You remember when you were a kid and Christmas finally rolled around? You were so psyched from the weeks of waiting that you were about to have a cute little aneurysm just waiting for Christmas morning to come, and when it finally happened — when you went to sleep on Christmas eve and then woke up with a start — you went rushing helter-skelter down to the living room to freak out under the Christmas tree, oblivious to the fact that it was 5:30 AM and, aside from your similarly over-stimulated siblings, nobody else in the house realized it was time to get rolling.

For Jeffrey Morgenthaler, our gracious host this month, Repeal Day is Christmas morning. Ready to party with the Dewar’s people in New York, Jeffrey popped up his MxMo roundup while many of his fellow bloggers — including Rick, Marleigh, Jay and myself, among others — were still lounging around, thinking we had all the time in the world to get our posts together.

You can’t blame him, though — Jeffrey orchestrated some wildly popular Repeal Day events last year, and this year it seems to be catching on more than ever. And for a bartender and card-carrying booze geek like Jeffrey, the anniversary of the repeal of Prohibition offers no fewer reasons to celebrate than any day that involves a fat guy in a red suit.

But while this Repeal Day will be full of people wearing fedoras and vintage cocktail dresses meant to evoke the 1930s, tipping back period-appropriate cocktails, martinis in teacups and the occasional shot of bourbon, let’s not forget what a really fucking bleak time Prohibition was in many ways. I don’t just mean the absence of legal booze –though that sucked plenty, I’m sure — I mean the total destruction of careers and livelihoods that took place when bars were shuttered, wine and beer (and the tips and revenues that accompanied them) were removed from restaurants, breweries and distilleries were shut down, and the whole resource chain and infrastructure that was somehow related to the production of beverage alcohol was knocked ass-over-teakettle by overambitious legislation.

And consider those who defied the law — sure, the whole speakeasy thing is big now, but it’s not like the real deal were serving custom-crafted cocktails using hand-chiseled ice. Bad booze, no regulatory controls, block-and-drop joints, dealing with “liquor producers” with the technical skill and professional ethics of modern-day meth-lab chemists, and the ever-present threat of arrest and scandal brought more than just the hint of danger to the whole business.

Case in point: gin. “Bathtub gin” is a cliche left over from the era, an allusion to the discrete mixing of grain alcohol with oil of juniper to produce something that kind of, maybe, if you’re desperate, sort of tastes like gin. Need something closer to the real deal? Try this — the recipe is from Giggle Water, a 1928 book that contains a number of recipes for making your own brandies, cordials and gins, along with cocktail recipes blatantly stolen word-for-word from Jerry Thomas.

Imitation Old Tom London Gin

Dissolve in 1 quart 95 per cent alcohol, 1 drachm oil of coriander, 1 drachm oil of cedar, 1/2 drachm oil of bitter almonds, 1/2 drachm oil of angelica, and 1/2 drachm oil of sweet fennel; add it to 40 gallons French spirit 10 above proof, with 1 pint orange-flower water, 1 quart syrup and 1 drachm oil of juniper dissolved in sufficient 95 per cent alcohol to be clear.

And if it wasn’t clear? Lacking Jeffrey’s Brita filter, Giggle Water’s author suggests this method:

To Clarify Gin or Cordials

Pulverize 1 pound ordinary crystals of alum, divide into 12 equal portions, and put up in blue papers marked No. 1. Next take 6 ounces carbonate (the ordinary sesquicarbonate) of soda, divide it into 12 parts and put them up in white papers marked No. 2. In place of the 6 ounces of carbonate of soda, 4 ounces dry salt of tartar may be substituted, but the white papers containing this latter substance must be kept in a dry, well corked bottle or jar. To clarify 30 to 36 gallons gin, dissolve the contents of one of the blue papers, as prepared above in about a pint of hot water, and stir it into the liquor thoroughly. Then dissolve the contents of one of the white papers in about 1/2 pint hot water, and stir well into the liquor; bung the cask close, and let the whole remain till the next day.

