A couple of months ago, I wrote about an essay at Lost Magazine by a writer named Wayne Curtis, about a cocktail very dear to my heart, the El Presidente (or should that just be “El Presidente?” I never remember the protocol). Well, Curtis has a book coming out next week entitled And a Bottle of Rum: A History of the New World in Ten Cocktails, and, thanks to the review copy I received in the mail, I’m proud to have gotten a jump on everyone else in digging into the latest volume of booze-oriented scholarship.

Almost everyone, anyway. The New York Times beat me to the punch a week or so ago, with Jonathan Miles’ writeup in the “Shaken and Stirred” column of a visit to Pegu Club, where Audrey Saunders mixed him a bombo, one of the 10 cocktails alluded to in the title (Miles’ verdict: the bombo is a bust). Plus, the blurbs on the back cover are from Ted Haigh, Dale DeGroff and Jeff “Beachbum” Berry, so that puts me another rung down the ladder of the first-to-reads. But I’m still glad to have a copy of the book in hand, if for no other reason than it gives me bragging rights that I’ve been in the first wave of cocktail geeks to dig into the finest narrative overview of spirits and cocktails since William Grimes’ Straight Up or On the Rocks: The Story of the American Cocktail.

Though Curtis doesn’t aim for the whole shebang, like Grimes did — instead, as the title implies, this book is all about rum. As Curtis writes in the introduction,

Rum is the history of America in a glass. It was invented by New World colonists for New World colonists. In the early colonies, it was a vital part of the economic and cultural life of the cities and villages alike, and it soon became an actor in the political life.

[…]

Rum embodies America’s laissez-faire attitude: It is whatever it wants to be. There have never been strict guidelines for making it. There’s no international oversight board, and its taste and production varies widely, leaving the market to sort out favorites. If sugarcane or its by-products are involved in the distillation process, you can call it rum. Rum is the melting pot of spirits — the only liquor available in clear, amber, or black variations.

Curtis is no romantic about his subject; while, later in the book, he covers the rise of premium rums, he suffers no illusions about the original quality of the New World’s native spirit. This is made clear beginning in chapter one, where Curtis points out that “Distillation concentrates and intensifies the subtle tastes found in the original low-alcohol product. Brandy has thus been called the distilled essence of wine, and whiskey the distilled essence of beer. And rum? It is […] the distilled essence of industrial waste.”

And a Bottle of Rum covers rum’s rough early days, when it helped bolster burgeoning economies in Jamaica and, especially, Barbados (among the terms for intoxication printed by Benjamin Franklin are “crump-footed,” “staggerish” and “Been to Barbados”), fortified British sailors and pirates (Blackbeard favored tumblers of a cocktail made with flaming rum and gunpowder), became part of the infamous (and somewhat mythical, as Curtis explains) triangle trade of rum and slaves, and appeared prominently on the bill of fare for virtually every inn and tavern in the young American republic. Curtis also points out oddities in the modern history of rum — for example, how one of today’s top-selling rums is named after the Welsh-born privateer Henry Morgan, whose MO with wealthy captives included the victims

[being] stretched on the rack, or [having] flaming sticks tied between their fingers, or a cord twisted around their heads so tightly that their eyeballs popped like grapes from their skins. […] Some had their feet burned off while still alive; others were said to be suspended by their testicles and battered with sticks until a violent anatomical separation ensued.

Think about that the next time you’re tempted to order a Captain and cola.

Curtis also covers rum’s versatility as a mixing liquor — no wonder, given the industrial harshness of the spirit’s early ancestor — and covers pre-Jerry Thomas concoctions such as grog, punch and flip, as well as the sling, the mimbo, the afore-mentioned bombo (rum, molasses, water and nutmeg), cherry bounce, bilberry dram, syllabub, switchel, sampson and calibogus. Further on, he tackles the daiquiri and the legacy of El Floridita, Hemingway’s endless thirst for frozen rum drinks (house record at El Floridita: 16 daiquiris in one sitting), the debate over the Bacardi cocktail that continues to this day (just venture over to the Drinkboy forum for proof), and the rise of rum and coke, mojitos, and the whole tiki experience. And, as should be expected from any comprehensive overview of a particular spirit, Curtis also tosses in a final chapter containing the recipes for 30 rum-based cocktails.

