail" gin.  So in order to make a Vesper, one has to be forgiving of oneself, while attempting to pay homage to the spirit of the cocktail. 

And what a cocktail it is.  As my introduction into Plymouth Gin, I am impressed.  It is certainly the cleanest and simplest gin I think I've had, unencumbered as seems to be with a large number of citrus botanicals that seem to be in vogue at present.  It's hard to tell where the gin stops and the vodka begins, it's so smooth.  That's not to say it has no flavor, though; juniper is present, as is a very gentle citrusy character.  When combined with the Lillet and the lemon, the hints of citrus and dryness are peeled back and there's a really subtle but identifiable peppery finish right at the tip of the tongue.  

I don't know if the Vesper converted me to martinis, but I know that Plymouth is going to remain in my stable for a long time.

Adventures in Whiskey Drinks

Saturday, Kelly and I were doing some experimenting in obscure whiskey drinks.  My friend Wyl has recently decided to give whiskey another go, so I wanted to see if a number of distinguishably different  whiskies could be used in ways that would nuance and understate, rather than amplify and highlight, those highly distinguishable profiles.  The results are below:

The Leatherneck

• Ice in shaker,
• 2 oz. blended Canadian whisky (I used Canadian Club),
• ¾ oz. blue Curaçao (I used DeKuyper's),
• ½ oz. freshly squeezed lime juice,
• Shake into chilled cocktail glass,
• Garnish with lime wheel.

The photo doesn't even do this drink justice.  The Leatherneck is a gorgeous teal color, and tasted surprisingly light.  (Probably was the use of blended Canadian whiskey, which I find to be not as complex as American rye whiskeys or even Bourbons.)

The Fred Collins

• Ice in shaker,
• 2 oz. Bourbon whiskey (I used Four Roses "yellow label"),
• ½ oz. simple syrup (I had to make this.  I put about a shots-worth of water in the microwave for two minutes, then added several heaping tablespoons of sugar to the mixture and stirred until it dissolved.  I don't know if this is necessary, to be honest.)
• Juice of one lemon, freshly squeezed, 
• One splash Cointreau
• 6 oz. lemonade (re: the simple syrup above.  See what I mean?)

This recipe made way, way too much for even two drinks, but, once again, for a whiskey drink, it was surprisingly tart and refreshing.  The Bourbon's oakiness shined through, though, lending a complexity to this drink that would have been altogether different, if not lost entirely, if a fruity or citrusy gin (or, goodness forbid, vodka) had been used.

The Scofflaw

• Ice in shaker,
• 1½ oz. rye whiskey (I used Bulleit rye),
• 1 oz. dry vermouth (I used Martini & Rossi Extra Dry Vermouth),
• ¾ oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice,
• ¾ oz. pomegranate grenadine (I didn't have this, so i used Rose's "nuclear red" grenadine.  This may have been a mistake),
• Shake into iced cocktail glass.

A great drink with a great name, I decided to really punch it up to the max with Bulleit, my spiciest rye, but it remained refreshing and tasty without it becoming overpowering.

All in all, before Saturday I thought whiskeys should be constrained to cocktails where their most potent flavor profiles would be on display (old fashioneds, Manhattans, Sazeracs, and the like).  But as these experiments show, whiskeys can stand up on their own in a number of fashions, lending their characteristics in a number of ways that don't need to be on display to be delicious.  I'm impressed.

The Pegu Club

Since my first military history classes in college, I've had an interest in the history of Empire.  I've gotten my bachelor's degree, my master's degree, and about half of a doctorate primarily from studying the history of "High imperialism", that era between the mid-1880s and the early 1940s when Europeans (and to a lesser extent Americans) carved up much of Asia and almost all of Africa to conquer and exploit for themselves.  For the most part, this was rationalized by all forms of technological, cultural, pseudomoral, pseudoscientific, and, when all else failed, militaristic methods.  And, as is often the case throughout human history, it was done without really much consideration as to mitigating the negative effects that this might have on the people who lived in those places. 


While it's not generally thought of as a high water mark in terms of humanity's decency toward other people, I still derive a great deal of pleasure learning about Empire, and one of the biggest reasons for this, I think, is that the forms that European colonial empires took contained many trappings that touch on a number of nerdy interests I have, including transportation infrastructure (like steamships and railroads), flags, maps, architecture, and alcohol.

Alcohol?

