Oh sage can you see

Art in the Age's Sage is phenomenal, but the complexity of its flavors presents a challenge for the nascent mixologist.

And as we already know, I am not particularly savvy when it comes to creating cocktails.

If provided with a recipe, I can whip up a mean concoction.

Left to my own devices, however, I yield some fairly rank outcomes.

In a reversal of how I often approach ideas for this blog (capricious approaches to infusions, ill-advised liquor combinations), I thought critically about Sage.

What do I like about Sage? It's herbaceous. In recent years, I have found that I love herbaceous liquors and liqueurs.

What other liquors are herbaceous but lack the lightness of Sage? That is, what are some "heavy" herbaceous liquors that would balance out the flavor profiles? Drambuie, Bénédictine.

I took a shot glass and began mixing miniature combinations: always one part Sage (because I wanted it to be the more prominent flavor) and reduced parts of other liquors. I even splashed around some simple syrup, orgeat, Cointreau in the mix. The kitchen looked like a chemistry experiment that eventually yielded:

Cocktail overlooking Lower Lawrenceville

I call it the Oh Sage Can Your See. Because that's funny to me.

• 1 oz Sage
• 1/2 oz Drambuie
• 3 oz club soda
• Fresh sage

In a lowball, combine first three ingredients and stir, don't shake. Add ice cubes. Take a fresh leaf of sage and smack it in your palm to wake up the scent. Float on top of drink.

And the results? It wasn't mind-blowing, but it wasn't a devastating blow to my ego.

The licorice undertones of Drambuie are really pulled out by the Sage. In fact, it tasted a bit like I put a drop of Pernod in the cocktail (something I would never do because we all know by now that Pernod is literally the worst shit in the world). If anything, I would argue that Sage and Drambuie marry almost too well: the cancel each other out and produce a new liquor that just tastes like lots of herbs in club soda. 

What's really nice is that the drinker smells the fresh sage, which has a totally different scent than the taste of the drink. So your olfactory is tantalized in one capacity, but your tastebuds experience something entirely new. 

Would I make it again? Maybe. But I think Sage is better when it's festooned with ingredients that capitalize on its complexity instead of distracting from it.

Goodbye, Bristol

Dearest Joe,

Other than asides, we don't often talk about our personal lives on this blog,  but I'm breaking that little unwritten rule this afternoon. Sometimes big changes in your life seep into everything, like giving birth, leaving a job, or moving. I'm not giving birth (surprise!), but I am leaving a job that I love and moving to a new town.

It's come time for me to say goodbye to Bristol, VA/TN. I've lived there for several years and have enjoyed it immensely. It's an adorable small town with a main street that is becoming vibrant again after many years of neglect. I'll miss a lot of things about it like the lovely new brewery, Studio Brew, where you and I spent our first Valentine's Day. Or Blackbird Bakery, the bakery where we've eaten a near-lethal number of donuts. Or any of the other great downtown businesses like Machiavelli's, Eatz (where I've never had a bad meal!), or the many great antique shops.

Bristol's historic sign, which straddles
State Street  and lights up at night!

I'll also miss the people I met while working at the Birthplace of Country Music Museum, where I've had the pleasure of working since June 2014 as the first full-time Curator of Collections and Digital Media. The time I spent helping open the museum, writing foundational policy,  creating two special exhibits, planning concerts, and carrying out organization and preservation tasks with volunteers have been incredibly rewarding. I've also loved getting to know my great colleagues.

BCM is an award-winning museum and I have some brilliant
colleagues there. If you haven't visited yet, you should!

Despite missing all of these things, though, I'm excited to start a new chapter in my life in Pittsburgh with you, Joe. Still, it's always hard to leave friends, a place that you know well, and a challenging, rewarding job.

So this cocktail post breaks with our format and doesn't use our featured liquor. Instead, I've tried to find a cocktail that reminds me a bit of Bristol.

The obvious choice, of course, is something with a Tennessee whiskey in it. But we use so much bourbon in our drinks on this blog (and in our regular lives), that I wasn't sure I wanted to drop money on a bottle of whiskey. I've also always been partial to Virginia for many reasons: I was born and raised there, It's absolutely gorgeous year-round, history and culture are literally all around you (Monticello, Mount Vernon, Williamsburg, and all the great stuff in and around D.C.), and it's becoming an increasingly blue state. I could've sprung for a bottle of Bowman's Virginia bourbon, but that also seemed silly -- bourbon, despite what Virginia Tourism will tell you, is not really our thing in the Commonwealth.

