File this one in the “Annoying Name, Excellent Drink” category.

When I encountered this cocktail in various bartending guides, I usually breezed right past it, put off by its back-slapping, overly familiar name, attached to the drink no doubt to serve as a flippant flag to the unwitting drinker that the Bobby Burns is a Scotch-containing concoction. (Why the hell they gotta do that? Scotch has the Rob Roy, the Glasgow, the Highland, the Thistle and the Bobby Burns, and Irish whiskey has the Emerald, the Blarney Stone, the Shamrock, the Tipperary and the Paddy Cocktail, among others–annoying trend, in my humble opinion). But once I got past the name, I discovered the Bobby Burns is a truly excellent cocktail.

Origins are hazy, but in his Joy of Mixology, Gary Regan says Old Waldorf Bar Days, by Albert Stevens Crockett, strongly suggests the drink originated in that venerable establishment. But I have my doubts–Crockett’s book was published in 1931, and features not a Bobby Burns but a Robert Burns, which has a similar base of Scotch and Italian vermouth (basically a Rob Roy), but then completes the drink with a dash each of absinthe and orange bitters. But just a year previous, Harry Craddock’s The Savoy Cocktail Book printed a recipe more familiar to contemporary guides, with the Scotch and Italian vermouth base, but finished with dashes of Benedictine. “One of the very best Whisky cocktails,” Craddock wrote, “a very fast mover on St. Andrew’s Day.”

Though Craddock’s recipe has changed over time–he called for equal parts whisky and vermouth, whereas recent recipes typically list around a 2:1 ratio–the Bobby Burns is still distinguished by its finishing touch: 2 dashes of Benedictine.

Well, usually.

In The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks, David Embury lists two variations for the Bobby Burns, one with Benedictine, and the other–Embury’s preferred variation–with Drambuie. (Embury was also working with a recipe that called for a dash of angostura–but says an interesting variation may be obtained by substituting Peychaud’s for angostura, as Peychaud’s tends to marry better with Scotch.)

Having tried the cocktail both ways, I come down on Embury’s side–Drambuie makes a smoother drink, though the Benedictine version is no slouch. Whichever way you choose to try it–and you should try both, to see which you prefer–the Bobby Burns is worth a shot. Just summon up your nerve to get past the name, and go for it.

Bobby Burns

• 2 ounces blended Scotch whisky
• 1 ounce Italian vermouth
• 1 dash Angostura bitters (or if you have Peychaud’s on hand, give that a spin)
• 2 dashes Drambuie OR Benedictine

Stir with ice and strain into a cocktail glass; twist a piece of lemon peel over the drink, and add the twist as garnish.

Technorati tag: cocktails

Tags: Drinks, Scotch, Vermouth by Paul
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When it comes to alcoholic beverages, I’m not usually the squeamish type. True, it took me a while to warm up to the idea of mixing raw eggs with gin and cream, then serving it in a glass–but if I hadn’t rolled up my sleeves and stiffened my backbone prior to making my first Ramos Gin Fizz, I never would have enjoyed one of the finest drinks in creation.

Still, I have my limits. There are a great many drinks that shall never pass my lips, and while most I’ll refuse due to their obvious and irredeemable lameness, there are some that venture in directions no alcoholic beverage should ever be forced to go. Popov and Robitussin is one such libation; Rooster Beer, aka Cock Ale, is another.

