Cocktails Archives

Tom Lasher-Walker has worked at some of the longest-running and most well-respected cocktail bars on both sides of the pond, from Bramble Bar & Lounge in Edinburgh and The Savoy in London to Attaboy in Manhattan. So it’s no surprise that when it comes to reimagining a canonical recipe like the Old-Fashioned, you won’t see him getting crazy with strange ingredients or newfangled techniques.

“I’ve always been a fan of very classic drink-making,” he explains. “These drinks have stood the test of time for a reason.”

And then, late last year, Lasher-Walker and his wife moved down to Miami and he took a job at the famed Fontainebleau Hotel on Collins Avenue, mere feet from shores of the Atlantic. But working in a high-volume, high-glitz, nightclub-type bar in lively Miami Beach—as opposed to the quieter confines of The Savoy or Attaboy—meant some things needed to change when it came to creating drinks for his new clientele.

“It’s probably as far removed as one can get from my other bartending jobs,” he jokes.

Mojitos are, shocker, Fontainebleau’s most popular cocktail. Not that Lasher-Walker has a problem with that. In fact, he argues, those much-derided muddled mint cocktails are a closer cousin to the Old-Fashioned than you’d think. Like the Mojito, which became ubiquitous over a decade ago, the Old-Fashioned is flexible. It can be ordered and enjoyed in all types of bars, from airports to luxury hotels, and the traditional recipe is open to near-infinite variations.

“People no longer just think of it as this brooding, moody, masculine drink on the rocks,” he explains. “It doesn’t need to be heavy, and it doesn’t need to be made with whiskey either.” Now that Lasher-Walker is in Florida, he loves to make what he calls a “pseudo-tropical OF” using a base of Brugal 1888, the super-premium Dominican rum double-aged in both bourbon and sherry casks. While its profile offers the expected whiskey flavors of vanilla and toffee, it also offers notes of citrus, peach and even coffee.

“My idea was to make something you could sip and enjoy and you don’t have to bury under six inches of snow,” he says. “The key in accomplishing that was to make it lighter and way more fragrant.”

He does that with a clever hack: replacing the traditional Angostura bitters with Aperol, the bittersweet Italian aperitivo liqueur, which adds a candied citrus note to the drink. And rather than simple syrup, he opts for a banana liqueur. Unexpected? Sure, but it’s a flavor not unfamiliar to the beach-going crowd, and—more important—one that meshes surprisingly well with Brugal 1888.

“What we end up with is a lighthearted, tropical, fruity Old-Fashioned,” Lasher-Walker explains. “It’s completely on the other end of spectrum of what we typically expect of the drink.”

The post The Secret to Tom Lasher-Walker’s Old-Fashioned? It’s In the Bitters. appeared first on PUNCH.

At Brooklyn’s The Rockwell Place, a technique that started in jest has quickly become a fast-track solution to adding tropical flavor to just about any drink.

“We had a joke about upselling people, like in a fast food restaurant,” recalls David Nurmi of the genesis behind the so-called “Coconut Blast,” a finishing technique that he cocreated with fellow Rockwell bartender Bryan Teoh. “‘For two extra dollars, we can Coconut Blast that for you this evening!’”

The coconut tincture is simple—essentially a high-proof neutral spirit (like Everclear or overproof vodka) fat-washed with coconut oil—but it represents the culmination of a years-long obsession with finding the right vehicle for adding coconut flavor to drinks. Hoping to shake off the ersatz specter of Malibu, a sweetened coconut-flavored rum favored by spring-breakers, they tried their hand at infusing coconut in various forms (fresh, dried, coconut oil) directly into a variety of base spirits, from mezcal to gin. While the results were satisfactory, it wasn’t exactly efficient. “You’d have to make a different bottle for every base spirit you wanted,” says Teoh.

Coconut syrups were dismissed too. “That comes along with sweetness or an awful lot of volume,” Teoh explains—an ounce or more of syrup, and the additional sugar “would affect the quality of the drink.”

The idea that led to their signature Coconut Blast was hatched during slow Sunday shifts at Rockwell, which opened in December of last year. “We’d make it our ‘lab day,’ where we’d come up with ideas for how to make it work,” Teoh recalls.

What they sought was a concentrated flavor to use as “a finishing move” atop an otherwise complete drink. The usual dose of the aromatic liquid is four dashes, which adds “a top note of coconut instead of making it the base of something,” says Teoh. A little less adds “just a whisper” of tropical flavor, while adding more, naturally, makes the coconut flavor pop.

While the Blast has a natural affinity for shaken drinks like Daiquiris and Margaritas, they were particularly surprised to find that it also worked in stirred drinks like Negronis, Old-Fashioneds and Manhattan variations, where it adds “just the floral characteristic, not really the coconut tones,” says Teoh.

Of course, it has its limitations too. It doesn’t marry well with every spirit: The assertive flavors of calvados and genever seem to be particularly tricky, for example, while gin, whiskey and, of course, rum have proved to be harmonious pairings.

For now, the Coconut Blast is primarily an off-menu touch, dashed into drinks by the bartenders where they suspect it will suit guests looking for a taste of the tropics. It’s listed on exactly one drink on the menu, The Quiet Arc (Brennevín aquavit, vanilla, lime, Coconut Blast), but it’s managed to work its way into the larger lingo of the bar. Drinks that might otherwise be “dashed” can now be “blasted” with anything from Angostura bitters to absinthe. After all, as Teoh explains, “it’s just funnier to say ‘blasting.’”

The post Just “Coconut Blast” Everything, Honestly appeared first on PUNCH.

“I fell into bartending because of Tom Cruise,” jokes Maguchi Kazunari in reference to the actor’s infamous role in the movie Cocktail. The jovial owner of Tokyo’s Rock Fish is adorned in a pressed white coat, soft buzz cut, 1930s club bow tie and a half-cracked smile. He looks up at me with a raised eyebrow in anticipation of my drink order, but he already knows what I’m having. It’s the only thing to have at Rock Fish.

Maguchi-san’s idiosyncratic, iceless highball is referred to here as a “Kaku-hi” (Kakubin highball). He serves them to Ginza’s thirsty salarymen, who, by 3 p.m., are marching in like briefcase-bearing penguins. They place their orders by throwing up a finger or two in the direction of Maguchi-san, who quickly dispatches crisp highballs with second-nature deftness alongside his creative menu of otsumami, or Japanese drinking snacks, like soy sauce sake-marinated sardines cleverly heated right in the tin over an open fire and a unique Scotch egg encased in corned beef hash and sesame seeds.

“Kaku-hi, onegaishimasu,” I say, holding up a finger like the other patrons. With a nod and an affirmative “hai!,” Maguchi-san drops down to the freezer below him and reappears with a frosty bottle of Suntory Kakubin 43 percent. The whisky, which was discontinued in 2000 and is now sold exclusively to him (at his insistence), is essential to his highball. He measures out exactly 60mL of the whisky and pours it into an ice-cold glass etched with a logo of a drinking fish. He then reaches for a refrigerator dedicated to dozens of bottles of Wilkinson Tansan, Japan’s favorite club soda. He empties the entire 190mL bottle into the glass—again, no ice—and garnishes it with exactly two hard pinches of a nickel-size lemon peel for subtle fragrance. I take a sip and let out a long, satisfied sigh; the harmony of these ingredients, at the perfect temperature, is a revelation.

The choice to eliminate ice isn’t exactly intuitive. Highballs are as defined by the use of it as they are by their namesake glass and requisite bubbles. But my countless missed connections with the Japanese whisky highball all come down to the ice: the longer you let it dilute, the more the drink resembles little more than an abandoned whiskey-soda at a wedding reception. Maguchi-san’s, by contrast, maintains a balanced ratio even when the temperature of the drink rises over time. However, I can confidently report that the Kaku-hi is so refreshing and drinkable that a warm highball isn’t even a consideration at Rock Fish.

Maguchi-san’s take might seem postmodern, but it actually has roots in Japan’s Edo period. Toward the end of the 19th century, refrigeration consisted of large slabs of ice stored in an insulated “icebox.” Instead of adding ice to drinks—an expensive proposition—cans, bottles and mugs would all be placed on top of the ice box to chill. Advancements in refrigeration eventually rendered the icebox obsolete, but some places never let the tradition die—most notably the famed Samboa Bar in Osaka. It’s there that Maguchi-san first honed his bartending craft at the age of 18, after answering an ad in the newspaper for a barback position.

Seventeen years later, he left Osaka for Tokyo to open Rock Fish, where he now serves an average of 150 Kaku-hi per day in nearly the same style as Samboa Bar, save for his choice of whisky. What may have begun with replays of Cocktail has amounted to a lifelong mission to master the highball—and a perfect example of shokunin kishitsu, which roughly translates to the “spirit of the craftsman.”

On my fifth Kaku-hi—it’s that refreshing—I ask Maguchi-san if and when he plans to retire from bartending. He reaches down to the fridge to grab a fresh bottle of whisky, flashes me a wry smile and says, “99.”

The post Maguchi Dreams of Highballs appeared first on PUNCH.

Created at the Hawaiian Village Hotel in 1957 by bartender Harry Yee, the Blue Hawaii is perhaps the most misunderstood cocktail in the tiki canon. Originally made with rum, vodka, pineapple juice and sour mix, its reputation was sullied by the same forces that brought tiki to its knees in the 1970s: artificial juices and a deference to corn syrup. The Blue Hawaii suffered a second blow by its conflation with the saccharine, yet similarly named, Blue Hawaiian, a cobalt-tinted take on the Piña Colada. But Garret Richard saw the cocktail’s potential.