So what does Virginia do well? Virginians have been making wine for years, ever since Thomas Jefferson tried (with much difficulty) to grow wine grapes at his home, Monticello. Now there's a thriving wine industry that has lovely semi-dry whites like traminettes and viogniers, other, more familiar whites that taste different than their West coast cousins, and a bevy of reds and red blends.

But even before T.J. tried to grow wine grapes, George Washington was enjoying another, now antiquated spirit at Mount Vernon, his Virginia home: applejack. Applejack, also known as apple brandy, is made from apple cider which is fermented, then heated and distilled, then sometimes aged in oak barrels. The Laird & Company Distillery who still distills applejack, holds the first commercial distillery license issued in the United States. In The Drunken Botanist, Amy Stewart claims that, after receiving a gift of applejack from the Laird family, George Washington wrote them to ask for the recipe, though he may or may not have made his own apple brandy at Mount Vernon. While Laird is based in New Jersey, and has been since the late 1600s, they still use 100% Virginia apples for their apple brandy.

So, wine and apple brandy combine to create a delightful drink (thanks, Internet!) that's slightly sweet, delightfully complex, and perfect for spring and summertime sipping on the porch.

1 1/2 oz. Laird's Apple Brandy
3/4 oz St. Germain
1/2 oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 oz. Virginia sauvignon blanc

Shake all the ingredients together then strain into a glass garnished with a slice of a Virginia-grown apple, if you wish.

The finished cocktail next to a Pointer Brand purse made by L.C. King,
who has been manufacturing in Bristol for almost 100 years!

So goodbye, Bristol. I'll miss a lot of great things about you and have lots of fond memories, but it's time to move on.

Hot Sage Toddy

As soon as I tasted the featured liquor this month, I thought how nice it would be warm. The slightly sweet, herbaceous notes in Sage would be heightened, I thought, by warming them up, just like a hot toddy, or the hot gin toddy, which I learned from an old roommate.

This cocktail doesn't have the depth of a hot toddy that uses bourbon or whiskey as a base. It's more floral and lighter than its darker cousin, which would make it perfect for fall or for a chilly summer night on the porch. Either way, I highly recommend it (if I do say so myself!).

I forgot to take a photo of the drink,
so here is a picture of some mountains in Canaan Valley, WV.

Hot Sage Toddy

1 1/2 oz Sage

1-2 tsp honey 

1/2 oz lemon juice

Boiling water

2-3 whole cloves

Cinnamon stick

Lemon

Place honey, lemon juice, and Sage into a mug or heatproof glass. Stir vigorously. Put cloves into mug, and then pour boiling water over them. Stir with cinnamon stick and leave cinnamon stick in the mug. Allow to steep, loosely covered, for several minutes. Stir, and garnish with a lemon slice, if you like. 

July liquor: Sage

Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.  

-- Walter Benjamin, "Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (1936)

This month it was my (Dave's) turn to choose a liquor, and I've been enchanted by the Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction distillery. They took the same name as a famous essay by Walter Benjamin that, in 1936, began to theorize what kinds of changes reproducability and capitalism would bring upon Art. In the end, Benjamin muses, art wrested from its connection to ritual and tradition becomes inherently political, since it is "designed for reproducability." 

And, in that sense, it is an apt moniker for the Art in the Age distillery, which prides itself on being sustainable and local. They have preserved original buildings on the site of their distillery and use regional grains and local botanicals in their drinks. 

I'd wanted to use their Rhubarb Tea liquor for our April liquor, but alas, they were sold out at the fancy Bristol liquor store. I think, though, that was a stroke of luck, because their Sage liquor (which I got partly because you, Joe, have a thing for sage) is delicious. 

It's not entirely sage-based, though - the name Sage seems to come from the fact that it is based on the writings of Bernard McMahon, who served as a botanical advisor to Thomas Jefferson. The botanical play on words is just right - hipsters like the Art in the Age kids love puns. 

So, this month's liquor, unlike Pernod from May, is delicious and drinkable and, I think, will become a staple of our liquor cabinet. 

Dave's tasting notes:

Smell: Citrusy. Lemony. Although the description of "furniture cleaner - think Pledge™" sounds like a damning condemnation of Sage, it really isn't. The scent is subtle, but certainly citrus - but not an indeterminate citrus - definitely lemon.