The recipe is worth passing along, if for no other reason than to best convey the phenomenally weird tastes our ancestors possessed. I’m drawing the description from Edward Spencer’s The Flowing Bowl, published in London in 1903 (Kingsley Amis also published a version in his On Drink, from 1972), but Spencer cites as his source “The English Housewyfe, containing the inward and outward Vertues which ought to be in a complete Woman, published by Nicholas Okes at the sign of the golden Unicorne, in 1631.” In addition to recipes for drinks such as White Bastard, Muskadine and Ebulum (“to a hogshead of strong ale take a heap’d bushel of elderberries…), the book contains not one, but two listings for “Cock Ale.” I’ll relay only the most explicit:

Take an old red, or other cock, and boyle him indifferent well; then flea [flay] his skin clean off, and beat him flesh and bones in a stone mortar all to mash[the other recipe also states that, for the cock, "the older the better," and that "you must craw and gut him when you flea him"] , then slice into him half a pound of dates, two nutmegs quartered, two or three blaids of mace, four cloves; and put to all this two quarts of sack that is very good; stop all this up very close that no air may get to it for the space of sixteen hours; then tun eight gallons of strong ale into your barrel so timely as it may have done working at the sixteen hours’ end; and then put thereinto your infusion and stop it close for five days, then bottle it in stone bottles; be sure your corks are very good, and tye them with pack-thread; and about a fortnight or three weeks after you may begin to drink of it; you must also put into your infusion two pound of raisins of the sun stoned.

When it comes to kitchen mixology, I’m stickin’ with falernum.

Technorati tag: cocktails

Tags: Drinks, General by Paul
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The season changed early in Seattle this year. Our first sullen downpour struck over Labor Day weekend, and the branches of the maple tree outside my living room windows were touched with yellow and orange just a few days later. Now, only two days into October, the incessant drizzle has begun, and a drive from our home in the Central District up 23rd Avenue toward the Montlake Bridge takes us through a riot of color in the hemlock and maple trees lining the street.

With autumn comes the mind-boggling array of apple varieties that have gradually appeared at the farmers markets I’ve grown addicted to in the past couple of years. As a non-native to the Northwest and only a fairweather fan of apples, I’m still surprised by how many different kinds of the damn things actually exist around here. Today, at the Broadway farmers market, I only picked up a few Galas, but I’m trying to branch out this season to try types I’ve never heard of, much less tasted: Cox Orange Pippins and Nick-A-Jacks, Prairie Spy and Honey Crisps.

With the prevalance of tree fruits in this part of the country, it’s not surprising that some of the finest fruit brandies in the nation, and possibly the world, are made in the Pacific Northwest. Clear Creek Distillery, down the road in Portland, makes an exceptional aged calvados-style apple brandy, along with heady eau-de-vies from the region’s pears, cherries and plums, not to mention a line of grappas that I have yet to begin exploring.

On autumn days, a fitting and especially satisfying drink is the Fallen Leaves, made with Clear Creek’s 8-year-old Eau de Vie de Pomme. This apple brandy is round and mellow when tasted neat, with the faintest essence of apples around the edges. For some reason, when mixed with sweet and dry vermouth with just a dash of brandy, this apple character becomes more evident. I first came across this drink on Drinkboy’s site, and he credits its creation to Charles Schumann, who published the recipe in American Bar in 1982. Visually, the Fallen Leaves resembles exactly that–gold and red in the glass–and with this apple essence, the drink is a perfect companion for an October evening.

Fallen Leaves

• 3/4 ounce calvados or similar apple brandy
• 3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
• 1/4 ounce dry vermouth
• dash brandy

Stir with ice and strain into glass; twist a nice piece of lemon peel over the drink and use as garnish.

Technorati tag: cocktails

Tags: Calvados, Drinks, Vermouth by Paul
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The history of cocktails has much in common with those who share an excessive fondness for such libations: It’s cloudy on details; foggy rumors and half-baked theories are frequently stated as absolute fact; flights of boastful table-thumping are not uncommon; and, more often than not, large swaths of vital information are simply lost in a confused blackout. These failings aside, there are happily a few drinks the origins of which we are privileged to know.

Take the Sazerac. I won’t venture into a long survey of cocktail history here–for that, pick up William Grimes’ indispensable Straight Up or On the Rocks: The Story of the American Cocktail–but the Sazerac is a signature New Orleans drink, and was one of the first true, honest-to-God cocktails. Grimes writes, “The Sazerac was born at 13 Exchange Alley, in a bar owned by John B. Schiller, the local agent for the brandies of Sazerac-de-Forge et Fils in Angouleme. In 1859 Schiller opened his bar, naming it the Sazerac Coffee House and prominently featuring brandy cocktails. In time, rye or bourbon replaced the cognac and a dash of absinthe was added for interest.”

