The Next St. Germain?

How do you follow up a smash like St. Germain?

Well, if you're Robert Cooper—the creator of that industry-wowing, elderflower-informed liqueur, which has become a staple behind every hip bar over the past two years—you do it with Creme Yvette.

Creme Yvette was a defunct proprietary liqueur made from parma violet petals, berries, vanilla and other flavors and spices. It was once manufactured by Charles Jacquin et Cie in the United States, who purchased the brand formerly made by Sheffield Company of Connecticut. But it went out of circulation in 1969, just as Cocktaildom's Death Valley Days began. Since then, it has become one of those elusive, ungettable products that spelunking mixologists yearn after in order to properly make certain pre-Prohibition cocktails.

Eric Seed of Haus Alpenz helped relieve the agony a little while back when he brought out his Creme de Violette, causing all cocktail geeks to jump up and down like children because they could now make a proper Aviation. One would think that would have deterred Cooper from bringing Creme Yvette back from the dead. Does the world need two violet-flavored liqueurs? I must admit, when Cooper told me he was looking into Creme Yvette a year or so ago, I was skeptical of the product's potential draw.

Creme Yvette is not yet on the market, but Cooper has been toting around samples of the purple stuff to various bartenders and bar owners to see what they think. One made its way to my door.

With the first smell and sip, I began to think that Cooper's efforts may have been worth it. First of all, it's not a ditto of the Creme de Violette, so this is not a question of two identical products on the market. It's color is a deeper purple. The Violette is actually the color of violets. This is more the shade of blueberry juice.

The berry notes continue all through the product. In addition to the requisite violet scent, you get a rich variety of berry flavors on the nose and the palate, along with vanilla. It's a fairly rich, viscous product, with a surprising amount of depth.

I tried it an Aviation and a Blue Moon, and was pleased. The color is gave the Blue Moon was quite spectacular; a beautiful, sunset-worthy streak of light lavender. But it was an obscure cocktail out of Harry McElhone's "Barflies and Cocktails" that really sold it for me.

According to the book, the Ping-Pong Cocktail was invented by James G. Bennet at the Broken Glass Cafe in St. Louis, in 1901. It's equal parts Sloe Gin and Creme Yvette shaken with a teaspoon of lemon juice, and strained into a cocktail glass with a cherry garnish. It doesn't sound like genius, does it? But the Sloe Gin and Yvette play nicely together. It's not a fragrant, berry overload, as you might expect. And it shows that Yvette can work in largish amounts, which I had doubted up until then.

I also suspect Yvette will work beautifully in egg-based, frothy libations

The Mexican and the Dutch

New York City has seen two major cocktail bar openings in the the past month: Phil Ward's Mayahuel in the East Village and Sasha Petraske's Dutch Kills, in Long Island City. Both are excellent and merit a visit, and both trailblaze in their way. With Mayahuel, Ward brings the cocktail revolution to tequila, and, with Dutch Kills, Petraske brings the cocktail revolution to, well, Queens.

Both worlds had long been underserved by the minds of today's mixologists. Sure, bartenders respected tequila and all, but who was really going out of their way to create a new raft of cocktails using the South-of-the-Border liquor as their base? Few, really, aside from Ward, who made the Oaxaca Old Fashioned a staple over at his previous perch, Death & Co. Gin and whiskey were the ones getting the major workouts, with rum put to the task here and there.

Petraske, meanwhile, is a geographical frontiersman. The business formula he employs at Dutch Kills is basically the same one found at his Little Branch, Milk & Honey and White Star (Old World vibe, gentlemanly bartenders, classic cocktails), but it's set in Queens, which has been completely ignored by the mixed drinks renaissance until now. (The Bronx and Staten Island remain ignored, but that's another issue.)

Dutch Kills is located on Jackson Avenue, a lonely desolate boulevard in lonely, desolate (at least at night, but pretty much in the day, too) Long Island City, the westernmost nabe in Queens. The ugly, industrial facade has been untouched. There's a larger than usual (for Sasha) neon "Bar" sign outside, so kudos for visibility! Inside, there's room to spare. The high-ceilinged, dark-wood place goes back, back, back, past a multitude of booths, past the back, ended in a sawdust-strewn room with benches and a piano. It may be my favorite of Petraske's always beautifully designed spaces. It's pleasant to be in a bar large enough that not everybody in the place knows you're there.


