Lemon Hart, Ahoy!

Renowned Tiki drink master Jeff "Beachbum" Berry is a lovely fellow, but he has one annoying habit. He'll be schooling you on the make-up of some wonderful, forgotten tropical drink from Tiki's storied past, and when he gets to the rum component, he'll say, "Now, the best rum for this particular drink is Lemon Hart. If you can find it, use it. Of course, you can't find it."

After this observation, the sound of teeth grinding can distinctly be heard.

I have been searching for an opportunity to taste Lemon Hart from the first time Berry mentioned the name of the old rum. There is a Demerara version, in 80 and 151 proof, and a Jamaican version. Lemon Hart, if you can believe it, is actually a guy's name. (What mother names her son Lemon?) Way back in the late 18th century, he became the first supplier of rum to the British Royal Navy—which I'm betting was a pretty lucrative gig.

The Demerara rums can be pretty readily found in the U.S—so I'm told. But either I'm blind or they ain't on the shelves of the liquor stores I frequent (and I frequent good liquor stores). So, when I heard last week that there would be a rum tasting event at the New York Yacht Club, I asked, "Will you have Lemon Hart there?" Yes was the answer, and I signed on.

c entering the grand Model Room at the NYYC, which its Hall-of-the-Mountain-King fireplace and soaring ceilings, I, like a heat-seeking missile, whisked past the Bacardi, the 10 Cane, the Mount Gay, the Cruzan, to a table in the corner that seemed to be serving only one thing: Lemon Hart Demarara 151 proof rum, by itself or in a punch. "The bartenders stole all the 80," shrugged the man behind the table.

He offered me a glass of punch he had made from the Lemon Hart. No, no, no, I said. I want the stuff straight. OK, he replied, but be careful, it's strong. He wasn't kidding! The 151 is lethal. Hot. Very hot. But great, with flavors of burnt caramel and (am I dreaming this because of the name?) lemon. Then, I tasted the punch, which was excellent, telling me that Lemon Hart makes for a great mixing rum, as Berry had indicated.

Lemon Hart's Jamaica rums were not on hand, and remain the Holy Grail. For some reason, they can only be had in Europe. (Who makes there weird decisions?) Looks like I know what to do on my next trip at a London or Paris Duty Free shop.

That Was Then

I've been doing some research lately in preparation for an article on the resurrection of the lost liqueur Creme Yvette. Robert Cooper, the man behind St. Germain, is responsible for the reclamation. While he's been true to the original recipe of the violet cordial, he's updating the label. Since the new label is now 100% approved yet, I won't show it here. But take a look at what the Creme Yvette label used to look like.


Kinda adorable, ain't it? I love the line "A world wide reputation of Excellence in the preparation of Pousse Cafe & Blue Moon Cocktail." And the wonderful illustrations on the side: a pussy cat for the Pousse Cafe and a half moon for the Blue Moon. It's all so quaint and charming.

The Sipping News

After an avalanche of protest, The European Commission has dropped a plan to allow rosé wine to be made by blending red and white wines. Thanks God! [New York Times]

Tyler Colman to discuss his book "A Year in Wine" at James Beard House. [Dr. Vino]


Martin Cate, of Forbidden Island fame, plans to open a new rum bar called Smuggler's Cove in San Francisco. Fall 2009 is the target date. [Trader Tiki]

Camper English writes about the cocktails of Charles H. Baker Jr. in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Time Out New York takes a look at the theatre crowd hangout, Bar Centrale.

Room For Everyone

At a recent wine event, I was seated next to the manager of a prominent Manhattan wine store know for its selection of classic French wines. We were having our dessert, and were musing how it would have been nice to conclude the feast with a nice sweet wine. This led him to relate how the folks at Chateau D'Yquem are always promoting the idea that the classic Sauternes should not be relegated to the end of the meal, but is appropriate from soup to nuts. With this he cracked a wry smile, communicating how ludicrous the idea seemed to him.

It seemed ludicrous to me, too. And it brings up an annoying habit I have often encountered among wine and spirit makers. That is, they want it ALL! It's not enough for them to be the best wine with lamb, the best wine with oysters, the best wine with fois gras. They think people should be downing their vino with every course, at every occasion. The Champagne people have been banging this drum for years, saying their bubbly is not just a special-occasion beverage, but a quencher for all times. (They, it seems to me, have the best case to make where this kind of monolopy-grab is concerned.) The spirits industry, too, has been trying to shed its cocktail-before-dinner image, encouraging people that gin and bourbon and tequila are do be enjoyed throughout a meal.