30 to 36 Gallons? This recipe ain’t for someone putting up a bottle to make Bronxes for the missus and the golf partners on a Saturday afternoon.

Given the way such concoctions must have tasted, it’s not surprising that many cocktail guides published soon after repeal expressed revulsion for the sweet, creamy cocktails that were created in an attempt to obscure the horrid taste of such hooch. Here’s David Embury with a particularly memorable piece of vitriol from 1948:

So unutterably vile were these synthetic concoctions that the primary object in mixing a cocktail became the addition of a sufficient amount of sweetened, highly flavored, and otherwise emollient and anti-emetic ingredients (cream, honey, Karo, canned fruit juices, etc.) to make it reasonably possible to swallow the resultant concoction and at the same time to retain a sufficient content of renatured alcohol to insure ultimate inebriety. Just how much dilution of the “gin”-bottle contents might be necessary to accomplish this supposedly salutary result depended largely on the intestinal fortitude and esophageal callosity of the particular individual involved. However, only the most rugged Spartan with at least ten years of vigorous prohibition training could be expected to survive — or, indeed, to get down — a drink containing as much as 50 percent of the gin, whisky, brandy, or what have you of those days.

Small wonder, then, that this period gave birth to such pernicious recipes as the Alexander — equal parts of gin, creme de cacao, and sweet cream; the Orange Blossom — equal parts of gin and orange juice, with or without the white of an egg; the Bee’s Knees — equal parts of gin, lemon juice, and honey; and so on ad nauseam. And it is only by regarding them as a more or less logical, albeit regrettable, aftermath of prohibition influence that one can account for the many ridiculous formulas still found in the average book of cocktail recipes of today.

So, in other words, Carry Nation is responsible for the alco-pop.

This post is already reaching Heugelian length, so I’ll stop with the ranting and head for the liquor cabinet. Bee’s Knees, anyone?

Bee’s Knees, adapted from The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks, by David Embury

• 2 ounces gin
• 1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
• 1/4 ounce honey

Shake vigorously with cracked ice. Writes Embury, “Early in the book I spoke in disparaging terms of the Bee’s Knees. This, however, was because as it originally came out during prohibition days it consisted of equal parts of lemon juice, honey, and gin. If made as a variation of the standard Gin Sour, merely substituting honey for the sugar syrup, it is acceptable.”

Acceptable. Yeah, that pretty much says it. (And before anyone gets the wrong idea from the photo: the Bee’s Knees recipe ain’t in Giggle Water; it is, however, a product of the same era, hence the pairing in the photo.)

So that’s it for this Mixology Monday — head on over to Jeffrey’s site soon for the roundup — oh, it’s already there. Never mind.

Tags: Drinks, Gin, Mixology Monday by Paul
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So, I guess everyone’s getting ready for the big feast on Thursday, and OH HELL, STOP THE PRESSES! THERE’S BIGGER THINGS THAN THANKSGIVING AFOOT!

That’s right — Fritz Maytag has been experimenting with his still again.

In case you don’t drink in San Francisco and haven’t read Erik’s blog lately, you may have missed the news that Maytag — the mastermind behind Anchor Steam beer (and its incredible Christmas ale, which I plan to start hoarding in the next few days), Junipero gin and the range of Old Potrero whiskies — has a new product coming out: Genevieve, a pot-distilled genever-style gin.

In typical Anchor fashion, Maytag has totally ignored the market trend toward lighter, less intense, gentle, floral gins, and instead is producing a robust spirit that, on first sip, had me thinking “chewy.” (Full disclosure: a sample was submitted and accepted for review). A quick primer for those unfamiliar with genever: if you hear the name “gin” and expect a crisp, dry spirit tasting of juniper, citrus and other botanicals, you’re gonna be mighty surprised at the first sip of genever (which also travels as Hollands gin, Geneva gin and Schiedam-style gin). Distilled at a lower proof than the neutral spirits used in London dry and Plymouth gins, the spirit has a much earthier, maltier, even funkier quality; match that with the botanicals (yes, the juniper is still there) and you’ve got a big wave of assorted flavors coming at you from the glass.