For his opening menu, Petraske has kept it simple and straightforward, pushing cocktails with a Queens theme. These include libations only a cocktail geek would know have been around for 75 years: the Astoria (basically a Martini with orange bitters); the Flushing (a Manhattan with Cognac); and the Queens Park Swizzle (a beauty with rum, lime, mint, bitters and plenty of ice).


Mayahuel, names after an Aztec god, is a cozy place more typical of the cocktail dens of our time. It's in the thick of Cocktail Central—the East Village, that is—on E. 6th, and takes up two floors of a former Moroccan restaurant. The floors are quite different in character. The top is all cushions and luxury; perfect for executive types who like to spend money, and couples on dates. The bottom floor, which lies down a couple steps from the entrance, is more to my taste: a tight little bar, two inviting arches wooden booths, a couple hidden stools in back, and a cantina feel lent by a profusion of lovely tilework. I may like the space better than any other EV bar. It just feels right.

I'm treating my visits to Mayahuel as part of a continuing education course in tequila. It's a spirit I need to learn more about, and there are few who have more to teach that Ward. He's very specific about the kind of tequila he puts in each cocktail, from Blanco to Reposads to Anejo, as well as which brand of each category to use. Mezcal is put to work as well. Dozens of tequilas are also offered straight up—golden opportunities to try various liquors that are not usually available by the pour. And, for those who'd rather pass on tequila, there are sangrias, beer-based cocktails and the usual back bar. (As a perverse gesture, I'm tempted to order Martini here at some point.)

Two More Old Scotches

The single malt scotches of advanced years keep advancing, looking to seize that luxury market. The latest through the mail slot are the Laphroaig 25-year-old and the Ardmore 30-year-old. Both run $500 a bottle.

The Laphroaig 25 Year Old was aged in Oloroso Sherry and American Oak casks. It was bottled in 2008 at cask strength (51.2% ABV). As you might expect from this Islay scotch, it's got flavor a-plenty. The nose in particular is powerfully multifarious. I almost ran out of paper making notes on it. The mellow, medium amber-gold liquid gave me buttered toast, burnt brown sugar, butter toffee, green buds, saline, brine, smoke and iodine. You could smell it all the live-long day and keep coming up with things.

The palate breaks off in two distinct sections. It has a creamy feel at first. Smooth caramel leads to coffee which then leads to sharper flavors such as burnt sugar, green branches (the kind that bend, but won't break) and a kind of greenness I associate with young red wines. The last thing you're left with is an intense flavor of tangy rock salt. This stays with you and builds up after a number of sips, leading to a not altogether pleasant finish. However, it's very possibly I may became accustomed to it.

The Highlands Ardmore 30 Year Old is aged in former bourbon barrels and handmade quarter casks. Only 1,428 bottles are available. I liked it less (though it's hard to turn up your nose at any scotch of such a high water as these). It is light in color, sunny yellow. The nose is light, too. Compared to the Laphroaig, in fact, it's almost nonexistent. But it's pleasant, a gentle Highland breeze with clover honey, brush, wildflower and heather notes. The taste is mild at first, lightly candied and creamy. It then quickly takes a hairpin turn to flavors of crackling spice, cocoa, pepper, brine and grass, broadening and broadening as it goes. Boy, does it get broad. It's an interesting journey. It's a light, but sharp whiskey.

Beefeater 24 Hits the U.S.

Six long months after I first tasted Desmond Payne's new gin Beefeater 24, I've finally written about it. (Well, for print. I've written about it several times on this site.) Why the wait? Well, because I live in America and it took it that long to get here! Actually, at various points, it was suppose to debut March 1, then April 1. May 1 ended up being the money date.

Here's the piece I wrote about it for Time Out New York, as well as a new Beefeater 24 cocktail recipe provided by Joachin Simo over at Death & Co.