Most of these campaigns are born of greed, of course, not common sense. I can't think of a more unpleasant and dizzyingly rich experience than coating my mouth with luscious Yquem over a two-hour dinner. As splendid as that manna is, I imagine its saturating flavors would get in the way of the subtler flavors of any meal, and the volume of honeyed elixir would leave you a bit leaden at night's end. As for the "cocktail dinner," I've always thought it a patently bad idea. Spirits are bullies. They don't compliment food as well as wine does; they dominate the proceedings. There's simply no use pretending otherwise. And they get you drunker far quicker, so that, by mid-meal, you wouldn't really care or notice what you're eating or drinking.

Furthermore, I think distillers and vintners are doing themselves a disservice by promoting the supposed versatility of their products. They may imagine that it will result in greater sales and visibility. But it will also lead to a diminishing of their profile and a lessening of prestige. If Champagne is right for every food and every hour, it ceases to be special. And Sauternes and other sweet wines only heighten their attractiveness and allure by keeping themselves the exclusive treasure that is saved for the end of the festivities. (The best is always saved for last, right?) Cocktails have their own "hour"—a much better position than being an also-ran parvenu at the dinner table. A specialist is more highly thought of than a general practioner. Why become common when you've got a lock on a certain niche? Didn't Beaujolais do that in the '80s and '90s with the Nouveau campaign? And look at its dismal reputation now, only just recovering its dignity.

So Champagne, Yquem, Cocktails: recognize your uniqueness and embrace it. Part of the wonderfulness of the drinking world is there's a perfect drink for every human experience.

The Old-Fashioned Makes a Comeback

My first assignment from the Dining Section of the New York Times appears today. And nothing could have made me happier than to make my debut writing about a subject dear to my heart: the Old-Fashioned, a drink, I am glad to say, that is quite popular around New York these days. I mention a few places in town where you can get a good one; I recommend them all.

Take a Sip of History

By ROBERT SIMONSON

THE old-fashioned may finally be earning its name.

One of the most venerable of whiskey-based cocktails, it has a history that stretches back farther than the martini’s. For decades it has suffered under the reputation of something your grandmother drank — overly sweet, fruit-laden and spritzed-up. But grandma wouldn’t recognize what’s happened to it lately.

The old-fashioned is one of the most requested mixed drinks at some of New York’s newest and most self-consciously artisanal drinking dens, including Prime Meats in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn; Elsa in the East Village; Rye in Williamsburg, Brooklyn; Jack the Horse in Brooklyn Heights; and the White Slab Palace on the Lower East Side.

Cocktail aficionados say it couldn’t have happened to a nicer drink.

“The old-fashioned is one of the original cocktails, in the true sense of the word,” said Damon Boelte, bar director at Prime Meats. “It’s kind of like having a Model T on your menu.”

It’s so old that it was called a “whiskey cocktail” until late-19th-century parvenus like the martini and manhattan forced purists to order an “old fashioned” whiskey cocktail. But while the martini and the manhattan came through the cocktail dark ages of the 1970s and ’80s with much of their dignity, the old-fashioned developed a personality disorder.

Its majestically austere profile (basically a slug of rye with minuscule touches of water, bitters and sugar) was tarted up with a muddled orange slice and maraschino cherry, and a diluting dose of soda water. This rendition has its advocates, and remains popular in supper clubs across America. But it sends shudders down the spines of the new breed of cocktail classicists.

“A bastardization of the original drink,” said Kevin Jaszek, a bartender at Smith & Mills in TriBeCa who designed the cocktail list at Elsa.

Disciples of the cocktail renaissance, like Mr. Boelte and Mr. Jaszek, have restored the old-fashioned to what they feel is its rightful form — “back to integrity,” as Julie Reiner put it. The Clover Club, her Boerum Hill bar, opened last June with an entire menu section devoted to the old-fashioned and its variants.

Yes, variants. Devotees are not completely doctrinaire in their recipes, varying the type of bitters or sweeteners used.

And old-fashioneds built on bourbon (PDT in the East Village), rum (the Oak Bar) and tequila (Death & Co. in the East Village) are not unheard-of. Just keep that maraschino cherry well away.

Zipang-Ity-Do-Dah!

Sparkling sake. That's something new.

Gekkeikan, the world’s best selling producer of sake, sent me a couple bottles of the stuff recently. Zipang is the name. Which, a little internet research tells me, is the name of a twenty-six episode Japanese anime television series, so we kind of know where the product's heart is.