Consuela or Dave? You decide, America. You decide. 

Out of the bottle, Sage takes on different properties. It's sweet and herby and minty - a heady combination, a bit like Bénédictine, but less heavy. 

Taste: A boom of herbs. So many herbs with a citrus finish. But the primary flavor is herbs, and it is absolutely delicious. [Joe is typing this for Dave as he dictates. Quoth Dave: "Gosh, I should've written my dissertation like this. 'It's good', but make it sound better than that." Joe considers career as stenographer.]

"I've got 'It's good'. What next?"

Joe's tasting notes:

Smell: "This smells like tea*!" I proclaimed. Dave looked at me like I was batshit crazy. To wit: I do tend to say things that don't, on the surface, seem to be rooted in reality. Upon closer inspection, however, I am often correct in my initial batshit observations. Once poured into a glass, however, Sage takes on an entirely different profile. All its herbaceous qualities bloom, though lavender** is the principle nose for me.

Taste: Go to a plant nursery and direct yourself to the herbs. Take a look at all those herbs. Alllllllll those herbs. So many, right? Imagine that those herbs explode in your mouth, a veritable Hiroshima on your palate. But imagine that instead of your face melting off in the fallout, it feels instead like the most delicious smörgåsbord of herbaceous delight. This is what a sip of Sage is like. The dominant flavor for me is still lavender, but it rounds out into a truly spectacular and complex combination of Every Herb I've Ever Loved***.

Mouth, meet Sage.

* As it turns out, Sage is made with black tea. BOO-YAH.
** Dave also looked at me cockeyed when I swore I smelled lavender. Gentle reader, do you not think I deserve, at the least, a "You're so smart, Joe!" from Dave or, even better, a dozen oatmeal raisin cookies (my favorite!) at the most? Please leave a comment below telling Dave what I deserve. Do not let me down.
*** All The Herbs. ALL OF THEM. 

A reflection about infusions

Dave has been nearly mathematical in his approach to our liquor infusions. Back in January, a month before we were presenting each other with brandy fusions, he obsessively researched and recorded his thoughts about not only what he would infuse his brandies with but also how he would achieve unique flavor combinations through infusion.

My approach to the brandy infusion was decidedly less research-oriented, which is shocking coming from a librarian. My thought process was this: I like almonds! I like cherries! Cherry-almond brandy! I like pears! I like vanilla! Pear-vanilla brandy!

And what happened? Dave came out on top. His infusion were beyond stellar. He sought to create interesting, well-rounded flavors - and he delivered. I'm hoping I can convince him to re-create them this upcoming winter. They're perfect for cold winter evenings. Mine were good, but definitely reflected a lack of understanding of the base liquor.

When we decided in May that we would infuse vodkas for the month of June, things pretty much shook out the same way, process-wise. I picture Dave in his apartment in Bristol poring through his beloved Gardens & Guns magazines or conducting multiple searches on the internet to capitalize on flavors that are robust and pleasing.

You would have thought that I would take a different approach. Sit down and think critically about what sorts of flavors I would want and how I could get those flavors to work. But no. The only major change was that I created my infusions in the freezer, and I was only slightly more thoughtful in how I constructed each. Rosemary is a strong flavor, and I wanted it to only complement the lime. So I let the lime sit in the vodka in the freezer for a full week before I introduced the rosemary. The rosemary only stuck around four days before I removed it. The result was winning. The perfect infusion, if I do say so myself. Granny Smith apples, though strong and tart, took more time to introduce into the vodka, and I added the mint halfway through the process, only to learn the mint overpowers very quickly. It was only in the infusion for a couple days before it completely erased the apple flavor.

Yet, as Dave and I sipped our vodkas and discussed the combos, I came out on top. His carefully-curated vodkas, though delicious, fell slightly short of the mark.

We're planning our next infusion for October or November. By then we'll be living under the same roof, so I wonder if we'll brainstorm and create together or if we'll stick to our methods. And who will top that month?

Stay tuned.

Rose-mojito!

Dear Joe,

As you know, I've moved out of my old apartment and am crashing in a friend's guest bedroom during my last few weeks of work. This friend prefers a nice glass of wine to a mixed drink.

This means, among other things, that I have limited access to bar-type-things with which to make this drink. I am flying blind in terms of measurements, but it's hard to tell if the drink suffered in the process.