“This drink telegraphs a specific time and place, 1950s and ’60s Hawaii,” says Richard, a torchbearer for the modern tiki revival. “I felt it was my duty to craft a drink that brought guests back to that era with one sip.” Having served other people’s versions of the drink as well as his own personal riffs for years, Richard eventually went back to the drawing board. “I thought . . . maybe I should just take it back from square one and see what the true intention of this drink is,” he remembers. “I needed to get it to a place where nobody could say anything about it—a classic cocktail drinker would like it; somebody who is color-blind would like it.”

With this as his guiding principle, it took Richard more than a year to arrive at his perfected recipe, which hews closely to the original; where Yee calls on sour mix, Richard opts for his own sweet-and-sour combination of lemon juice and lime cordial; for the all-important blue Curaçao, Richard relies on Giffard’s version, which supplies layers of orange flavor—candied, sweet, bitter—and, of course, the signature ultramarine hue.

In a slight departure, Richard reduces the pineapple juice from three ounces to an ounce and a half. It’s a move that prevents the drink from becoming overly diluted (and overly frothy) when he flash-blends the mixture with crushed ice—another departure from Yee’s original drink, which was simply built in the glass. “An ounce and a half is more than enough to get the pineapple across,” explains Richard.

But perhaps the biggest liberty Richard has taken is in the base spirits. Traditionally made with an equal split between unaged rum and vodka, Richard maintains the rum component—he uses Plantation 3 Stars for its relatively heavy body compared to other young rums—but swaps gin, specifically Plymouth Gin, for vodka. “I always thought that the Blue Hawaii had a really interesting use of vodka, which is there to sort of dry out the rest of the cocktail,” explains Richard. “But I’ve found that Plymouth Gin works even better.” The gin in question, however, is fat-washed with coconut oil, a move that yields what Richard describes as “a whisper of coconut.” It both tempers some of the harsher flavors of the gin, leaving just the botanical profile, and doubles as a subtle nod to the rival Blue Hawaiian. “There’s sort of a war between those two drinks,” explains Richard. “I wanted to be able to satisfy all of those expectations.”

Lastly, Richard serves the drink in a Hurricane glass (“something tall that will show off the foaminess of the pineapple”), and, in keeping with the original, tops the whole thing with an orchid, a pineapple wedge and pineapple leaves. “A fan of the drink shouldn’t know that any changes were made,” explains Richard. “They just should know that it’s really good.”

Garret Richard's Blue Hawaii

The secret to Garret Richard's Blue Hawaii is coconut oil-washed Plymouth Gin.

A teaspoon of cane syrup lends body to the cocktail.

Richard flash-blends his Blue Hawaii for a frothier drink.

“A fan of the drink shouldn’t know that any changes were made,” explains Richard. “They just should know that it’s really good.”

The post Mastering the Blue Hawaii With Garret Richard appeared first on PUNCH.

Whiskey stones can happen to the best of us. I should know: They happened to me.

When I graduated from college in 2007 and moved to New York City, my call drink was Jameson-rocks. It felt impressively masculine and appropriately frugal: an early-20-something good time in a glass. Around the same time that I was discovering cheap Irish whiskey, the cocktail renaissance swept America, and with it arrived accoutrements of all sorts: glassware tailored to every variety of spirit, souvenir muddlers, novelty cocktail shakers, swizzle sticks. For my first apartment, I bought a set of cheap steel bar tools and stainless-steel Martini glasses (¯\_(ツ)_/¯), all of which went unused. Soon after, whiskey boomed and so, for a moment, did whiskey stones.

“Disruptive” products are those that upend the status quo, providing a desirable alternative to a mundane thing that consumers hadn’t realized could be improved upon. The Kindle stores an entire library; escalators are stairs you don’t have to climb; Velcro shoes save their owners at least 10 seconds every day. Then there are barely disruptive products. Things like casual button-down shirts designed to be left untucked, privacy-invading eyewear by Google and Crystal Pepsi. This is the realm whiskey stones occupy, and yet the little ingots of semi-innovation have enjoyed unreasonable popularity despite their obvious drawbacks.

Proper-noun Whisky Stones are meant to be the gold standard in the faux-ice space. On paper, perhaps they are: They won’t melt and dilute drinks, they can be washed and reused and they look and feel kind of cool. Plus, who thrills at refilling ice cube trays?

In an interview posted on the company’s blog, former investment banker and inventor of Whisky Stones Andrew Hellman spoke of his inspiration: Swedish “cooling stones,” which he alleges were hung outside in winter in the early 1900s and dunked in hot liquids fresh off the stove. (I haven’t found evidence of their existence, but it seems plausible enough.) “When we invented the product back in 2007, it was, obviously, entirely new. Nobody had ever seen anything like it,” said Hellman.

That was true, to some extent; the confidence required in attempting to dethrone ice as the most efficient method of cooling liquid was unheard of before the early millennium. And yet whiskey stones turned out to be not merely redundant—in fact, they truly didn’t work as well as ice. For one, whiskeys of all kinds are intended for dilution. Ice isn’t merely an option—it’s an integral part of the experience. Moreover, while ice cools continuously until it is entirely melted, cold whiskey stones can only absorb so much heat; they necessarily quit cooling when both the whiskey and the stones reach equal temperature. But the downsides don’t end there. There are tales of ruined glassware and chipped teeth that add to the general absurdity.

The thing about whiskey stones is that they really do seem like the perfect gift—they contain a promise that is simply too good to be true. Who among us hasn’t been enchanted by a potential life hack? Who hasn’t pored over SkyMall catalogs at 35,000 feet, eyes wide with hypoxia-induced desire for a lawn zombie or motorized sock organizers? Whiskey stones are like all those enchanting, quick-fix gadgets—the ShamWow! the Ped Egg!—you can binge-buy from an armchair at 3 a.m.

Most can agree that the moment of the whiskey stone has passed, and yet they live on. As Father’s Day presents, at Urban Outfitters checkout counters, in poorly targeted Instagram ads, and, yes, in my freezer (four different freezers in four different apartments, actually), somewhere behind the frozen bananas destined for smoothies, perhaps propping up a pork loin. And though I’ve never put them to use, it’ll be a tepid day in hell before they’re gone.

The post Straight Up, Or On the Literal Rocks appeared first on PUNCH.

Whether it’s your first time or your 50th, it’s impossible to visit Dante, the Italian-inspired bar in New York’s West Village, without ordering their flagship Garibaldi. Creative director Naren Young and his team have taken the simple, two-ingredient Italian recipe consisting of Campari and orange juice and elevated it to a modern classic. As Young tells it, “We didn’t invent the Garibaldi, but we perfected it.”

Belonging to the extended school of Italian aperitivo cocktails, the drink takes its name from Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian revolutionary who played a pivotal role in the unification of Italy. Campari’s trademark red hue represents the scarlet shirts worn by Garibaldi’s freedom fighters in the north, while the orange juice nods to Sicily’s abundant citrus in the south. In its homeland, the drink also travels under the more straightforward name of Campari and orange juice, although it remains a benchwarmer compared to the all-star aperitivo classics like the Aperol Spritz and the Negroni.

But thanks to Dante, Garibaldi fever is spreading. The popularity of the fluffy, sunset-hued drink has sparked inspired takes on the Italian cocktail in places as far afield as Kansas City, where a frozen version can be had at The Campground, and Austin, where Carpenters Hall offers a tequila-infused rendition. “It’s always flattering to have someone riff on or copy something you’ve done,” says Young, adding, “There are no original ideas left anyway. We’re all borrowing ideas from one another.”

While many modern Garibaldis tip their hats to Dante and its famously fluffy orange juice—each batch freshly made to order from a Breville juicer kept behind the bar—some bartenders are taking their Garibaldi game to the next level, from spritzified twists to more advanced, technique-driven interpretations. Here are five that show just how far you can stretch the two-ingredient template.

Spumoni

A riff on the cult cocktail perfected by Japanese bartenders, made with Campari, grapefruit and tonic, Bar Pisellino’s Spumoni is spiked with gin and a sweet-savory pink peppercorn syrup. The star of the drink, however, is a foamy layer of Ruby Red grapefruit juice courtesy of a Breville juicer. “It’s the only way to get that texture. It’s so fresh. So active,” says bar director Jon Mullen. Chilled fresh grapefruit juice, never more than 30 minutes old, is always behind the bar, and half of a grapefruit is juiced à la minute for each Spumoni. “People are drawn to the color and the visuals of the drink, and instantly triggered by that thick layer of froth,” says Mullen. “Every time people see a server walking the drink across the room, we’ll have a spike in Spumoni orders. Some nights we’re so busy we don’t even list it on the printed menu.”

Garibaldi Spritz

Jose Cordon’s Garibaldi Spritz marries a California citrus medley and custom bitter blend with the refreshing familiarity of the bubbly spritz. “Instead of using Campari or another specific type of bitter, I like to have a bit more control of the bitter and sweet components of the drink,” says Cordon, who blends equal parts Mezzodi Aperitivo (“bubblegum candy citrus notes”), St. George Spirits’ Bruto Americano (“dry, savory rosemary notes”) and Contratto Aperitif (“lighter orange flavors and bright finish”). The self-described “citrus junkie” turns to LA’s farmers’ markets to stock up on Primavera tangerines, known for their floral characteristic and high acidity, and Murcott mandarins, which bring extra sweetness and produce a full-textured juice. “The Garibaldi is such a simple cocktail, but the fact that it really relies on the quality of the ingredients is what makes it so beautiful,” says Cordon.