I love genever, though I haven’t had the chance to love it that much — I can only recall trying the jonge product from Boomsma, which more knowledgable palates than mine have pronounced “meh,” though I didn’t think it was too bad; Boomsma’s oude, which was more in the direction of a malt whisky than a gin; and the Bols genever, poured from a flask by Philip Duff, which left me with a great dichotomy of feeling: delight, at the rich malty character of the gin, and dismay that I’ll have to cross an ocean to buy a bottle.

So if genever won’t come to the United States, Maytag is willing to make his own, and we’re all the better for it. I had the pleasure of interviewing Maytag about a year ago while working on an article about rye whiskey for Imbibe, and I consider it a significant experience in some ways, in that he struck me as one of those people who is driven by a higher pursuit — not of profit or fame, necessarily, but of truth. It seemed to me that for Maytag, “truth” meant (at least in part) discovering the full potential of a spirit — exploring ways that grain can fully express itself through distillation and aging, and understanding how that expression can be harnessed for a more pure epicurean experience. The results can sometimes be academic, I’ll admit; I find the Old Potrero whiskies absolutely fascinating, for example, but they can also be bookish and intense rather than graceful and welcoming — while I’m always bowled over by the flavor, I rarely get a hankering to sit down and just sip at one (though the limited edition Hotalings is a notable exception).

But the result can also be as engaging as it is sensational — just look at Junipero — and I think the Genevieve falls into this category. Sure, it’s never going to be a top seller — c’mon, it’s genever, and even a top-flight version is going to have a very limited audience — but it is pretty damn good, and as Eric Seed is busy demonstrating over at Haus Alpenz, having a pretty damn good spirit that appeals to an admittedly limited audience of avid enthusiasts is still a very nice thing to have.

Genevieve uses a mash of malted wheat, barley and rye, and is distilled in a copper pot still with the same botanicals that appear in Junipero. Since it comes off the still at a lower proof, the spirit bears more resemblance, flavor-wise, to an unaged whiskey than it does to a neutral grain spirit like those produced by ADM and utilized in so many gins and vodkas you see. Bottled at 47.3 percent ABV, Genevieve comes up somewhat hot on the nose, but with a crisp juniper aura blended with the musty dryness of the rye and barley. Tasted neat, the gin is a bit intense, but with a few drops of water or a little quality time spent with an ice cube, the Genevieve softens up, presenting the “chewy” aspect I noted earlier, with the full flavor of the grain forming a light but firm base against the brighter, crisper notes of the juniper, citrus and other botanicals.

As David Wondrich notes in Imbibe! — which you’ve all purchased by now, right? Well, what are you waiting for? — many of the vintage cocktails prepared during mixology’s baroque era were constructed using Hollands gin (and before anyone chimes in with a correction — how ya doin’, Erik — Wondrich does note that the lighter, jonge-style genevers are a relatively recent phenomenon, and that the old recipes had the heavier, oude-style genever in mind. In my admittedly limited experience, I would think Genevieve bears more in common with a jonge genever than a corenwyn or oude genever. Still, it’s here, it’s good, and as Wondrich also notes, “[jonge genever] still makes a far richer and tastier plain Cocktail than the lighter English gins,” so go ahead and give it a shot.)

I’ve only tried Genevieve in one drink so far, the Improved Gin Cocktail (the recipe for which is slightly different than the one Wondrich ran in Killer Cocktails, and that I wrote up a long time ago using Boomsma), but it came through beautifully, the flavors of the absinthe, maraschino and bitters adorning the base like a Christmas tree. Geneveive and other genever-style gins may not be nearly as versatile as the more common London drys, but as long as I can mix a few of these divine cocktails, I’m happy to spend the time, money and effort to keep genever stocked in my liquor cabinet.