Sparkling sake shouldn't come as such a surprise. Certain restaurants and sommeliers have been pushing sake as a dinnertime wine substitute for years. Sparkling wine—spakling sake. Why not?

The product is "naturally carbonated," and comes in at a very light 7% alcohol. The attached press recommended I try it chilled in a champagne flute, so I popped open a bottle and did so. Simple is the first word that comes to mind. Very simple. The ingredients are rice, water and yeast, and that is what you get. It's a light, fizzy, slightly rice-flavored beverage. The advertised tropical fruits I could not locate (not without having the idea put in my head, anyway).

Frankly, I found the drink dull on it own. Refreshing, probably lovely on a sunny terrace on Spain when I might be thinking of absolutely nothing. But in my kitchen in Brooklyn, dull. So I decided to "zip" it up and make it the base of a Champagne cocktail. Why not? Aren't all new sparkling alcoholic beverages basically chasing after Champagne's tail, anyway?

This was much better. A nice change, and I could picture it going lovingly with sushi. A couple problems, though. Zipang doesn't have the bubbles it needs to eat away at that Angostura-saturated sugar cube, so the lump kind of sat down there half-dissolved. Perhaps plain loose sugar might be better in this case.

If I were the Zipang people, and were contemplating going back to the drawing board, I'd think about getting a bit more of a flavor profile and some more fizz into this baby. As it is, though, I can see some mixologists playing around with it nicely. And it might very well become popular with fairer sex. (I hope I offend nobody by saying that.)

Also....hey, whaddaya know—I finished the bottle while typing this.

Two Southsides

I don't remember the impetus, but some nights ago I fixed myself a Southside.

I don't usually give the Southside much of a thought, except when I'm at the "21" Club, where it's the official drink. Don't know why. I guess I've always considered it a rather uninteresting refresher. Plus, I think it's association with bluebloods has hurt its rep. WASPs have never been known for their exquisite taste in comestibles. With them, the blander the better. So, their favorite cocktail must be a bore, right?

But I must have not had the ingredients necessary for anything more complex, so I made a Southside.

Imagine my surprise when I slurped up a dose of a superior libation. I loved the Southside I made. In fact, I was in love with it. I wanted another. Immediately.

So what happened? Well, first, the recipe I had used from from the Beverage Alcohol Resource, whose five-day intensive course I had taken in spring 2008. I had never tried the recipe before. When I gazed at the formula, I remember thinking: I don't remember the Southside being this complicated. Here's what I saw:

2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce fresh lime juice
2 lime wedges
1 ounce simple syrup
2 sprigs of mint
Soda

Muddle on of the mint sprigs with the limes, lime juice and simple syrup in the bottom of a bar glass. Add the gin and shake well. Strain into a goblet over crushed iced and stir until the outside of the glass frosts. Top with soda and garnish with the sprig of mint.

As I sipped and sipped, enjoying myself thoroughly, I thought: lime? Wait a minute. Is lime right? I checked in a couple other cocktail books. Sure enough: most specified lemon, not lime. And none of them said anything about lime wedges being muddled. Is that why I suddenly liked the drink so much—because it was a different drink?

So I decided to conduct a taste test. I'd make a Southside with lime, and one with lemon, and see which was better. I tried to keep the recipes as close as possible to one another. I used the B.A.R. recipe for the lime version, and a Harry McElhone one for the lemon. I used simple syrup in both, and the same amount of mint. However, I did not use wedges of lemon for the second; the wedge thing seems to be unique to the B.A.R. version.

So, what did I learn? I learned I like me a Southside cocktail! Honestly, the two weren't much different. By a very small margin, I liked the lime rendition better; the play or sweet and tart was more tantalizing, somehow. But I didn't dislike anything about the lemon drink.

Then, finally (did the drinks job my memory? Is that possible?), I remembered where I had first derived my sense of the Southside. It was from a pocket recipe guide from the Museum of the American Cocktail. It called for lemon juice, and no ice at all. And it was served up, in a Martini glass.

The Cocktail Chronicles informs me that the drink I've been liking is actually a Southside Fizz. OK. I'll accept that. But why does B.A.R.—a group of guys that ought to know their stuff—call it a plain Southside? (Others do, too.)

I wonder what I'd get if I ordered a Southside at "21"?

Like many cocktails with a long past partly shrouded in the mists of time, there seems to be a lot of variation with the Southside. Just know this. If you're playing host to me and I ask for a Southside, I want the once with the ice.