If I’m glossing over a lot of things, it’s because I’m still not quite halfway through the book — it’s been another busy week — but so enamored am I of Curtis’ approach to rum that I wanted to make sure I got a post up about this book before I leave town on Wednesday, and will be focusing (and, hopefully, posting) on other things.

So, click away — head on over to Amazon or Powells and advance order a copy of And a Bottle of Rum, and while you’re at it, stop by Wayne’s blog, Republic of Rum, where he chronicles his continuing adventures with this native spirit. Don’t make me send Captain Morgan after you…..

Tags: Books, Rum by Paul
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Sours are among the oldest class of cocktails, and as mixology goes, they’re pretty basic stuff: mix booze, lemon and sugar, then chill and serve. Nothing could be easier, and from this base simplicity comes the sour’s true charm — after all, it’s nothing more than that sentimental classic, lemonade, assuming you make your lemonade with hard stuff rather than water.

I’ve already covered the whiskey sour, the most common “pure” sour still in circulation (assuming for a moment that you discount the daiquiri, which you shouldn’t, but swap the lemon for the lime and it appears that naming the drink is open to all comers), but one sour that’s popping up all over the place is the pisco sour.

Not that the pisco sour is anything new — no, this little number has been around the block a few times, ever since pisco had a brief role as the rotgut of choice around San Francisco saloons way back around Gold Rush days, when getting whiskey or rum to California meant loading it onto a wagon train, or onto a ship for a treacherous trip around the Cape. No, during that time, pisco had it easy — native to South America (Chile and Peru are still battling it out about who’s responsible), this grape brandy had a clear shot at the gold fields, at least until the transcontinental railroad came along and blew away that market. Granted, I can’t attest to how many pisco sours were served during that time — according to David Wondrich, in an article he wrote for Slow Foods USA a couple of years back, pisco punch was the way to go for quality drinking — but it’s impressive to see this spirit, and this drink, showing up on bar menus once again. Hell, the next thing you know, you’ll be able to stroll into your local sports bar and order an arrack punch.

OK, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But still, hone in on a pisco sour. Like the rest of the sours, the pisco sour is defined by its simplicity: pisco, lemon, sugar. Done? Not quite. Sure, you could stop there and mix it as usual, and you’d have a fine drink, but a really alluring pisco sour requires a couple of extra steps. First, stick a raw egg white in there — no, really, all you squeamish types who are scratching this drink off the list, try this just once: Get a really fresh egg, rinse it off, then crack it and separate it (if you need that explained to you, go grab your Joy of Cooking) — introduce the white into your mixing glass (one white works well for two drinks), then, after you add all the other ingredients and your ice, shake extra hard, for about 10 seconds. This aerates the white — kind of like you’re making meringue in your cocktail shaker — and gives the drink extra body, the kind of hearty gumption it’s nice to see in a drink sometimes.

Then — and this is the pisco sour’s other unique attribute — after you’ve strained your drink into a glass, drip three or four drops of Angostura bitters on the foam. Why not mix it in? Easy — because, now that you have that nice foamy head the egg white gives you, the Angostura remains somewhat suspended at the top of the glass (some blossoms nicely in the drink, of course). As you raise the glass to take a sip, the first thing you experience is the aroma of the bitters, followed by the slight funkiness of the brandy and the sour of the citrus, all with a texture like liquid silk. Nice? Absolutely.