Improved Gin Cocktail (adapted from IMBIBE! by David Wondrich)

• 2 dashes Angostura bitters [I decided to use Peychaud’s, to good effect]
• 1 tsp simple syrup (even better if it’s a rich demerara syrup, 2:1 sugar to water)
• 1/2 tsp maraschino liqueur
• 1 dash absinthe (I used Jade Edouard — what the hell, good booze meets good booze, and I’m the big winner)
• 2 ounces Hollands gin

Stir well with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass; twist a piece of lemon peel over the drink. As Wondrich notes, “to contemplate it is to desire it.”

Tags: Drinks, Gin by Paul
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Like any self-respecting cocktail fanatic, I’ve been dipping at the well of IMBIBE! for the past few weeks, trying out different drinks and occasionally latching onto one for a few torrid nights (hello there, Prince of Wales cocktail; good to see you again, Absinthe Cocktail; good evening, Sherry Cobbler, I’m sorry I haven’t called in so long).

This drink isn’t in the book.

Not completely, anyway. Certainly, there’s a close relative — an ancestor, I suppose — traveling under the name of the Fourth Degree. Simply a dry martini that’s been dosed with a dash of absinthe, the Fourth Degree is a very pleasant drink. At this level, the absinthe lends a flush of anise-tinted herbaceousness to the drink’s aroma and flavor, and it’s just enough to give the cocktail a cruel sneer and nothing more.

The Obituary Cocktail, however, takes this formula and turns up the volume — no longer playing a minor role, the absinthe shoulders its way forward, putting on the sap gloves and taking a firm grip on your collar. The absinthe still gives the gin and vermouth plenty of room to move around, and rightly recognizes that its flavor much benefits from doing so, but even though there’s four times as much gin in the glass as absinthe, the absinthe is the big gorilla in the room.

I don’t know when or where the step from Fourth Degree to Obituary Cocktail occurred. Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop in New Orleans claims to be the drink’s home, but the last time I had one of these at Lafitte’s it was made with Herbsaint (or Pernod — too damn dark in there to see what they were using), and was tepid and too sweet.

Herbsaint is useful in small doses as an absinthe substitute, but for drinks that require more than a couple of dashes of the stuff, Herbsaint (and other substitutes) can’t summon the seductively menacing glower that absinthe brings to a cocktail. While the absinthe substitutes are useful and even necessary for the bar, drinking a cocktail made with a substitute is like playing poker with your grandpa — it’s all good fun, but for a really lively game you need a competitor who’ll take a poke at you on occasion. With Lucid and Kubler now on the market in the U.S., and available by online order in most states, domestic drinkers should really make it a priority to lay in a bottle or two, for use in such concoctions. (Though be warned: in Canada and much of Europe, what’s sold as “absinth” or “absinthe” is frequently a nasty impostor. What you want is a decent French or Swiss brand; check the ratings and recommendations at the Wormwood Society and/or Fee Verte for suggestions).

I should note, of course, that “Obituary Cocktail” is also the name of a book by New Orleans photographer Kerri McCaffety, which surveys some of the city’s historic bars. I’m ashamed to say I don’t have a copy of this book (*cough* Christmas present *cough*), but from having seen it at Tales of the Cocktail, it looks absolutely gorgeous.

One last selling point about the Obituary Cocktail: should you decide to wrap up an evening in the company of these, you may be able to legitimately claim the need for Corpse Revivers the following day.

Obituary Cocktail

• 2 ounces gin (I’ll take Plymouth in mine)
• 1/4 ounce dry vermouth
• 1/4 ounce absinthe (or a substitute such as Herbsaint, if you must)

Stir well with cracked ice; strain into chilled cocktail glass. The drink’s light opalescence is its own garnish.

This round of Mixology Monday is hosted by Jay at Oh, Gosh! Step on over to Jay’s place in the next day or so to see how it all went.