Groove is in the Heart

It was the vessel itself, a tall 16-ounce supersize Collins glass, that inspired 701West bar director Salvatore Tafuri to create his Groove is in the Heart cocktail, a Technicolor tribute to the Garibaldi by way of the Screwdriver. “We’re in the middle of Times Square,” says Tafuri, “and I always think of Blade Runner with all of these different colors from the billboards surrounding us. I imagined what a Blade Runner Screwdriver might look like.” The bitter component is introduced via two different flavored ice cubes—one made from fresh blood orange juice and blood orange liqueur, and the other from fresh orange juice and Italicus Rosolio di Bergamotto. The cubes are then stacked, Jenga-style, in alternating colors, into the glass before adding a splash of soda water. The cocktail itself—a pre-batched mix of clarified orange juice, vodka and orange and lemon liqueurs—is translucent and presented in an accompanying bottle, which is then poured over the flavored ice. “We like to say you get one and a half drinks,” says Tafuri. “We encourage our guests to interact with the cubes and smash them up a bit with the metal straw. Play around and see how the taste starts to change.”

Fermented Citrus Garibaldi

When making Negronis at scale, a lot of zestless oranges are left hanging around. Matthew Bax, owner and head bartender of Bar Americano in Melbourne, put those naked oranges to good use in his Fermented Citrus Garibaldi. “Fermentation is a great way to bring a new life to discarded produce,” says Bax. A kombucha SCOBY is fed with orange juice, sugar and a house blend of Italian vermouth. When the batch is ready, it’s strained, chilled and combined with Campari, Aperol and orange bitters. “Good oranges don’t need much more help than Campari and Aperol,” says Bax. The drink is then batched in single-serve Garibaldi-branded soda bottles and poured into a double Old-Fashioned glass over a large ice cube, along with a splash of fresh orange juice.

Jelena

At Neptune in the Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel in central London, bar director Sean Fennelly takes the seemingly simple two-ingredient session drink to the next level with an unexpected jolt of pure nitrogen. “Dante’s Garibaldi was a definite inspiration for me,” says Fennelly. “It’s one of the definitive cocktails of the last five years—such an elegant, satisfying drink. Their ‘fluffy’ orange juice is a real work of gentle genius, and its amazing use of texture was the jumping-off point for the Jelena.” The Jelena pairs Amaro Montenegro and cold-pressed pineapple juice. But instead of fluffy, Fennelly goes foamy. After experimenting with a variety of siphons charged with different gases, he settled on pure nitrogen (N2), which is typically used in nitro cold-brew coffee. “It gives it this incredibly smooth and creamy Guinness-like texture,” he says. “It’s a loving tribute to Dante’s Garibaldi, with hopefully enough points of difference that it stands on its own two feet.”

The post Garibaldi Fever appeared first on PUNCH.

There is an implicit freedom in the word “aperitif.” Sunshine leaking onto avenues and boulevards, lazy twilight cocktails along the Seine, an intimate gathering of friends before parting for a dinner date with a lover. Aperitif holds, in one shining golden hour, all the possibility and promise of the evening to come. It means shrugging off the responsibility of the day and slipping into something more comfortable.

Though deeply ingrained in the French way of drinking, the aperitif and all its variations—including our favorite, the spritz—has taken on a new significance. With the revival of global cocktail culture, a whole spectrum of drinks has been explored and interpreted through a kaleidoscope of cultures and perspectives. Along the way, the world encountered the core of French drinking culture—l’aperitif—and embraced it.

More ink has been spilled over the French way of cooking and eating than perhaps any other in Western culture. A superb method for searing foie gras. How to whip a wondrously fluffy meringue. The secret to savoring a perfect Provençal peach. We have dozens of teachers to thank for ingraining the particularities of French technique and sensibility deep within culinary tradition, New York to Tokyo. A hefty dose of oenological know-how—extending also to its brandy-fied brethren—has always accompanied this spillage. Yet, for such a tipple-oriented territory, comparatively little has been written on the actual ritual of French drinking—the physical pleasure of it, its rites and ceremonies—especially when it comes to the most important part: the beginning.

The term “aperitif” is a descendent of the Latin aperire meaning “to open.” It’s a literal and semantic invitation to start drinking. An aperitif is a conduit from day to night. It’s a channel through which to transition from business to pleasure. It’s an opportunity to begin again. And to those ends, there are three indisputable truths about the aperitif: First, it is a time of day; second, a category of drink and food; and third, it is always wholly enjoyable. These three elements braid together to create an entirely French ceremony, a moment upon which to reflect, relax, and forget your cares. To gather in good company and toast to life.

So what counts as an aperitif drink? Une question formidable. An aperitif, in our book, is any drink that inaugurates your evening. Perhaps it’s a glass of champagne or, even better, a St-Germain Spritz. Because an aperitif is meant to commence the evening, it should be on the lighter side, both in ingredients, texture, and alcohol content. The first cocktail of the evening should provide oomph and levity, a kind of on-ramp to dinner.

What Is a French Spritz?

The French spritz, though open-ended and flexible, exemplifies composure and harmony. As with all things French, it is a balancing act of flavor and seasonality, restraint and flair. It welcomes and weaves in all means of ingredients from French liqueurs like St-Germain and eau de vies to Armagnac and tonic. Never overwrought, the French spritz—dare we say, the Royale—is curated in an effortless way, self-possessed and yet insouciant. As in French cooking, French drinks require technique, une formule if you will, through which to channel creativity and ingenuity. Here are the characteristics that form its essential tenets.

Effervescent: A spritz, by definition, must be sparkling. This fizz can come from soda, tonic, ginger beer, and/or, most importantly, wine. In the latter case, the wine should be French, bien sûr, and it should absolument be effervescent. Champagne, Crémant, or mousseaux are all good options, but any good sparkling wine you happen upon will work. The world of French wine is deep and wide, but don’t fret; simply ask your local caviste what will work best in a cocktail. The wine should be dry and pleasant enough to drink without additional ingredients.

Easygoing: Spritzes, like many other French aperitifs, are often low-alcohol. By nature they’re meant to open the palate rather than overwhelm it. Aside from sparkling wine, consider ingredients like vermouth, quinquinas, sherry, and bitters as a base. Higher-alcohol spirits can certainly be integrated, but are best used as a highlight or a flavor booster in smaller quantities.

Evocative: The defining characteristic of an Italian spritz is its ritual sameness—its well-worn formulaic comfort—no shade to the appeal of routine. The French spritz, however, exhibits an element of the unexpected—the elusive je ne sais quoi. Whether using vermouth subtly infused with chamomile or a spray of fragrant elderflower blossoms, the French spritz is innovative as well as evocative of time and place.

For more on the pleasures of the French spritz, see our recently released book “How to Spritz French,” a complete guide to spritzing with St-Germain cocktails.

The post This Is How to Spritz French appeared first on PUNCH.

After years in the wilderness, when the drink ranked at best as a has-been—a faint memory of a more carefree, fun-filled drinking era—and at worst as a liquid punch line, the Mai Tai has finally come home.

The Top Three

Garret Richard's Mai Tai

Saline is the secret to this winning Mai Tai.

Martin Cate's Mai Tai

A benchmark Mai Tai built on Denizen Merchant's Reserve.

Jelani Johnson's Mai Tai

A fruity abundance of mint, lime and orange lead to a long, dry finish.

More Recipes →

“I think it’s in a good place,” said Paul McGee, co-owner of Chicago’s Lost Lake and a judge in a recent PUNCH blind tasting of 10 different Mai Tais culled from bartenders across the United States.

Jelani Johnson, most recently of Clover Club, and a tiki torchbearer of note, agreed. “I think it’s timeless,” he said. Austin Hartman, owner of the tropical bar Paradise Lounge in Ridgewood, Queens, where the tasting was held, appended that: “A timeless, but unsung, hero.”

The drink certainly wasn’t unsung that day. The three tiki titans, joined in the judging by me and PUNCH senior editor Chloe Frechette, spent two hours delving into the finer points of the cocktail. So, what makes for a good Mai Tai? Turns out, a good many things.

“It’s supposed to be dry, but it should have body,” explained Johnson. “It should showcase the rum. It should have a good backbone of almond-y, syrupy fat, and it should be refreshing.”

“Rum. Weight. Dryness,” agreed Hartman, distilling Johnson’s assessment down to CliffsNotes size.

The twin garnishes of mint and lime, too, were important. “Your nose should be buried in that mint,” said McGee, while pointing out that the herb is strictly there for the nose’s benefit. “There’s no mint in the drink. It’s exclusively aromatic.”

A classic Mai Tai is often topped by the spent hull of a lime that has just surrendered its juices to the drink. Many bartenders shake the drink with the lime shell, believing it adds a little something extra flavor-wise. McGee called the first time he shook with the lime shell “revelatory. It added to the drink.”

A bed of crushed ice was important to most of the judges, who believed that the drink needed to stay cold, and that dilution led to a desirable evolution of the flavors. (Frechette and I, living our lives on the other side of the bar, respectfully disagreed. We preferred to enjoy the drink while it was fresh, cold and potent.)

Unexpectedly, given the Mai Tai’s status as a long-standing classic, and all the adjustable parts in the drink—two rums, orgeat, simple syrup, lime juice, Curaçao and mint—the panelists did not think the cocktail lent itself to variations and modern spins. The submitted recipes reflected this stance. Where past “ultimate” tastings staged by PUNCH have typically included a few curveball entries and outright losers, the ten Mai Tais largely hewed to the classical model.