I was quite taken with your rosemary-lime vodka, and wanted to do something with it that would bring out the rosemary a bit more. The lime is *really* present, and fresh rosemary is always good to have on hand. Having limited mixers and other kinds of alcohol, I made a little twist on a mojito that I call, unoriginally, the Rose-mojito!

First, squish some rosemary between your fingers, put it in a glass with a tiny bit of granulated sugar, and muddle with the back of a spoon until the entire glass smells like rosemary.

Ornamental birds are optional.

Then, to that add a shot or so of Joe's rosemary-lime vodka, a splash of white rum and stir vigorously. Top it off with cold club soda and ice, if you wish, and you have...

...a drink that looks like pine needles fell into it.

Even with all the rosemary-ing up, it still doesn't taste much like rosemary. Oddly, it doesn't taste like much of anything. Given the intense lime flavor of your vodka and the rum, you'd think it wouldn't be so disappointing.

Alas, I think it will be awhile until we open a speakeasy in our new apartment, unless we simply want to make everyone try terrifying liqueurs and drink our infused brandies.

Yours,

Dave

Pure pride

Dear Dave,

As you know, this past Friday, I moved all of my furniture to our new apartment in Polish Hill. Now that I've unpacked 98.7% of my (and your) stuff, I'm getting more and more excited about our future together.

Today, many cities, including Pittsburgh, are celebrating gay pride. It's a time of joy and hope, a time of advocacy and reflection, and it's the first gay pride since gay marriage became legal in all the land. A monumental occasion.

Unfortunately, though, today has been somber. We woke to the news of a mass shooting in Orlando, Florida, at a gay club called Pulse. Latest news reports have the death toll at 50, making it the largest massacre in our nation's history. So I am sad today because our brothers and sisters were victims of a merciless, senseless crime. And all we'll hear from politicians and the NRA is how their "thoughts and prayers are with the victims." Reports from Gov. Cuomo in New York that the Empire State Building will go dark tonight and that the new One World Trade Center will illuminate in a rainbow. All this tragedy just breaks me.

I had planned all week to make a gay pride cocktail with one of your infused vodkas tonight. Earlier in the day, I wasn't sure I was up for it. I changed my mind when I decided I'd make it a tribute - to both being part of the vibrant, lovely, wonderful gay culture and to the victims of this brutality. It may seem like an empty gesture (or a pointless, fruitless one), but it isn't meant to be.

Of the two vodkas, you made me, one lends itself more to a cocktail: the blackberry-blueberry-thyme. I'm still deciding what to do with the equally delicious and ingenious dill cucumber vodka.

So for now, I present you with:

Pure Pride

Ingredients:

2 oz. infused vodka

splash of simple syrup

3 muddled strawberries

club soda

sage*

Muddle the strawberries in the bottom of a glass. Add a splash of simple syrup and the vodka. Drop in a few cubes of ice and top off with club soda. Garnish with a leaf of sage. 

This drink, darling, is gay. Gaaaaaaaay. And I loves it. It's the perfect summer cocktail: light, refreshing, and perfect for an evening on the porch. Or, as with tonight, chatting with you on FaceTime. 

The success of this drink is that it doesn't taste like vodka. The blackberry/blueberry infusion with the muddled strawberry masks the vodka in a subtle, disarming way. That is to say: too many of these and you won't remember a thing. I particularly liked the vodka-infused strawberries at the end. I ate the sage leaf with the strawberries - a taste sensation that I can't say many people would like, but I thought the pepperiness of the sage mixed quite well with the berries' sweetness. 

I know we aren't keeping track, but I think this was my first successful foray as a cocktail maker. I'd pat myself on the back, but let's be honest: there's nothing revolutionary with what I've done here. 

But still: two thumbs up. Way up. Or should I say Gay Up?

Happy Pride!

Love,

Joe

*Sage, according to medieval thoughts and practices, means domestic virtue. Apropos, no? Rosemary for remembrance would also have worked, but alas - I had no fresh rosemary.

June liquor: Infused Vodkas

We had such fun with our infused brandies in February, that we couldn't wait to try infusions again. Since it seemed a good summertime task, we decided to infuse vodkas for our June liquors.

The rules were similar: we had to pick our ingredients and time our infusions so that they'd be ready on June 1, and we had to create two infusions.

Dave, of course, couldn't follow rules properly, and created five.