Tags: Absinthe, Gin, Mixology Monday by Paul
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After a couple of weeks of dipping into the rye and applejack to commemorate the arrival of autumn, tonight I inexplicably had the urge to break out the St. Germain and the Aperol, and start tinkering to see what happens.

Here’s what happened — not too bad, if I say so myself, though I’m still pondering the level of St. Germain; at 1/2 ounce the drink was still in the bracingly tart/bitter range, but at 3/4 ounce, the sweetness is moving in. I may dicker with the proportions some more, either dialing back on the St. Germain or giving the lemon juice an extra little kick, but I’m also anticipating that I’m way behind the times here (wouldn’t be the first time), and that a drink very much like this one has been featured on a cocktail menu since last April.

Give it a try, if you like, and let me know your thoughts.

• 1 1/2 ounces gin (I used Bombay original)
• 1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
• 1/2 ounce Aperol
• 1/2 ounce St. Germain

Shake with cracked ice, strain into chilled cocktail glass.

UPDATE: The sweetness was starting to get to me as I wrapped up the post, so I went and mixed up another, using only 1/2 ounce of St. Germain. Contrary to my initial concern, this version is much more balanced than the proportions I initially had, so I’ve changed the recipe to reflect this.

Tags: Drinks, Gin, Spirits by Paul
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Let me start this off by saying I mean absolutely no disrespect to Simon Difford. After all, he came up with this drink, which as you can see from the header, I think is pretty damn tasty. Plus, there’s all that assorted other work he does — researching and compiling lists of recipes, developing guides to watering holes around the globe, consulting on pretty much anything related to alcohol — which improves the lives of drink geeks like me to no end. No, my only quibble with Simon — a minor one, I’m sure you’ll agree — is with the name of this drink.

Before we get to that, though, let’s take a look at the cocktail. The recipe was conceived, I assume, during a burst of creativity inspired by the launch of St. Germain, the elderflower liqueur that seems destined to remain a staple of every quality bar for decades to come (see my writeup about St. Germain over at Serious Eats). This cocktail starts with the basic 4:1 Plymouth martini — a good first step in anyone’s book — then slides in the St. Germain to give the drink a fruity floral wallop. Then, turning to another ingredient that’s manna to vintage spirits freaks, Difford tips in a little creme de violette, which ups the floral aspect and really pushes the drink onto another plane. Zap it with some orange zest, and you’re set.

Of course, you could also look at this as a slight variation on the Attention (aka the Atty, aka the Arsenic and Old Lace), the gin-vermouth-violette-pastis-sometimes orange bitters combo that’s cropped up in a number of places lately, including on Simon’s site (as the Atty) and in the pages of the current issue of Imbibe (as the Attention). Swap the St. Germain for the pastis, use orange zest instead of bitters, tweak the proportions accordingly, and you’re there.

Every component of this cocktail has a floral aspect — from the botanicals in the gin and vermouth to the two liqueurs flavored and colored with flower petals, this drink comes straight from the garden. This is all to say that I understand how the name presented itself, and god knows it’s better than most anything I’d be likely to come up with … but still, I just can’t deal with the name.

Seeing as how so many bars are discovering St. Germain, and how many should be beating down their distributor’s doors to get a bottle of the Rothman & Winter Creme de Violette (currently available in New York, and very soon in California), I may actually have the opportunity to order one of these in a public establishment. Should that be the case, I may need to just have the recipe printed up on cards I can hand to the bartender. “What’s the name?” they’ll ask. “Ummm….” I’ll respond.

The Please-Don’t-Make-Me-Call-It the “Flower Power Martini” (a spectacular drink created by Simon Difford. Snarky comments about the name courtesy the obnoxious host of this establishment)

• 2 ounces Plymouth gin
• 1/2 ounce dry vermouth
• 1/2 ounce St. Germain
• 1/4 ounce creme de violette

Stir well with ice, strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with strip of orange zest.

Tags: Drinks, Gin by Paul
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