“It’s a hard drink to riff on because it’s so solid,” said Johnson. “The only thing you can riff on is the choice of orgeat and choice of rums.”

Of course, choosing those rums—one Jamaican, one Martinique, according to Trader Vic’s original 1944 recipe—is critical. (Though the battle over authorship of the drink is long and tangled, no one on the panel disputed Victor Bergeron’s claim of ownership. “It has his stamp all over it,” declared McGee.) Following Vic’s original formula, however, is not an option, as he used 17-year-old Wray & Nephew as his Jamaican rum, a potion no longer available.

“For me it all comes down to the rum,” said Johnson, “because you’re trying to create this rum that none of us have ever had.” Hartman opined that neither of the two rums in the recipe should dominate, but that the drink should represent “a beautiful marriage of the two rums.”

Not surprisingly, the ten competing recipes called for many different bottlings, the most common ask being various expressions of Appleton Estate.

All were acceptable expressions of the drink, and most were downright pleasing. Still, when the ninth of the ten selections arrived, it was greeted with a unanimous chorus of “oohs,” “aahs” and “yums.” The contest was over.

This was the Mai Tai of bartender Garret Richard. It had richness, flavor to burn and personality. You could taste each and every one of the ingredients, and also, the panel suspected, a little something else. They weren’t wrong. Richard added five drops of saline to a mix that including one ounce of lime juice, ¾ ounce Latitude 29 orgeat (specifically made for the New Orleans bar Latitude 29), ¼ ounce Grand Marnier, ½ ounce Clément Créole Shrubb (a blend of agricole rhums, Créole spices and bitter orange peels), ¾ ounce Coruba Jamaican rum, 1 ½ ounces of Denizen Merchant’s Reserve and the aforementioned spent lime wedge.

Denizen also had a starring role in the drink that came in at number two—the recipe from Martin Cate of San Francisco’s Smuggler’s Cove. In fact, Cate consulted on the production of Merchant’s Reserve, a blend of eight-year-old Jamaican pot-still rum and molasses-based rhum grande arôme from Martinique, with the aim of creating a spirit faithful to Trader Vic’s formula. Joining two ounces of the rum in the drink were ½ ounce Pierre Ferrand Dry Curaçao, ½ ounce of Smuggler’s Cove’s own orgeat, ¼ ounce of the bar’s “Mai Tai rich simple syrup” and ¾ ounce lime juice. It was deemed a benchmark Mai Tai, though less dry than numbers one and three.

Third place went to one of the judges, Jelani Johnson, who offered a combination of 1 ½ ounces of Appleton Estate 12 Year Rum, ½ ounce Rhum JM Blanc 100, ¼ ounce Worthy Park Single Estate Reserve Jamaican rum; 1 ounce lime juice, ½ ounce Clément Créole Orange Shrubb, ¼ ounce of the Brooklyn-made Orgeat Works T’Orgeat, ¼ ounce Orgeat Works Latitude 29 orgeat and a teaspoon of 2:1 rich cane-sugar syrup. The judges found a fruity abundance of mint, lime and orange in the glass and a long finish.

All three winning drinks answered the panel’s collective Mai Tai needs, leaving the judges in a blissed-out reverie in which they kept sipping at the winning drinks long after the contest was over. Even Tom Roughton, the bartender who prepared all the cocktails, joined in on the lovefest.

“It’s like sour rum nut candy,” he said, helping himself to another sip.

The post In Search of the Ultimate Mai Tai appeared first on PUNCH.

How a once-obscure technique changed frothy drinks forever.

The post The Silent Shake Heard Round the World appeared first on PUNCH.

Abigail Gullo has a thing for apples. Growing up in Hyde Park, New York, she took full advantage of the autumnal bounty, frequenting Hudson Valley orchards and filling her car with as much fruit as she could carry. The fixation informs her professional proclivities, too.

“I really love working with apple brandy,” says the former head bartender of New Orleans’s Compère Lapin. Gullo leveled up the love last year by moving to Washington, the biggest apple-growing state in America, to run the bar at Ben Paris in Seattle’s State Hotel. It’s the ideal pulpit from which to preach about her favorite apple brandy drinks, including her interpretation of Charles H. Baker’s underappreciated Queen Bee.

A sour augmented with honey and Curaçao, the regal-sounding recipe is one of many detailed in Baker’s The South American Gentleman’s Companion, published in 1951. Gullo, an admirer of the peripatetic author since her days working for Baker superfan St. John Frizell at Brooklyn’s Fort Defiance, has long been taken with the colorful recollections found in this two-volume travelogue—particularly those featuring José “Pépé” Eyzaguirre, a politico and bon vivant of Chilean descent, and Arturo Lagos, a prominent Argentine sculptor.

Both of Baker’s high-profile pals belonged to Círculo de Armas, an ultra-exclusive men’s society that’s still active today. Headquartered in a well-concealed two-story mansion on Avenida Corrientes in Buenos Aires, the “Circle of Arms” also served as the home base for “Las Marmitas,” an epicurean club-within-a-club that, as Baker reveals, “[met] once a week . . . to fix specially fine cookery masterpieces in the pots for which their small but select group gets it name.” The Queen Bee, attributed to Lagos, was a favored refreshment of this crowd.

Gullo sees some parallels between Baker’s South American social activities and her own. You had to “know a guy” to gain admission to “this club, this place where people who loved to cook these special dishes would hang,” she says. “In a way, it sounds like what me and my friends do now.”

Per Baker, the Queen Bee, as Las Marmitas took it, consisted of two ounces of the “best apple brandy possible,” plus two teaspoons each of lemon juice, strained honey and white orange Curaçao. Gullo swaps in “brighter and fresher” eau de vie for the brandy component. “An unaged apple brandy is something closer to a gin, with beautiful, fragrant aromatics,” she says. In a nod to her new town, she has replaced Curaçao with a lemon verbena liqueur produced by Seattle’s Sidetrack Distillery, which bolsters the fresh citrus and complements the sweetness of her honey syrup without overwhelming.

Gullo, who’s lately noticed an uptick in calls for Bee’s Knees at Ben Paris, sees the Queen Bee as a logical next step for these guests. “It’s perfect for the summertime, but it also goes so well into the fall,” she says. “Nice and well balanced—the perfect Goldilocks drink.”

The post Bring Back the Queen Bee appeared first on PUNCH.

We’ve partnered with Bacardi Women in Leadership for a series dedicated to exploring the theme of “originality” with some of today’s most inspiring leaders.

At first glance, Monica Berg’s drinks look simple: a Gin and Tonic, an Old Fashioned, a Martini. But it’s not the blueprint that makes a Berg drink stand out. It’s her way of incorporating the Nordic ingredients that colored her childhood memories into otherwise commonplace classics.

As a kid growing up in Oslo, Berg’s stepfather, a fisherman and hunter, taught her to understand the value of good ingredients and the time it takes to grow and cultivate them. “I had to learn how to fish, grow vegetables and fruits,” she recalls. “From when I was young, I’d have to keep the sourdough starter alive as a weekly chore, on a Sunday go out to pick mushrooms or berries.”

Berg also fell in love with bartending early on— so early, in fact, that she opted to decamp to Greece to work there for several months while waiting to turn 20, the legal age to tend bar in Norway. Upon her return home, she spent the following years working everywhere “from dive bars to cocktail bars to nightclubs to restaurants,” she remembers. “I was quite restless when I was younger.”

Eventually, she decided she needed a break from bartending — but she didn’t stray far. Instead, she began teaching her craft at a Norwegian bartending school, going on to become the manager and later the owner. Four years later, Berg was ready to get back in the game, and her timing couldn’t have been better: In 2009, Norwegian hotel group Thon came calling, with a bar project focused solely on the Nordic ingredients of her childhood. The bar would become Aqua Vitae, and Berg would become its head bartender. There, she began championing local products and collaborating with chefs on cocktail ideas. After three years, she traded Oslo for London and took a job at Pollen Street Social, another bar she credits with helping her develop her creative process.

In 2015, she left to start her own bar consulting company, which opened the door to projects like Himkok, a hybrid bar and microdistillery in Oslo, for which she is perhaps best known; Credo Restaurant, where she developed drinks for the rigorously “ingredient-driven” restaurant; her drinks symposium series, P(our); Tayēr + Elementary, a bar slash cocktail workshop with an ever-changing menu of experimental drinks; and Muyu, a new line of premium liqueurs. (Most of her projects, except Himkok and Credo, are collaborations with her business partner, Alex Kratena.)

While Berg’s drinks are experimental, she insists they aren’t overly complicated. In fact, she cites a quote from Ivan Abrahamsen, master blender for Linie Aquavit, as one of the guiding principles of her drink-making style. “Sometimes you have to be brave enough to intervene as little as possible,” he told her.

Another guiding principle? Openness, something she values in mentors and collaborators, like Abrahamsen and Heidi Bjerkan, chef and owner of Credo. “I think it’s important to just be open and willing to share,” she says. “You always have to want to improve. Imagine how far you could get if nobody cares who gets the credit?”

Berg says she has Bjerkan to thank for showing her how to master fermentation (“When it comes to flavor, I’ve met few people who can match her in how she manipulates ingredients,” she says of Bjerkan), which she calls on in drinks like her Butter Martini. Berg turns the classic on its head by butter-washing gin and then garnishing the drink with a lacto-fermented gooseberry in place of an olive.