This is where Dave would also like to mention that rules are for losers. Also, that infusing is really fun, cheap (you can use sub-par alcohol, usually!), and does something to wean us off of our cycle of immediate gratification. Do you remember when you had to wait at least two hours (if not several weeks) to see photos you had taken, only to realize that your thumb was in all of them? Do you remember when you had to wait with your cramped, complaining finger hovering over the PLAY and REC buttons of your cassette recorder to make a cassette dub of your favorite song from the radio, only to have it ruined when the DJ interjected in the middle to remind everyone that he had FREE TICKETS TO VANILLA ICE AT THE CIVIC CENTER FOR THE TENTH CALLER? Do you remember having to actually go to the library and use the reference section to find out that Liechtenstein is the largest producer of false teeth in the world?

We do, dear reader. Even if we have to wait for none of these things now, we do have to wait for infusions, anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks. Vodka infusions are especially quick and, since cheap vodka is really cheap, are a great starting point.

Dave's infusions for the month on Day 1

_________________________________________________________

Here are Dave's notes on Joe's infusions:

Infusion #1:

It looks clear and it smells like alcohol. My first guess is an alcohol-infused vodka. This is wrong.

There is also something a little citrusy about it, right at the end, but I had no idea what the infusion ingredients were. After tasting it, things went far more awry. "Orange?" I asked, to Joe's deep confusion. "Orange creamsicle?"

Actual ingredients: Apple mint.

Infusion #2: 

This one also looks clear and also smells like alcohol.

"Alcohol infused vodka!" I thought I couldn't be wrong twice in a row. Alas, I was. I also got a bit of lemony citrus goodness.

Then I tasted it, and I got LIME. Geez, there was so much lime. But Joe insisted there was another infusion ingredient.

"Alcohol!?"

Actual ingredients: Rosemary lime.

Both infusions were incredibly obvious once I knew what I was tasting, but were subtle enough to fool my tongue when I was trying to suss out what was in them. I can't wait to try to make a fun, summer cocktail or two out of them!

_________________________________________________________

Here are Joe's notes on Dave's infusions:

Infusion #1:

Upon smelling it, I crowed, "Cucumber!"

Dave's face gave nothing away, which absolutely confused me. I couldn't believe I was wrong. I smelled again. "Cucumber!"

Again. Nothing. HOW COULD I BE WRONG? THIS SMELLED LIKE DELICIOUS FRESH CUCUMBERS STEEPED IN ALCOHOL. 

"Mint?" I asked.

Nothing.

So this is how Dave plays the game.

So then it was time to taste.

The flavor was instant. Instant. And it wasn't cucumber. It was dill. I'd say it tasted like I was drinking a pickle, but it absolutely does the flavor no favors. This was no dill pickle vodka that hipsters would make for some sort of Dill Pickle Festival. This was a lovely, subtle dill. Sharp but subtle. How do you make dill subtle?

Answer: cucumber.

Ah-ha!

Actual ingredients: Dill cucumber. I am a genius. A genius.

Infusion #2:

First, the scent. "Strawberry!" I crowed.

Dave, playing his favorite game, gave me no facial cues at all, except to arch his eyebrows - something he does a lot anyway, so there's not much give there.

Another smell. "Strawberry!"

And then I tasted. It wasn't strawberry. It was... something. Something that I wasn't sure of. So I just guessed. Rhubarb!

No.

Strawberry rhubarb!

No.

I was stumped. It was fruity, but not sweet. It was fruity, but not citrusy. It was fruity, but indistinguishably fruity. All I knew was that it was a nice combination and I enjoyed it tremendously. It would taste lovely with a club soda and a splash of grenadine.

Actual ingredients: Blackberry Thyme Blueberry

And then the bonus vodkas.

I guessed them all by scent immediately (and the tastes were extraordinary).

Infusion #3: Chamomile!

Infusion #4: Tea!

Infusion #5: Coffee!

Bring on the infusion mixology, June!

Pernod: chapter 5 of a cozy mystery

Pernod was indeed Brandy's pride and joy.

The border collie, so full of life and spry as a puppy, had turned into a constant companion by the time Brandy was a senior in high school. The two were often inseparable, except when Brandy had to leave Sweetberry Grove twice a year for boarding school in Finland.

But when she was home, Pernod rarely left her side.

Except, too, when Brandy sneaked out of the house.