But while drinks of the Sazerac’s vintage–and there are a few, albeit a very few still around–can seem dated in the glass, the Sazerac is as bracing and engaging today as it must have been in mid-19th century New Orleans. True, absinthe is mostly a thing of the past–unless you’ve conveniently forgotten to declare a bottle or two to customs upon returning from a European vacation–but a hearty dose of sharp rye whiskey, backed up by the jazzy notes of Peychaud’s bitters and surrounded by a fragrant, enigmatic cloud of pastis, all contribute to making a drink that can hold its own against any upstart concoction that’s sullied a glass in the past 150 years.

The Sazerac is not just a good cocktail–it’s downright swoon-worthy. Key to the Sazerac’s flavor, not to mention its history and longevity, is Peychaud’s Bitters. These are another New Orleans invention, the history of which I will now ignore (curious? Buy a copy of Mixologist: The Journal of the American Cocktail, and read the chapter by Phil Greene–and while you’re at it (shameless self-promotion here), read my chapter on the Gimlet). Suffice it to say that they’re worth the effort required to track them down–vividly red in the bottle, assertively aromatic in the glass, soft and sweet on the palate. While they’re at their finest in a Sazerac, Peychaud’s also works well in a number of different drinks, including the Gansevoort Fizz.

While early recipes call for the exclusive use of Peychaud’s bitters, some modern recipes and bartenders back up the Peychaud’s with a dash of Angostura or Fee’s Old-Fashioned Aromatic Bitters. Some purists may cough, but I find the results quite pleasing–Peychaud’s, being a rather soft bitters in the glass, works well when paired with the deeper base notes of Angostura.

And then there’s the matter of the pastis. As mentioned previously, early recipes called for the tumbler to be rinsed with a touch of absinthe. I recently had the good fortune to try a Sazerac mixed with this original touch, and the result was outstanding: Accustomed to the soft sweetness of Pernod, I was surprised how much more assertive the absinthe behaved in the drink. With a higher alcohol content than most legal substitutes, the absinthe not only had a much more noticable fragrance–I could smell the anise from several feet away–but the overall flavor of the drink was more pointed and complex, with the whiskey backed by the more serious and vaguely menacing touch of absinthe, versus the gentle sweetness of Pernod. While no modern substitute can match this unique quality, those pursuing authenticity in their Sazerac experience should look into buying a bottle of Herbsaint, the New Orleans-manufactured pastis that has played a significant role in the Sazerac since absinthe was declared illegal nearly a century ago.

I’m currently going through a love affair with the Sazerac; I think it may become my autumn standby drink. If you can track down the various ingredients, give this old-timer a few spins.

Sazerac

• 2 ounces rye whiskey (cognac works well, too)
• 1 tsp bar sugar or rich simple syrup
• 2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
• 1 dash Angostura bitters
• Absinthe or legal substitute (Pernod, Ricard, Herbsaint, etc.)
• lemon twist

Chill a short tumbler or old-fashioned glass. Put the sugar in your mixing glass; add the bitters (and a couple of drops of water, if using bar sugar), and mix until the sugar is dissolved. Add the whiskey and a good dose of ice, and stir briefly. Remove your chilled glass from the freezer, and pour a small amount (less than 1 tsp) of absinthe-type liquor into it; twist and turn the glass to coat the inside with the pastis, and discard the excess (if you find throwing away good booze to be a reprehensible practice, your mouth makes a fine receptacle). Strain the whiskey mixture into your coated glass; twist a piece of lemon peel over your glass, briefly run it around the rim, then drop it into your drink.

Technorati tag: cocktails

Tags: Brandy, Drinks, Rye by Paul
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