The last point of inspiration for Berg is what she calls “flavor memory,” pointing to a whey cordial she makes for a Gimlet-style drink as a perfect example. Whey, fermented and cultured into a kefir, provides acidity in place of the usual citrus — and also channels her childhood memory of pouring kefir or cultured milk into oatmeal.

“These are familiar flavors,” she says, “but in a completely new setting.”

Find out more about the Spirit Forward Women in Leadership program here.

The post How Monica Berg Is Shaping the “New Nordic” appeared first on PUNCH.

“Bizzes are really the ultimate ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ thing,” explains Tom Macy, a partner and the head bartender at Julie Reiner’s Clover Club in Brooklyn.

Macy recalls first hearing the insider shorthand during a brief stint working at Reiner’s tropical bar, Lani Kai, before it closed in 2012, though it was actually coined in the early days of Reiner’s first bar, Flatiron Lounge. Back then the menu featured a Singapore Sling—a cocktail jammed with as many as eight ingredients, many of them called for in minuscule amounts, often not more than a teaspoon.

“Our volume was so high that we needed to be able to get the drink out without having an eight-bottle pickup,” recalls Reiner. To speed up the preparation, Reiner began to batch the small-quantity ingredients, like Cointreau and grenadine, into a single bottle. When making the drink during a happy hour onslaught, a bartender might yell to a colleague to pass them the “Singapore Sling business.” Eventually, that single bottle got shortened to simply being “the biz.” A new slang term had been coined.

Yet in an age when the cocktail industry is so meticulously catalogued, when even bartenders at the Chili’s in the mall know what fat-washing is, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single mention of “the biz” on the internet. (You won’t find the term anywhere on Clover Club’s menu either—you’ll have to look to some Sharpie-scrawled labels behind the bar.)

In the earliest days of the bar, which opened in 2008, bartenders began casually using “biz” to refer to any kind of batching. As was indicative of that classic cocktail-heavy era, they only ever had a need for one or two at a time. Now that Clover Club has become a higher-volume destination, however, an influx of bizzes has followed.

“Our cocktail menu over the last two to three years has gotten a lot bigger, so we’ve really had to streamline for scale,” explains Macy. Making a biz before service starts is a lot easier and more accurate than tossing teaspoons of several minor modifiers into every single drink. These days, anything that can be made into a biz is; some aren’t even all that complex, just two or three non-spirituous ingredients—like matcha vanilla syrup, Coco Lopez and coconut milk used in a Piña Colada. (Any blend of two or more spirits is officially called a “batch” rather than a “biz.”)

Bizzes are made at least once a week and, since some use non-shelf-stable ingredients, are not produced in great volumes. Those that are rarely used are stored in the fridge, but most go in the juice well, while the real workhorses sit up on the bar. Aside from Macy and fellow bartender Jelani Johnson occasionally trying to come up with punny names for new ones—“Whiskey Biz-ness,” “Taking Care of Biz-ness,” etc.—their labels are typically quotidian, named after the key drink they go in. But bizzes aren’t really about clever names or dazzling guests, they’re simply about getting the job done quickly and efficiently. And that’s why you’ve never heard about them until now. For good reason, adds Macy: “It’s definitely not the sexiest term.”

Here, five Clover Club “bizzes” and how to use them.

Cherry Biz

This supercharging of five different cherry flavors is added to Wild Turkey Rare Breed and the house sweet vermouth to create the bar’s $21 Reserve Manhattan.

Try it in: Manhattan, Boulevardier, Negroni

Tiger Biz

This biz is used to add some sweetness and body to the Tiger Lily, a mezcal and coriander-infused blanco tequila cobbler.

Try it in: Venus Fly Trap, Take Your Time, Margarita

Crooked Biz

Used in the rum-heavy tiki drink Crooked Mast, this biz uniquely features two different orgeats produced by Brooklyn-based commercial orgeat maker “Tiki Adam.”

Try it in: Mai Tai, Jamaican Zombie, Scorpion Bowl

Matcha Biz

This green tea-based biz is used for the offbeat Matcha Colada, which has the unexpected inclusion of green Chartreuse in it.

Try it in: Piña Colada, Coquito, Cool as Clarence

Milk Biz

Created by Shannon Ponche when she worked at Clover Club, the milk biz is meant for use in the Thai One On cocktail but has become an employee favorite for all sorts of drinks.

Try it in: Coconut Julep, Tom & Jerry, Irish Coffee

The post Beyond the Batch, There’s the “Biz” appeared first on PUNCH.

In the age of Instagram, the defining feature of a bar is often determined not by reviews, tastes or intent, but by smartphone. While some spaces are designed with this express purpose in mind, there are certain objects that become inadvertent icons through their unwitting “Instagram-ability.” In this series, PUNCH shares the stories behind the bar world’s most viral landmarks.

King Cole bar in New York City, and its 30-foot-wide backbar mural, has been the setting for scenes in The Devil Wears Prada, Hannah and Her Sisters, Gossip Girl and The First Wives Club. But more frequently it appears as the star of countless Instagram snaps in which a grimacing king serves as an aspirational figure for those seated below—a merry old soul for whom happiness requires little more than his pipe, his bowl and his fiddlers three.

Painted in 1906 by Maxfield Parrish, the grand-scale installation is the crown jewel of its namesake bar housed within Fifth Avenue’s St. Regis Hotel. John Jacob Astor IV commissioned the artwork from the illustrious Parrish—one of the most in-demand American artists in the twentieth century—for his own Knickerbocker Hotel. After the Knickerbocker closed following Astor’s death on the Titanic in 1912, the mural wandered for years until landing at its present home in the mid-1930s.

In 2007, the three eight-foot-tall panels were removed by a team of specialists to undergo a much-needed restoration. Years of lingering smoke, and the occasional splash of booze, had left a grimy film over the entirety of the piece, obscuring some of the finer points of interest, including, most notably, a subtle jab at Astor himself. As the story goes, Astor felt the price of the commission, some $5,000, earned him the right to be depicted as King Cole, a request that Parrish obliged—but not without his own personal stipulation. According to legend, the king’s sheepish grin and the laughter of his legion of musicians and minions reflect an embarrassing moment: breaking wind.

Surveying the posts of the much-photographed backbar, it is unclear whether the hordes of Instagram users drawn to the mural are in on the joke. One caption simply reads, “It’s good to be king,” while another cryptically declares, “Everyone has a secret.” But one is far less coy in its declaration. Above a bustling bar scene, the illuminated King Cole presides; below, the caption simply reads: “fart.”

Photos, via Instagram:@anabrecoj, @alexander.j.noelle, @dohgle212, @hitosurugu_kitsijima, @dsf1976, @dbates, @petersejames, @dora_cl1, @orouram, @ultrafresca, @planetpinto, @audprater, @gregory_cole, @ronmathieu, @hbeiss, @stregisnewyork, @fredbolacienterprises, @rgarrtours, @socalmom, @rachelglaze, @butromontina, , @mrjmb1968 , @poplifectv , @phillipesimard1980 , @jordan_amyx , @ronald_scagliola , @cw810

The post You Will Instagram This: King Cole Bar appeared first on PUNCH.

Just a few years ago, pandan was virtually unheard of in American cocktail bars. But today, the Southern Asian herb’s coconut-like flavor is being infused into spirits, syrups, cordials and tinctures and has made appearances in everything from elaborate tiki drinks to Negroni and Old-Fashioned variations.

Asked about the origins of the pandan craze, most bartenders will point to French bartender Nico de Soto, who made a name for himself with his baroque gastronomy-inspired infusions, such as peanut butter-washed whiskey and apple butter-infused Calvados.

He recalls first experimenting with pandan circa 2011 after a trip through Southeast Asia, where the herb is used widely in cooking and confections. “I think it is one of the most complex flavors you can have,” he explains. “There’s no ingredient in the world that has that nutty flavor, those layers, that complexity. It’s really insane.”

At the Experimental Cocktail Club in Paris, he began working with pandan in drinks such as the L’Alligator C’est Vert, an absinthe and coconut flip, eventually sparking a pandan trend across the Paris bar community. The Philippine Embassy in Paris even wrote an official letter to de Soto, thanking him for his role in promoting their native herb.

Although de Soto wasn’t the first to use the leaf in drinks, he undoubtedly popularized its usage. Mace, his bar in New York, for example, has featured a pandan cocktail on every menu since it opened in 2015. When the bar relocated to a larger space in Alphabet City earlier this year, naturally, the opening menu featured a pandan-spiked clarified milk punch.

The long, intensely green leaves, also known as Pandanus leaf or screwpine, of which more than 700 varieties exist, can be purchased fresh, dried or frozen from Asian grocery stores (de Soto uses whichever variety is available). Alternatively, thick green pandan extract or paste can be purchased online.

Compared to delicate mint or basil leaves, the herb doesn’t give up much aroma when muddled. Most bartenders work with fresh or frozen leaves, often steeping them into a simple syrup or infusing them into spirits. de Soto notes that steeping whole leaves for 24 to 48 hours creates a more aromatic end product, while blending is faster and adds a grassy, bitter note. Blended pandan syrup is the option de Soto uses for his Pandan-quiri, a straightforward Daiquiri riff sweetened with pandan-infused simple syrup. In some of his recipes, the syrup is also goosed with a few drops of pandan extract, adding even more nutty intensity.