Absolutely.  Someday I hope to finish my dissertation or publish a book on the topic, but the importation, production, sale and consumption of booze helped grease the wheels of the Imperial project.  Think about it.  There would be no India Pale Ale without the uniquely colonial set of economic and logistical problems that created it.  Without the need to imbue European settlers with the unpalatably bitter anti-malarial agent quinine, we wouldn't have the Gin and Tonic.  From Orange Curaçao to Singapore Slings, from Imperial Stouts to Cuba Libres, the supplies and demands created in the imperial exchange between colonial periphery and metropolitan center created tastes and spawned libations were a product of a distinctly imperial era.  Some even survived those times -- wars, decolonization and modernism -- to be transported (some more or less unchanged!) to your  neighborhood bar and into your glass.  It's those drinks that help give us an actual taste of that completely different era (but, this time, without all the guns, wars, and domination) that I'm particularly interested in.

Witness the Pegu Club.

The Pegu Club

• Shaker with ice,
• 2 oz. gin (I used Tanqueray Rangpur, whose extra citrus flavor is caused by the introduction of rangpur, a hybrid of oranges and lemons),
• ¾ oz. Grand Marnier (you can also use Cointreau or clear Curaçao, but I find that the complexity of Grand Marnier helps keep this drink from becoming too fruity.  Try it both ways to see how you like it!)
• ¾ oz. freshly squeezed lime juice,
• 2 dashes Angostura bitters,
• Stir until chilled, and strain into pre-chilled cocktail glass,
• Garnish with lemon twist.

Named for a popular nightclub and expatriate officers club in Rangoon, British Burma, during the height of the Raj, the Pegu Club combines familiar and exotic ingredients into one amazingly refreshing cocktail.  Sipping one of these on the patio on a stiflingly hot and humid summer's day, it's not difficult to imagine oneself at the European Club amongst the characters of George Orwell's Burmese Days, set during the zenith of British power in the sub-continent.  Or at least I do.  Without romanticizing imperialism, I think that creating a visceral, sensory experience is an important way to understanding the beliefs, points-of-view, and actions of historical peoples.  Besides just being a delicious and refreshing cocktail, the Pegu Club is a flavorful recreation of a glimpse into a long lost world.

The Chicago Goat, or, Breaking the "Mule"

Malört, the quintessential Chicago spirit, "the taste so good, the Swedes abandoned it forever," is actually the only commercially "available" bäsk brännvin that I know of. Known as much for its intense and, to many, extremely disagreeable flavor, its odd marketing campaign that relishes in this fact, and the cult that has grown up around the marketing, I have a soft spot in my heart for Malört, introduced to it, as I was, at a Swedberg family Christmas party. Since then, I have fully embraced what's been known as the "Pyramid Scheme of Pain," getting others to try it, not so much because I think they will like it, but because I think they will not like it and have a bad reaction.

Fast forward a few years. My friend Brayton has gotten big into Moscow Mules, the concoction made from vodka, lime juice, and ginger beer. At our St. Patrick's Day party, we mix up some "Dublin Donkeys" in the same vein, although instead of with vodka, we use Irish whiskey. They are extraordinary. Similarly, for the Derby we make up some Louisville Mules with bourbon whiskey, and they, too, are wonderful.

So, methinks: how far can you ride on this train of logic? Can any spirit used in a "mule" produce a decent drink? So, the Chicago Goat was born.

The Chicago Goat

• Highball glass with ice,
• 1½ oz. Jeppson's Malört,
• Freshly squeezed juice of one lime,
• Top with ginger beer (I used Bundaberg),
• Stir until chilled,
• Lime wedge garnish.

It's fantastic.  The intense bitterness of the wormwood finally gets a chance to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the sweet spicyness of ginger and a bit more lime than goes into most "mules."  In doing so, I think you get a chance to, perhaps, get past some of the impalatability and explore some of the interesting flavors of Malört, among them, grapefruit and maybe even a touch of rose.  

So, I suppose you really can make a "mule" with any spirit.  Or can you?

Corpse Reviver No. 2

Inspired yet again by another brilliant Rachel Maddow "Cocktail Moment", I decided to try my hand at another vintage cocktail: the Corpse Reviver No. 2.:

Corpse Reviver No. 2

• Cocktail shaker with ice,
• 1½ oz. Gin (I used Tanqueray),
• 1½ oz. Cointreau,
• 1½ oz. Lillet Blanc,
• 1½ oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice,
• 1 dash absinthe (I used Sirene from North Shore Distillery),
• Shake,
• Strain into chilled cocktail glass,
• Twist of lemon.