OK, before I give the recipe, there’s something that needs to be said: while Peru and Chile still wrestle over the origins of pisco, there is also a continuing debate over what’s most appropriate to use in a pisco sour: lemon or lime. The answer, of course, is whichever one you prefer, and to find out which is the case, you should try both. Tonight, however, start with lemon, for two basic reasons: lemons are the citrus of choice in the classic sour; and, today is Mixology Monday, hosted by Jonathan over at Jiggle the Handle, and Jonathan’s chosen topic is Lemon. Be sure to jog over there and check out all the other drinks that are coming up this week.

Pisco Sour

• 2 ounces pisco
• 1 ounce fresh lemon juice
• 2 teaspoons simple syrup (or 1 teaspoon sugar)
  
• 1/2 of an egg white
• 3-4 drops Angostura bitters

Shake everything except bitters ferociously with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass (or, you can use a Champagne flute—I had one served this way once, and it made a pleasant impression). Drip the bitters on the foam topping the drink.

Tags: Brandy, Drinks, Mixology Monday by Paul
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Don’t forget, this Monday, July 17, is MxMoV, hosted by Jonathan at Jiggle the Handle. We’ve had a great turnout so far, so be sure to spread the word and put together your favorite drink somehow related to Lemon by Monday, and shoot an email Jonathan’s way to let him know you’re participating.

Tags: Mixology Monday by Paul
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My birthday was last weekend, and after dropping hints on a daily basis for the past few months, my wife eventually picked up on the idea that an ice crusher would make a good gift. Now, with my spiffy new Metrokane on the counter, I can tackle a whole series of drinks in Grog Log and Intoxica! that I’d mostly had to avoid up to now.

Sure, you can make the drinks with ice cubes–but it’s just not the same, temperature-, flavor- or presentation-wise. And since I have small children — meaning cocktail time is typically an after-bedtime sort of event — the noisy smashing up of ice cubes with a rolling pin or blasting them in the Cuisinart is usually a no-go; plus, neither of those methods really give you a good, consistent result. But it’s summer, the time when mint juleps, mojitos and Prince Parker Swizzles are in order, so an ice crusher came to seem like an indispensable addition to my home bar (as did a couple of bottles of French absinthe, which were my present to myself and were delivered by the flying monkeys from Liqueurs de France too late to enjoy on my birthday, but should be a lot of fun to play around with in the coming months).

My first go round was with a Noa Noa, which Rick recently wrote about and graced with such a beautiful photo that I’m afraid to even venture down that path. Though, it really is a fantastic drink.

The Navy Grog wasn’t far behind — I’d tried this drink using cubes, and had excellent results, but I really wanted to try it the way Don the Beachcomber intended, in a glass filled with crushed ice. I did, however, take the license of slightly altering the recipe (based on the recommendation of Ted Haigh), adding just a dab of pimento dram to the mix.

Now this is what a tiki drink is about — mixtures of juices, sweeteners and different rums that create an entirely new balance of flavors. The crushed ice does its job here, cooling the mix more effectively than cubes or even cracked ice, while stretching out the drink so you don’t wind up tossing it back too quickly — a necessary feature, given the three ounces of rum in the glass.

At some point, of course, I’ll have to go all out and prepare a Navy Grog Ice Cone, per Jeff Berry’s suggestion, though that would require a set of Pilsener glasses … time to start dropping hints for next year.

Navy Grog (from Beachbum Berry’s Grog Log)

• 3/4 ounce lime juice
• 3/4 ounce grapefruit juice
• 3/4 ounce honey
• 1 ounce light Puerto Rican rum (I used Cruzan white rum)
• 1 ounce dark Jamaican rum (I used Appleton VX)
• 1 ounce Demerara rum (Lemon Hart)
• 1 ounce chilled club soda
• 1/4 ounce pimento dram (optional)

Heat honey until liquid, then mix with juices. Stir in rums and soda. Pour into double old-fashioned glass filled with crushed ice, or sip drink through ice cone.

Navy Grog Ice Cone: pack ten ounce Pilsener glass with finely shaved ice. Run a hole through center with a chopstick to make a passage for straw. Gently remove cone from glass and freeze overnight.