Earlier this year, Mister Paradise, which recently opened just a couple of blocks from Mace, took a cheeky swipe at de Soto, who has been known to fanatically Instagram his exercise routine: the CrossFit Breakfast, a shot-sized serving of rum, coconut and coffee, is topped with malted pandan whipped cream.

For others, pandan is truly an expression of culture. “Using Pandan reminds me that I am a Filipino,” says Philippines native Gelo Honrade, bar manager at Korean gastropub Osamil (formerly of Filipino outpost Jeepney). It’s also a way for him to gently introduce Filipino flavors to an American audience when woven into traditional drinks like the Old-Fashioned and rum punch.

Thanks to its natural affinity for rum, the herb is particularly attractive to bartenders working within the tiki or tropical realm. At New York’s The Polynesian, Brian Miller dashes pandan extract into the Killer Kiwi, a Painkiller riff inspired by Tiki-Ti’s Grasshopper Swizzle. At Lost Lake in Chicago, Paul McGee lauds the herb’s “toasted coconut flavor,” brewing it into a syrup bound for a gingery highball, while at Boston’s Baldwin Bar, Ran Duan makes a pandan tincture for the Siam Park Swizzle.

“The flavor excites me because it tastes new,” says Erick Castro of Polite Provisions in San Diego. There, he creates a pandan soda that gets mixed with roasted pineapple gin for his tall, bubbly Pineapple Princess. “[Pandan] has enough [familiar] notes to make people do a double take,” says Castro. “Like, ‘Wait, what was that?’”

Many thanks to our friends at Mister Paradise for allowing us to make a mess of their beautiful space.

Pandan-quiri: The Daiquiri gets perfumed with pandan. [Recipe]

Fast Canoe: The familiarity of a whiskey-ginger highball, plus a pandan twist. [Recipe]

Leeward Negroni: Bitter meets tropical. [Recipe]

Coco Pandan Old Fashioned: A twist on the classic made with coconut liqueur and pandan-infused bourbon. [Recipe]

CrossFit Breakfast: Will Wyatt’s upgraded take on the Blowjob shot. [Recipe]

The post A New Way to Pandan appeared first on PUNCH.

Around San Diego, the Old-Fashioned is still pretty simple and by-the-book, according to Paulina Konja. That means: bourbon, bitters and white sugar—full stop. Maybe (maybe) someone “uses demerara sugar in place of simple syrup,” she jokes. As bar manager at San Diego’s Kettner Exchange, however, Konja prefers to put her own spin on the classic. For one thing, rather than bourbon, she’s partial to rum. And instead of leaning on the traditional sweet syrup, she amps up the flavor with her own special bitter blends.

“There is such a variety of [bitter liqueurs and fortified wines] that I think they can work with any spirit,” says Konja. But while they can work with any spirit, she’s noticed, over the years, that they work especially well with rum. The vast complexity of the category means modifiers and liqueurs, especially bitter ones, can tease out different aspects of a particular rum’s flavor profile, she explains. “It just takes a little practice in blending the flavors.”

Brugal 1888, for instance, is packed with cinnamon on the nose, with a palate that tilts more toward chocolate, dried fruit and caramel. She leans into those flavors with her blend, finding modifiers that both enhance and contrast. “My idea was to complement the baking spice aromatics from the 1888 with orange flavors and use them in place of a sweetener,” she says.

Since no single bitter checked all the boxes for her, she created a 50-50 blend of CioCiaro, a central Italian amaro known for its burnt orange and herbal flavors, and Byrrh Grand Quinquina, a French aperitif wine that drinks like a brighter, slightly more bitter vermouth.

“It’s used in place of a [simple syrup] and meant to act as a bridge between the 1888 and CioCiaro, creating a smooth transition between flavors,” Konja says of the Byrrh. Both parts of her blend are assertive enough to hold their own against the robust, sherry-finished qualities of the Dominican rum without stealing the spotlight. As it should be in an Old-Fashioned, the rum is the star of the show.

The post The Secret to Paulina Konja’s Rum Old-Fashioned? It’s In the “50-50.” appeared first on PUNCH.

If you Google “Dubonnet,” the first thing you’ll discover is that it’s Queen Elizabeth and the late Queen Mother’s drink of choice. That’s pretty good street cred for an aperitif that’s been kicking around since 1846. But its appeal extends far beyond the walls of Buckingham Palace. Since its creation in France by wine merchant and chemist Sir Joseph Dubonnet, the aromatized wine has made its way around the world and back again, showing up in bars during the Parisian Belle Époque, and reemerging yet again today, in cocktail bars from London to New York.

Sir Dubonnet conceived the drink as a way to get the French Foreign Legionnaires, serving on the front lines in North Africa, to drink quinine—an all-important natural malaria preventive too bitter to sip straight. To say it was successful would be an understatement—the formula became so popular with with soldiers (and Madame Dubonnet) that the medicine caught on as a drink in it’s own right. As the red wine–based brand found its way across the pond, it also found its way straight into America’s burgeoning cocktail culture. In fact, some of the most notable cocktail books of the early 20th century—from The Savoy Cocktail Book (1930) to Charles Baker’s The South American Gentleman’s Companion (1951)—call for it by name.

With its rich body and rounded, herbal, bitter flavor, Dubonnet was, and still is, a natural substitute for vermouth, appearing in drinks like the Deshler, a sort of improved Manhattan recipe. “The first cocktail I ever had with Dubonnet was the Peggy,” says Ezra Star of Drink, in Boston, reflecting on the Martini riff from The Savoy Cocktail Book. Her drink, the Finding Peggy, was designed to bring out the robustness of Dubonnet, promoting it from a supporting player to the starring role.

At some point, Dubonnet’s European recipe diverged from the product distributed in the U.S., where it hadn’t quite caught on, and—along with the whole category of European liqueurs, aromatized wines and cocktail culture in general—Dubonnet fell into obscurity for decades. That is, until its parent company, Heaven Hill, decided to bring the aperitif back to Dubonnet’s original roots. Today, the recipe has been thoughtfully reformulated to hew more closely in flavor profile to the original European recipe than ever, and the aperitif is finding a resurgence with bartenders dedicated to study of the classics.

“The new formula seems like it has much more concentrated ripe red fruit than I remember the old one having,” says Dan Greenbaum, of Diamond Reef in Brooklyn. Greenbaum uses Dubonnet in his take on the sherry-infused Alfonso XIII, from The Artistry of Mixing Drinks (1936). “With the fino, there’s that mineral-herbal thing that works well together.”

The new Dubonnet recipe still hinges on a red wine base, but this time, it’s a mix of rubyred, rubicabernet and muscat of Alexandria grapes, enhanced with a proprietary blend of herbs and spices, including black currant and black tea. The bittering agent, though, is the original quinine, still sweetened with 100 percent sugar cane. Star considers the new iteration “a welcome update [that] has the weight and body of a cordial but with the impact of a fresh vermouth.”

To get a sense of how classic, aperitif-style Dubonnet cocktails are being reimagined for the modern drinker, we tapped five of America’s best bartenders to retool their favorite Dubonnet classic. From an old Manhattan-style drink from Hugo R. Ensslin’s 1917 Recipes for Mixed Drinks, remade with blood orange liqueur and mole bitters, to an old Martini variation from the 1935 Mr. Boston, flipped to fall squarely in the aperitif category, here are their drinks.

Destroyer Cocktail: Joaquín Simó’s Manhattan-style drink is based on the Deshler Cocktail, circa 1917. [Recipe]

Dubonnet Frappé: Julia McKinley reimagines Charles Baker’s 1951 Ron Habanero Dubonnet Helado. [Recipe]

The Wolseley: William Elliott updates The Savoy Cocktail Book’s Calvados-driven Bentley Cocktail. [Recipe]

Finding Peggy: Ezra Star flips the proportions on the Peggy, a two-to-one Martini from the 1935 Mr. Boston. [Recipe]

Alfonso XIII Highball: Dan Greenbaum’s lengthened sherry-infused version, adapted from The Artistry of Mixing Drinks (1936). [Recipe]

The post The Original Dubonnet Aperitifs, Reimagined appeared first on PUNCH.

“Mesquite commands respect,” says Sandeep Gyawali, neuroscientist, baker, cocktail enthusiast and forager. “It fights back and thrives under harsh conditions. The thorns make harvesting difficult, but there’s also heat, scorpions, snakes and cacti.” A spiky, prolific, leguminous tree native to the American Southwest and parts of Mexico, mesquite is perhaps best known in the United States for its relationship to Texas barbecue. But Gyawali has been rekindling the state’s deep connection to the tree as an ingredient, with his Austin-based Texas Mesquite Movement, catching the attention of local bartenders, brewers and distillers (not to mention chefs and bakers) who have begun utilizing the sweet earthy pods and their beans into all means of cocktails, spirits and beers.

“When raw, the pods have a faint sweetness and smell of oolong tea. Roasted, they take on chocolate, coconut, coffee and baking-spice flavors and aromas,” says Gyawali, who makes an in-demand mesquite extract. He forages statewide on private lands, but also has partnerships with Austin’s Multicultural Refugee Coalition, which owns a farm in Manor, Texas, and ranchers in McAllen, Rankin and Carrizo Springs, who forage pods for him on their properties. Mesquite pods ripen in midsummer; the most ubiquitous species in Texas is honey mesquite (Prosopis glandulosa), which grows everywhere except the far eastern part of the state. The beans, which have a sugary exterior, have long been a vital food source for indigenous people, while the flour or beans were fermented into a low-alcohol beverage called atole, which is more commonly made with corn.