 

At first blush, I enjoyed it.  It's obviously a "breakfast cocktail" as the flavors are bright, almost cheery, and the hit of alcohol is eye-opening.  However, I found it to be very, almost too, citrusy.  I think next time I would attempt the same with a drier gin, perhaps something along the lines of  North Shore's Distiller's Gin No. 6, or perhaps (gasp!) Bombay Sapphire.  I also wondered what the same drink would taste like with orange juice and an orange twist garnish.

On Maker's Mark

By now, you may have heard that the creators of Maker's Mark have decided to increase the amount of water in their bourbon, in order to stretch supplies in the face of a recent surge in demand for the whiskey.  I caught wind of this development this past weekend, in an e-mail I received because I was a Maker's Mark Ambassador, which is a glorified listserv, but also guaranteed me certain privileges, including my own barrel of Maker's Mark when it came of age.

To say I'm not happy with Maker's Mark's decision is a bit of an understatement.  Here is the letter I sent in response.

Messrs. Samuels:

I once read that every time you make a purchase, you are casting a ballot for the kind of world you wish to live in.  If this is the case, then not buying something has a similar impact.

This decision regarding your up-until-now excellent product deeply saddens me.  While I wish you every success on increasingly the economic viability of your company at the expense of your product, your customers, and your integrity, as for me, I will not associate myself or my money with people who voluntarily seek to profit in this manner.

Please consider this my resignation as a Maker's Mark Ambassador.  I do not want future e-mail or postal updates, and I request that you remove my name from the barrel of bourbon in your possession you have reserved for me.

I will neither be purchasing, nor encouraging others to purchase, Marker's Mark in the future.  I am casting my ballot for the kind of world I want to live in, and that world does not have watered down Maker's Mark in it.

Thank you.

I'm really sad to have had to do this.  In 2009, we traveled the Bourbon Trail, and it was by far my favorite distillery in the cycle.  Maker's Mark, I've heard it described quite accurately, is the Samuel Adams of bourbon.  It's "wheated" -- its wheat content is much higher than other bourbons -- meaning that it lacks the rye spiciness of some others.  But more importantly, it's accessible.  It's competitively priced in the market, and, as bourbons go, it's relatively mild in character on its own, with enough oomph to stand up well in a cocktail.  It's been the gateway for many of us into the world of excellent American whiskey.  As such, it's been my go-to bourbon for several years now, and I was always proud to be able to introduce even non-bourbon drinkers to it.

Not anymore.

Bourbon whiskey is enjoying a huge rise in popularity both in the United States and worldwide.  My guess is that they've chosen an expedient solution to capitalize on this surge in demand, striking while the iron is hot, so to speak.  In part, I think that they've decided that "putting more product on the market" is more important than "increasing the price of the product that's already on the market" because they are planning to charge the same price for the lower quality product.  That expedient decision to increase supply of a lower quality product labeled "Maker's Mark", rather than raising the price of their good product in the face of higher demand, does make a certain amount of sense, financially.

But it's a colossally bad decision from a historical, marketing perspective.  The problem is that Maker's Mark, and craft bourbon, and bourbon generally, and whiskey generally, are not products that respond well to expedience.  Bourbon takes years to make.  It takes quality water, quality grains, quality barrels, and quality weather.  A quality bourbon is the result of craftsmanship, quality ingredients, and, above all, time.   Expedience is anathema to bourbon.  Expedience violates the entire spirit of what bourbon is.  I know these things because of how bourbon is marketed.  Bourbon is made carefully, and enjoyed carefully.  Therefore, expedience contradicts the very marketing that bourbon manufacturers have produced to tell us about it.  And, from that point-of-view, expedience is a slap in the face of the consumer who has, in part, had his ego stroked by references to his sense of style and taste and his attention to detail, matched by the goods he has purchased.

What Maker's Mark tells me by doing this is that all that marketing really was just marketing; that their "incidental" changes are not substantive enough to be noticed by the customers they have courted in the past due to their discriminating nature.  It is a marketing decision, of course.  But what that marketing says is "We aren't going to provide a product that matches our consumers' style, taste, or attention to detail because we don't think you have any.  You have bought whatever we put in a bottle and sealed up with red wax now for years, and we think you'll keep doing it."

Maybe they're right.  Maybe the market won't even notice.