Holy juniper!

Englishman Desmond Payne has done nothing but make gin his entire adult life; first at Plymouth, where he helped resuscitate the reputation of that venerable spirit, and then at Beefeater, where he has been master distiller since 1994. So considering that—after 40 years of closely adhering to other people's botanical recipes—he has finally created a premium gin of his own, attention must be paid. Beefeater 24, which launches stateside this month, is the product of a year and a half of experimentation. An arch-traditionalist, Payne did not veer far from Beefeater's classic cocktail of nine botanicals, created by James Burrough in the 1860s. Payne added only three ingredients to the mix, but that trio makes all the difference. Spanish grapefruit peel complements the spirit's already strong citrus character. However, it's the inclusion of Chinese green and Japanese sencha teas that gives the spirit its distinctive personality, combining two defining English culinary traditions—gin and tea—in one elegantly perfumed product. Beefeater 24 (named for the number of hours the neutral spirit is steeped in the botanicals) makes for a particularly thought-provoking martini, with a noted tannic hit at the beginning and a remarkably long finish. And it adds a welcome new element to the often too-simplistic classic, the gin and tonic. If you're feeling more adventurous, a newly minted libation using the stuff can be found at Death & Company (433 E 6th St between First Ave and Ave A, 212-388-0882), where Joaquin Simo is serving the Kew Gardens Cooler (muddled cucumber, Aperol, grapefruit juice and tea-infused syrup). Only one question remains: Do we do teatime later, or cocktail hour earlier? A 750ml bottle is $30 at most liquor stores.—Robert Simonson

Kew Gardens Cooler
From Joaquin Simo of Death & Company

In a cocktail shaker, lightly muddle two thin cucumber slices. Add:
• 2 ounces Beefeater 24
• 1/2 ounce Aperol
• 3/4 ounces grapefruit juice
1/2 ounce Scarlet Glow syrup*

Shake briefly with 3 ice cubes to chill, then strain over crushed ice in a highball glass. Garnish with a cucumber ribbon (use a vegetable peeler to carve out a thin seedless slice of cucumber, then skewer it with a cocktail pick).

*Scarlet Glow syrup
Heat 1 cup water on the stovetop. Add 1 cup of sugar and stir to dissolve. Bring to a boil, then add 4 to 5 tablespoons of Scarlet Glow tea (hibiscus and elderflower tea made by In Pursuit of Tea). Remove the mixture from the heat and allow it to steep for 45-60 minutes, then strain the syrup into an airtight container and refrigerate. The recipe makes approximately 1 1/2 cups of syrup. It should keep in the refrigerator for 1 1/2 weeks.

Mad Men and Drinking, Season Two, Part III

One of the funniest and most disturbing drinking moments in Season 2 of the AMC series "Mad Men" comes when Sterling Cooper ad exec Don Draper and his Wife Betty are having a couple neighbors over the dinner.

Don employs her 8-year-old daughter Sally as barmaid, having her make the adults drinks. She first innocently gets Don his Old Fashioned. As she leaves, Don playfully scolds "Muddling mean you smash the fruit up."

Next, Sally comes in with a question about the ladies' orders: Tom Collinses. "OK," instructs Don. "That's gin and soda. And the orange and cherry go on the top. Try to drop them in right there on the top." Sally trots off.

Not a bad description of the drink, fit for a kid's understanding. But she's a kid. The thing about the scene is you don't blink. If you have parents from that era, that is. My parents studiously observed cocktail hour every night at 5 PM. They never asked me to prepare their cocktails. But I wouldn't have been surprised if they had, and, if they had, I would have made them and thought myself lucky to be involved in the adult fun. Today, such activity would get child services on you like a cheap suit. And they'd be right to throw the book at you.

Apparently, the scene inspired someone enough to create the above illustration. Gotta admit. Pretty funny.

Your $10 Recession Wine of the Week: Domaine de la Cadette Bourgogne 2005

This bottle seemed like a potential find. A white Burgundy from importer Kermit Lynch for only $11! Sure, it's only a Appellation Bourgogne Controlee, but still.