Gyawali soaks the dark-roasted pods (they’re also ground whole, with the beans, into a rich, luxurious flour) in a neutral alcohol base for several months before filtering and bottling the result. In Austin, at The Cavalier, bartender Kevin Rhodes incorporates Gyawali’s extract into his Black Feather Bourbon–based Honey Mesquite Sour along with demerara simple syrup, Amarena cherry syrup, lemon and egg white. Rhodes’s Hill Country Holiday, a sophisticated riff on a White Russian, mixes the extract with TLC vodka, Amontillado sherry, demerara simple syrup and Irish Cream. At Odd Duck, Blackwell Rum is infused with mesquite pods before getting mixed with Bulleit Bourbon, Pierre Ferrand Ambre Cognac. Gyawali says mesquite tannins are well suited to egg- and milk-based drinks, whose creaminess round out any harsh edge.

Fruit and herbs also work well with mesquite: At San Antonio’s Cured, chef-owner Steve McHugh highlights Hill Country stone fruit with Peachy Keen, a mesquite flour–infused white rum cobbler. At Treaty Oak Distilling, Gyawali’s extract is added to a gin-based Old-Fashioned sweetened with chamomile-honey syrup, lending warmth and a touch of smoke. The distillery is launching a mesquite gin in the fall of 2020. Even native Texan Matthew McConaughey has aligned himself with Texas’s most beloved flavor, collaborating on Wild Turkey Longbranch, a small-batch mesquite charcoal–infused bourbon made by Wild Turkey master distiller Eddie Russell.

At Driftwood’s Desert Door Distillery, mesquite is more than an ingredient—it’s become intertwined with the distillery’s identity. Currently the nation’s only producer of sotol, Desert Door will host its second annual Mesquiteers Fest in late August. The brainchild of the “Three Mesquiteers” (Desert Door, Gyawali and Tara Chapman of Two Hives Honey), the festival is a celebration of “the foods from this land, and a way of reintroducing them for modern culinary use,” says Bobbi Lee Hitchon, director of field marketing at Desert Door and one of the Mesquiteers cofounders.

“The story of mesquite parallels that of sotol in Texas,” says Hitchon, “Both are neglected and maligned wild foods that ranchers have long attempted to eliminate.” Prolific, drought-tolerant, water-storing plants, sotol and mesquite are loathed by ranchers and agriculturists who instead need the water for livestock and irrigation. Following the massive cattle drives of the mid-nineteenth century, mesquite spread in range and density, and ranchers began fighting what became known as the “Great Mesquite Wars,” which are still waged today.

Despite their reputation as invasive, however, mesquite and sotol’s cultural significance remains indisputable amongst Texans. Says Hitchon, “Mesquite and sotol have been used for thousands of years by native peoples for myriad purposes. We’re working to continue a story fueled by food and drink applications.” The distillery often pairs the two together, as in The Revival, mesquite pod–infused sotol, lemon juice, ginger syrup and agave nectar, shaken and served over ice.

Beyond cocktails and spirits, breweries like Jester King, Cibolo Creek, The Brewer’s Table and Armadillo Ale Works have begun producing mesquite-infused saisons, porters and blonde ales, using raw or roasted pods and/or beans. “For our Cerveza de Mesquite, a saison farmhouse ale, we use a mixed culture of wild yeast and bacteria harvested from around the brewery and pulverized raw pods, added during the hot side of the brewing process,” says Jester King brewer Sean Spiller. “They have a massive sugar and baking spice aroma, which is why we chose to brew a very basic beer, which allows the mesquite to shine.”

For his part, Gyawali attributes Central Texas’s mesquite revival to Austin’s close-knit food community and enthusiasm for ingredients that champion a distinct sense of place. And while anyone can order mesquite products with a few clicks, he encourages Texans to seek a source closer to home. “My goal is to make it more accessible, but you don’t need me. Just look in your backyard.”

The post In Texas, Even Drinks Love Mesquite appeared first on PUNCH.

Though he’s only ever bartended in New York, Jon Mullen has a way of conjuring distant locales with each drink he creates. In part, this stems from the concept-rooted bars where he cut his teeth—the New Orleans–themed Maison Premiere, the French-leaning Sauvage—but it also reflects his own preference for a style of drinking that falls squarely within the European tradition of aperitivo.

“I like a late-afternoon-style drink,” says Mullen, who helms the bar at the West Village’s Bar Pisellino, Rita Sodi and Jody Williams’s property modeled in the image of a classic Torino café. “I’ve always been a daytime drinker—even in college, before it was of any sort of quality.” Over the years, this preference has informed much of his output, which tends toward a low-alcohol, bitter and refreshing profile, bolstered by a deep knowledge of European liqueurs, americanos and fortified wines of every ilk. This intense focus was gleaned from years working under the tutelage of Maison Premiere and Sauvage bar director William Elliott.

“I’m informed by Will Elliott’s palate; I definitely think that I was kind of geared toward a higher altitude profile—bitter and cooling,” says Mullen of his mentor’s love of alpine liqueurs and eaux de vie. After completing a degree in English, Mullen planned to attend Cornell’s Viticulture and Enology school, where he had been accepted. But a visit to Maison Premiere in 2014 changed all that. “Pretty much right away I was like ‘this place is different,’” Mullen recalls. “My first drink was a Rattlesnake [a Whiskey Sour variation calling on the addition of absinthe], which was unlike anything I’d ever seen.” After that initial visit, he returned three nights in a row before applying for an opening as a barback, abandoning his plans to attend Cornell. “I wanted to take bartending seriously, and it was a place that did.”

When the Maison Premiere team opened Sauvage, a Parisian café–inspired bar, in 2016, Mullen began bartending there simultaneously. After a few years, he left his post as bartender at both locations to develop his own program at Fort Greene’s Mettā, where he worked in close collaboration with chef Norberto Piattoni, incorporating byproducts from the food menu into a low-waste drinks program. His High Borghese, for example, calls on tomato brine left over from the fermentation of fresh in-season tomatoes—a technique that allows the kitchen to preserve the tomatoes at their peak. “It was a lesson in looking at your ingredients completely rather than as a single use or a single idea,” says Mullen of his progressive menu.

Still, it was the European-inspired backbar at Sauvage that left a lasting impression. “I think Sauvage was the drinks program I latched on to the most,” he says. It’s not difficult to see the influence of that place on Mullen’s original creations at Bar Pisellino, where he serves as bar manager. The standing-room-only space offers a tight menu of refined aperitivo cocktails—an Aperol Spritz, Americano and Negroni Sbagliato, among others. But it’s the Anisette Frappé that perhaps best encapsulates what Mullen accomplishes so well across his entire repertoire: creating drinks evocative of a particular time and place.

“Thinking about where you are and what you want to drink at that time is a big part of my approach,” says Mullen. Channeling the post-dinner sambuca and espresso tradition into an afternoon pick-me-up, the frappé arrives on a silver platter alongside a shot of espresso and a short glass of sparkling water, instantly transporting the drinker al banco in Torino’s Piazza Castello. It’s one of the most visually appealing cocktails on a menu of striking refreshments, the sort of cocktail that wouldn’t be out of place in Wes Anderson’s highly stylized, romantic vision of Europe as captured in The Grand Budapest Hotel. It is, in other words, the aesthete’s aperitivo.

BB Highball
“It’s a Bitters and Soda, basically,” says Mullen of his BB Highball, a drink that he created during his time helming the bar program at Mettā. To a Braulio base, he adds a full teaspoon of Angostura bitters as well as dehydrated citrus juice—what he calls “citrus caramel”—for acidity in place of fresh lemon. It’s a prime example of the ways in which Mullen collaborates with the kitchen to repurpose ingredients that would otherwise be wasted. A soda water topper adds carbonation to the highball, which channels all the complexity and flavors of the Italian Alps.

Anisette Frappé
“It’s a late-afternoon pick-me-up rather than a wind-down after dinner,” explains Mullen of his Anisette Frappé, which is served alongside a shot of espresso and a glass of sparkling water at Bar Pisellino. As such, it clocks in at a lower ABV than a traditional Absinthe Frappé, and, though minimally garnished (“I don’t fall into tiki, it’s not overly done”), it conveys meticulous attention to detail in its presentation—a signature of Mullen’s entire output.

High Borghese
Named for the eponymous park in Rome, Mullen likens his High Borghese to “a refreshing smash.” Gin, lemon cordial and lemon juice are shaken with Suze, a French gentian liqueur and fermented tomato brine—the byproduct of the kitchen’s fermentation process. The result is, in Mullen’s words, “an elevated vegetal and herbal drink.”

Luli Collins
The Luli Collins is a riff on Mullen’s favorite shift drink, the Tom Collins. Rather than the expected gin base, Mullen opts for Luli Moscato Chinato and Villa de Varda Amarone Riserva grappa for this version he serves at Bar Pisellino. “It’s built around different applications of grapes,” he explains of his split base, which marries both fermented and distilled grape components for a layered Collins by way of Italy.

BB Highball: A hefty dose of Braulio channels all the complexity and flavor of the Italian alps.[Recipe]

Anisette Frappé: A late-afternoon pick-me-up that nods to the tradition of sambuca and espresso.[Recipe]

High Borghese: Gin, lemon cordial, lemon juice and Suze are shaken with a measure of fermented tomato brine.[Recipe]

Luli Collins: A layered Collins by way of Italy.. [Recipe]

The post Jon Mullen Takes an Aesthete’s Approach to Aperitivo appeared first on PUNCH.