At best, I think this is a ham-handed, ill-thought-through decision to try to capitalize on rapidly changing market trends.  I'm absolutely certain Maker's Mark meant nothing personal by this.  And maybe they really do believe that their testers can't tell the difference between a 90 proof whiskey and an 84 proof one.  And really, that's beside the point.  I can tell the difference between a 90 proof whiskey and an 84 proof whiskey.  I enjoy both.  I can and do enjoy both.  So that's not why I'm upset.  If Maker's Mark was 84 proof from the start, I wouldn't be upset that it wasn't 90.  So I'm not upset that Maker's Mark has decided to sell an 84-proof version of Maker's Mark and call it Maker's Mark, because they may well have done it from the start.  If I just wanted more booze, I would buy Wild Turkey 101.  (Well, I often do, and because I like it, not just that it contains 5.5% more alcohol by volume.)

And this isn't really a question of "who moved my cheese?", either.  I'm not afraid of change.   I'm not necessarily resentful when people decide to alter something that I like because it happens to help them out in some way.  I am a logical person and can think things through.


What I resent is when I get pandered to and patronized and treated like a mindless drone who does whatever I get told to do. And that's exactly what's happened here.  I'm being treated like a fool and a walking wallet, and I won't have it.  There's simply too much product on the market for me to waste my time with people who obviously don't care enough about who I am to want my business.  Accordingly, I will assist with the global supply problem Maker's Mark is experiencing by reducing my demand and consumption of Maker's Mark to zero.

A BLtB Take on the Greyhound

Last night, while I was watching the Hounds Group during the Westminster Kennel Club dog show, I had a sudden hankering for a Greyhound.  Of course, we already have an actual greyhound -- "Xtrem Palazzo", better known around these parts as Nike.  No, this time I wanted a Greyhound, but in typical fashion, I took a traditional recipe, added a bunch of stuff to it, and made it my own.

One will notice similarities between this drink and the Harvey Wallbanger. The Harvey Wallbanger was the first alcoholic drink that I can honestly say I knew anything about.  My extended family has this tradition of going out to eat on a Friday or Saturday around Christmastime, and my uncle always used to get my mom a couple of these.  (Mom is an exceptionally happy drunk!)  Fast forward about fifteen years, and the Harvey Wallbanger became a bit of a staple during our "we're sophisticamacated drinkers! lol!" stage.  So I have had a bottle of Galliano in the house for a while now.

Galliano is a sweet, slightly spicy, and syrupy liqueur.  I never really was creative enough to come up with any other use for it except for Harvey Wallbangers, until this past November.  We were visiting some friends in Boston, and they had a number of advertisements for "absolute greyhounds" all over the "T" stops.  Thinking that a grapefruit juice/vodka drink was analogous to a screwdriver, it didn't take a huge leap to think what was the similar analogue to the Harvey Wallbanger.  Voilà!  Some tinkering back at the house, and this drink was born.  All I think it needs now is an actual name.  (What we came up with at the time, "The Harvey Gangbanger" seems uncouth to me now.)
 

Better Living Through Bitters' Take on the Greyhound

• 2 oz. vodka. I used Smirnoff Black Batch No. 55.  I know next to nothing about vodka, and this is what Kelly had in the bar.
• 3 oz. grapefruit juice.  I suppose this would be better with freshly-squeezed juice.  For expediency's sake, I used some generic "100% juice" from the local grocery store.
• 3 dashes grapefruit bitters.  I use Fee Brothers Grapefruit Bitters.  They are awesome, and really make this drink come together.
• Shake vigorously, with ice, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
• Float a healthy amount of Galliano on top.  Probably about an ounce; enough to make a good circle around the outside of the glass.  I suppose this could be shaken in with the rest of the ingredients, too, but I like the change in density and temperature as you work through the Galliano.

A short note on the point of this 'blog

 I intend to use this weblog to discuss any number of my hobbies -- cocktail recipes, home brewing, locavorianism, wet shaving -- that in my mind have all started to become interrelated.  The name, "Better Living through Bitters", relates to my belief that the ancient, ubiquitous and yet oddly forgotten and ignored cocktail spice is as important to our understanding, appreciation and enjoyment of alcoholic beverages, as are any number of the, shall we say, more traditional mores, that harken back to an earlier, less automated, less consumeristic, and possibly more meaningful era.  My point-of-view on this has changed radically over time, and has been influenced by many of you.  I hope to share and create some new, "more traditional mores", with you in the future.