The Chardonnay has a grassy, herbal nose. The wine inside is has good acidity and is light in the mouth. The flavor profile is limited, grass, grape, lime and grapefruit. But it's in an Old World Burgundy style. It's not much, but for the price, it's a decent Burgundy table wine. I'd still recommend it.

Pichon-Baron Pichon-Lalande Showdown

Meetings of the Media Wine Guild are typically pleasant and edifying. It's not usual, though, that they are historic. But the one held April 27, 2009—which featured vertical tastings, from 2000 to 2006, of neighboring Pauillac domains Chateau Lougueville au Baron de Pichon-Longueville and Chateau Pichon-Longueville Comtesse de Lalande (hereafter referred to as simply Baron and Lalande)—was just that.

And it's not me who called it historic. It's the managers of those two fine Bordeaux properties themselves, who were in attendance. "We have never done this tasting before," said Christian Seely, manager of the Baron site. Gildas d'Ollone of Lalande concurred.

So why should they even think to do such a tasting in the first place? Well, there's good reason. The two Chateaus are side by side, and are historically linked. They were once part of the same property, owned by Pierre de Rauzan. As I understood the story from Seely, this changed when the Baron married into the winemaking family. Rauzan gave them the estate, which was rechristened Chateau Pichon Longueville. Of the children the marriage produced, the daughters divided the estate into the two Pauillac Chateaus we know today, while the sons got 60 acres of vineyards around Château Margaux.

It was amusing to see the two grand men diplomatically making the cases for their wines. Though they behaved civilly enough to one another—and I was told that whatever rivalry there once was has subsided—you could tell the gentleman eyed each other with a certain modicum of underlying suspicion and jealousy. Seely, English, curly-haired, bow-tied (his signature cravat) and smiling, was the the more canny as self-marketing, peppering his speeches with wry asides and self-deprecating humor. The old, white-maned Frechman's d'Ollone's dignity was coiled more tightly; humor was not an arrow in his quiver.

Though both Chateaus share the same undulating ground and gravelly soil, there are appreciable differences in their wines. Baron wines typically use somewhere around 65% Cabernet Sauvignon in their blend, and very little Cabernet Franc. Lalande used to employ something along the lines of a 45-35% mix of Cab vs. Merlot, but in recent years has inched the Cab up to around 65%.

There was much to like in the offerings of both vineyards. Obviously, these are world class wines, so there were no bad bottles, just ones that were comparatively better than others. Overall, I preferred the Lalande wines, mainly because I found more depth and variation in the various vintages. The 2000, in particular, had a mushroomy, barnyard nose, and earthy palate of mushrooms and green olives that positively stood out among its brother bottles. The Baron wines routinely furnished inviting and enjoyable notes of cherry, berries and other red fruit, with greener notes as the wines got younger. (The 2006 was extremely extracted.) The Lalandes, however, often gave out enticing, more challenging flavors of charcoal, pencil lead and darker fruit. To put it another way, the Barons with bright, the Lalandes were moody. (However, it may be that, money-wise, the Barons are the bargain wines; the Lalandes are considerably more expensive.)

But that's just my opinion. I was informed later that a table of the Guild's senior members, Bordeaux purists all and Cab nuts, were liking the Baron wines best.

There was little debate, however, as to the wine of the afternoon. That was the Lalande 1985, served with lunch. As one member said, "it sang." An amazing wine, smooth and integrated, with touches of mellow mushrooms and green brush, and beautiful character and depth. Mature, but alive. It was heavenly. Seely even jokingly admitted he would not dare to show the Baron 1985 against it.

Also served with the meal were the Baron 1989 (amazingly full, juicy and lively for a 20-year-old wine); the Lalande 1989 (a deep nose, an even palate of rose and dark fruit, and lots of depth); and a 1990 Baron (too hot, just too much, with extracted fruit and diffuse flavors). A member also contributed a double magnum of a 1975 Lalande. This was fairly good, nice and silky, but a bit tired and not nearly as impressive as the 1985.

The room was well-attended. Any extra table was needed. And talk was excited and non-stop. We must have more showdowns like this in the future.