And, for the record, here’s a Noa Noa:

• 1 ounce fresh lime juice
• Tablespoon brown sugar
• dash angostura bitters
• 4 to 6 mint leaves
• 3 ounces Demerara rum

Dissolve sugar in lime juice, then swizzle everything in double old-fashioned glass partially filled with crushed ice. Add more crushed ice to fill. Swizzle again until glass frosts. Garnish with mint sprig and lime shell.

Tags: Drinks, Pimento Dram, Rum, Tiki by Paul
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Muddled fruit.

I typically don’t go for this sort of thing. Not only do I not do it, but — given the plethora of pineapple mojitos, kumquat margaritas and blueberry Sazeracs (ok, I made that one up, but somebody’s probably doing it) that you see on so many bar menus nowadays — I typically frown on and/or mock the whole practice of muddling fresh fruit in a cocktail. (And don’t even get me started on the whole Old Fashioned thing.) Sure, it tastes good — it’s fruit; fruit tastes good; it doesn’t require a masters in mixology to figure that out. And I might even be more generous to the whole muddling practice if so many Seattle bartenders didn’t consider a muddler to be best used as a tool to chase a couple of lime wedges around in a pint-glass full of ice, smashing and liquefying everything except the freaking lime in the process. But ultimately, does your typical mango Manhattan (ok, I made that one up, too, but you just know it’s out there) advance the greater cause of culinary cocktails? Huh-uh.

Then you have the rare atypical drink; the exception that proves the rule. This unnamed drink that appeared on eGullet some months ago is one of those cocktails.

As with the Prince Parker Swizzle, this drink was created by Alchemist, and is the second winner in as many days that I’ve tried from his recipes.

Unnamed Cocktail from Alchemist on eGullet

• 2 ounces rye whiskey
• 3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice
• 1/2 ounce rich demerara syrup*
• 1/4 ounce white creme de cacao
• Peychaud’s bitters [I used 2 dashes]
  
• cherries [I used 3-4 fresh cherries]
  

Muddle cherries in your mixing glass. Add the other ingredients and shake with ice. Strain (you’ll want to pour it through a mesh strainer) into a chilled cocktail glass.

* to prepare rich demerara syrup, simply mix two parts demerara sugar with one part water in a saucepan over medium heat, and stir until the sugar is completely dissolved.

In contrast to a bulk of the other fruit-muddled drinks I come across, this one had a couple of points in its favor: first, it uses rye as a base, instead of the more neutral vodkas and white rums you see in so many fruity drinks; plus, it seemed like a flavorful cocktail in its own right, even without the fruit added (and, of course, it uses fresh cherries, something I’m a major sucker for at this time of year). To be fair, the author doesn’t specify fresh cherries — I suppose you could take a crack at it with the neon-red maraschino thingies if that’s your inclination — but when fresh cherry season hit here a week or so ago, and the farmer’s markets started displaying these heaping mounds of bings, chelans and rainiers, I knew I had to give this drink a whirl.

And I’m so glad I did. The drink leans to the sweet side, but not cloyingly so — if you want it drier, simply cut down on the demerara syrup a bit. But while it starts out as an engaging rye-based cocktail not too dissimilar from the Delmarva Cocktail No. 2, the cherries really freshen it up, taking the rye — a winter-friendly brown spirit if ever there was one — and dragging it into the season, sticking some Bermuda shorts on that guy on the Old Overholt label and putting a slather of sunscreen on his nose. The cherries take what could be a slightly heavy drink — between the rye, the demerara and the cacao, you’ve got some seriously ponderous flavors in there — and brighten it up (the Peychaud’s helps, too), making it an enticing, refreshing summer-appropriate cocktail.

I’ve had a few of these over the past week, and hope to get on the outside of several more before cherry season wraps up. Then? Well, I’m still holding off on the apricot daiquiris.

Tags: Drinks, Rye by Paul
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