Even the fiercest AC fiends among us know what to expect once the calendar begins its inexorable lurch into our steamiest, stickiest season: Pesky sand, in, on and around everything. A sheen of sweat so wickedly omnipresent it starts counting as part of your outfit.

The most effective and appealing balm for a cruel, cruel summer, of course, is a chilly beverage specifically engineered to bolster sanity as the mercury climbs. For many, a minimalist approach is the way to go—hand over a frigid canned pilsner or a glass of rosé and call it a day. But we should never undervalue the elemental power of a properly made summer cocktail.

In partnership with Giffard, we sought the expertise of four of our favorite bartenders to school us on the subtle art of defeating the heat. The result: “Summer Four Ways,” a reimagination of time-honored warm-weather cocktail styles that injects new life into the “crushable” canon, inspired by the Giffard line of fruit liqueurs.

Founded in France in 1885, Giffard itself was born in balmy environs. Seeking respite from a serious heat wave in Angers, located in the Loire Valley winemaking region, chemist-turned-distiller Émile Giffard created a cooling, clear, herbaceous liqueur that went on to become his flagship Menthe-Pastille. More than 130 years and five generations later, the Giffard product line remains a palette to draw from for spirituous relief.

No matter their provenance, the best summer drinks tend to feature a few key characteristics. First, the big one: They tend to go easy on the alcohol. “One thing I look for is something a little lower-proof,” says Christine Wiseman, bar manager of Broken Shaker in Los Angeles. “When you’re in the sun all day and you’re drinking, it can take a pretty big toll on you.” Her Banana Shadow, a tweaked Daiquiri highlighting Giffard Banane du Brésil, embodies this dialed-back ideal.

Kristina Magro of Chicago’s Lone Wolf Tavern concurs, identifying liqueurs, sherries and fortified wines, cut with generous citrus, as her go-to categories. “You have to think light, fresh and cool,” she says. “You want to have a couple drinks without feeling goofy.” A clever riff on the classic Tuxedo, itself a variation of the Martini, Magro’s Suit and Tie is built around Giffard Lichi-Li.

Revitalizing our most parched beach bums, however, is a mission that demands more than just a well-considered toolkit. “Using a good-quality liqueur in cocktails, plus fresh juice, is really important in making sure cocktails taste great—but they should look great, too,” says Brooklyn bartender Fanny Chu. She would know: The resident “queen of crushable cocktails” at the rum-focused Donna is known for turning out creations festooned with eye-catching garnishes. “This is why tiki people gravitate toward tiki cocktails,” says Chu. “It just looks like something you want to drink.”

Dressed up with a hefty pineapple wedge, fresh mint sprigs, a vibrant lemon wheel and the requisite teeny umbrella, Chu’s KiKiKōlada nails the visual requirement and tastes luscious too, relying on Giffard Caribbean Pineapple and Blue Curaçao.

But if sight is considered when the task is extreme refreshment, scent should be, too. “Aromas from herbs, flowers and ripe fruit are lovely,” says Chantal Tseng of Washington, D.C.’s Reading Room. Additionally, “good solid ice that doesn’t melt too fast” and all things bubbly, whether sparkling wine or non-alcoholic carbonated mixer, are Tseng’s keys to summer sipping success. Revving up the classic spritz build with unexpected additions from the Greek Isles, Tseng’s Spritzus Narcissus incorporates Giffard Wild Elderflower liqueur to maximize aromatics.

Each of these drinks is meant to prompt escapism, that final ingredient that every proper summer cocktail should include. “People want to be able to take a mini-vacation … without actually traveling,” says Donna’s Chu. “A great cocktail can definitely help with that.”

Summer, Four Ways

KiKiKōlada: Fanny Chu leans on Giffard Caribbean Pineapple for a cocktail that drinks like the love-child of a Blue Hawaiian and a piña colada. [Recipe]

Suit and Tie: Kristina Magro updates the Lychee Martini template with Giffard Lichi-Li and sherry. [Recipe]

Spritzus Narcissus: Chantal Tseng’s truly international take on the spritz with Giffard Wild Elderflower and retsina. [Recipe]

Banana Shadow: Christine Wiseman gives the classic Daiquiri template not-too-sweet upgrade with Giffard Banane du Brésil. [Recipe]

The post Mastering the Art of the Crushable Cocktail appeared first on PUNCH.

Each month, we pull together a selection of drinking-related items that have, for one reason or another, grabbed the attention of PUNCH’s editors, who spend pretty much all day, every day surrounded by booze. Here’s what we’re into right now.

Spirits, Sugar, Water, Bitters by Derek Brown with Robert Yule | Chloe Frechette, Senior Editor
There’s no denying that Derek Brown knows his cocktails. Not only is he the owner of several of Washington D.C.’s most-lauded bars, including Columbia Room and Mockingbird Hill, he was named the Chief Spirits Advisor at the National Archives in 2015, a position which he quips makes him “the highest ranking bartender in the U.S. government.” In his debut book, Brown takes a birds eye view of mixed drinks, tracing their evolution from so-called “paleococktails” to today’s liquid refreshments enjoyed in our current “platinum age.” Though the scope is undeniably broad, Brown handles it with aplomb, never veering too dry, offering instead a succinct and thoroughly entertaining chronicle of the American cocktail.

The Quiet Arc at The Rockwell Place | Lizzie Munro, Art Director
To be completely honest, the oddball combination of “Brennevín aquavit, vanilla, lime and Coconut Blast” wasn’t the first thing to catch my eye at The Rockwell Place in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. But if you’re a fan of coconut, which I very much am, The Quiet Arc will be one of the most crushable sours you’ll encounter this summer. It gets its tropical punch from one key ingredient, the aforementioned Coconut Blast, a highly flavorful tincture that can be incorporated into just about any style of drink, according to bartenders David Nurmi and Bryan Teoh. What’s more, if you’re looking to take the Blast for a test drive, this dead-simple tincture, essentially coconut oil-washed Everclear, takes less than a day to make. 31 Rockwell Place, Brooklyn, NY, 11217, therockwellplace.com.

Bar Pisellino’s Spumoni | Leslie Pariseau, Features Editor
Now that Bar Pisellino is open in Manhattan’s West Village, the leafy slice of Grove Street it bookends has become a bit of a Bermuda Triangle for me. Its sister restaurants Buvette and Via Carota both hold sentimental significance, and, over the years, I’ve found many excuses to wander over that way for olives, chocolate mousse, steak tartare and, now, a proper Italian afternoon aperitivo. All gold bar rails, penny tile and marble surfaces, Jody Williams and Rita Sodi’s long-awaited aperitivo bar headed by bartender J on Mullen feels straight out of a Torino arcade. A couple of weeks ago, I sat outside and worked my way through a Negroni Sbagliato and then Mullen’s Garibaldi-inspired Spumoni. Sunset red with a thick wash of foam over top, it’s a ripple effect drink—one is dispatched from the bar, hits a table and triggers a dozen more orders. A bracing mix of Campari, pink peppercorn syrup, gin, tonic and Ruby Red grapefruit juice, Mullen’s Spumoni feels like a beachier, more crushable Negroni. Which, depending on your predilections, could be very dangerous. 52 Grove Street, New York, NY, 10014, barpisellino.com.

Nardini Mezzo e Mezzo Aperitif | Kaitlin Bray, Director of Audience Development
I recently visited Bassano del Grappa, a picturesque town just north of Verona, that’s home to Italy’s oldest grappa distillery. The Nardini’s have been producing grappa and spirits since 1779, and the business remains family-owned and operated today. While I still can’t claim I’m a grappa fan after a visit to their charming tasting room, I did come home with a suitcase full of their amaro and vermouths. My favorite is the Mezzo e Mezzo, a pre-mixed blend of equal parts Nardini Rosso and Nardini Rabarbaro. It’s bittersweet, herbal and only requires ice and a splash of soda, which is about as much effort as I can muster on a humid summer day.

Vignoble du Rêveur Pierres Sauvages Alsace White 2017 | Jon Bonné, Senior Contributing Editor
Oh, Alsace, always swimming upstream! But there’s a lot of history in the house of Deiss, one of the most iconic—and iconoclastic—producers in the region. Now Jean-Michel Deiss’ son Mathieu continues that tradition with his own label, Vignoble du Rêveur. Deiss fils combines his family’s important work, blending grapes together and making texturally dense wines, with the best of the new trends slowly changing Alsace, almost against its will: skin maceration and the like. Pierres Sauvages (“wild rocks”) is three pinots in a row: blanc, gris and noir. But pinot blanc is the majority, and again here’s evidence it’s Alsace’s great unheralded variety. There’s a subtle maceration at work, not quite orange wine but just something beyond white (there’s one-quarter red grapes after all), and a sense of sugar that’s never quite sweet, like maple sap, balanced by a flinty bite. New-wave Alsace at its best.

The Sazerac at Napoleon House | Robert Simonson, Contributing Editor
Whenever I’m in New Orleans, I stop at Napoleon House. And whenever I visit, I always get a Pimm’s Cup. Though I know they are equally as famous for their Sazerac, for some reason I have never tried it. But this time, sitting at the bar with three other hard-bitten drinks journalists, it seemed the correct order. I didn’t regret it. They make a solid Sazerac there—boozy, very dry and served in short, stubby rocks glasses that stand no chance of breaking. And then, of course, we had a Pimm’s Cup. 500 Chartres Street, New Orleans, LA, 70130, napoleonhouse.com.

The post What We’re Into Right Now appeared first on PUNCH.

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