Which was often.

Because Brandy had a secret.

A big secret.

Pernod wasn't just the name of her beloved pooch, it was also a code name for her secret lover. A lover she had had since she was a mere sixteen years of age.

That, incidentally, was also the year that Ginny stepped into her life and ruined everything. So it was only natural for her to seek comfort in warm, loving, and generous arms.

The arms of...

...Yvette Altelier.

So when Benedict E. Nelson had raged into Yvette Altelier's office demanding this and that and having his primadonna hissy fit, Yvette was mad. Pissed, actually. But she was also scared. Shaking in her 4-inch Jimmy Choos.

Yvette couldn't help thinking that handsome, clueless lawyer was going to ruin her carefully-balanced life: good social position, prominent law practice, and Brandy. Damn him! In her experience, good-looking men were all the same: always putting their nose - among other body parts - where it didn't belong.

And this was all happening because Brandy's father, Gordon, had to go and get himself killed. If he'd been less of a hard-nosed, unfeeling businessman, he might have developed fewer enemies and no one would be in this predicament. Yvette was really seething now.

Of course, she reminded herself, if Gordon had been a nicer person she never would have been able to get so close to Brandy. Beautiful, outspoken, petulant, and overly-emotional Brandy. Yvette's blood pressure started to drop precipitously as she thought of her dear, sweet Brandy.

Then she sighed. Not a sigh of love, but a sigh of resignation.

She was going to have to find a solution to this whole mess, and fast. It wasn't something she could simply solve in the courtroom, no matter how many times she terrified Benedict E. Nelson.

The only way to solve this once and for all, she thought, was to look up that nosy girl who always seemed to be one step ahead of the police.

"Trixie!" Yvette called to her assistant. "Get me Anise Starr on the phone right now!"

Pernod is the worst

All told, what we have to say about Pernod

Really, guys.

We were on such a roll - consistently writing five entries a month.

But then Pernod came along and suddenly, Dave and I felt like this:

"How many different ways can you say... 'I hate this'?"

Also we've been pretty busy.

You see, gentle readers, in a little more than a month, Dave and I will finally be living in the same city. So you can look forward to continuing antics. They'll just be happening under a single, consistent roof.

But mostly Pernod is the worst.

The worst.

Chrysanthemum, or I know why the caged Pernod sings.

Dearest Joe,

I think I've figured out Pernod. It's like that annoying relative - maybe an uncle? - that comes to every Thanksgiving, gets tipsy and loud, trash talks everyone's favorite sports-ball team, belches, farts, and just makes a nuisance of himself.

But...

...if he's at Thanksgiving at say, his mother's house, grandma will threaten to beat him with the rolling pin or make him go outside and grill something if he starts acting too trashy. And then he's pleasant, partly because her personality is so big that she drowns him out and keeps him in line.

So, your farting uncle in this metaphor is Pernod. And Pernod only plays well with others in the right contexts. It's not like slatternly gin or slutty vodka, who will play with anyone and like it. Pernod is pretty picky about who it plays with, and it's always the star, no matter how little of it you use.

Unfortunately, I think this means we're going to have that bottle of Pernod in our lives for a long, long time. On a positive note, though, this month's cocktail is intriguing and, with a few tweaks, could be a great unexpected drink to serve guests in our new apartment. It's not terribly boozy, and has a distinctive, sweet, herbal flavor. It's called the Chrysanthemum and, much like Velveeta cheese fudge and hot dog-marshmallow appetizers, it sounds absolutely revolting on paper, but is actually fairly tasty if you can bring yourself to make it.

The chrysanthemum.

The basic recipe, so far as I can tell from several websites, is as follows:

2 oz. dry vermouth

1 oz. Bénédictine

one or two dashes of Pernod (probably about 1/8 tsp.)

Combine ingredients over ice. Stir and strain into glasses. I suggest pretty, petite ones, since this is definitely a sipping drink. 

Look! Pretty!

Now, since this is a pre-prohibition cocktail, it takes a bit of getting used to. It appears to have surfaced in printed form in the early part of the 20th Century. As I discussed briefly in our post about Créme Yvette, pre-prohibition and pre-1950s cocktails were a very different animal than the ones we know today. It seems they were often sweeter and lower in alcohol content; many of the alcohol-forward drinks we know and love today came about post-prohibition, when limited availability to alcohol and clandestine drinking habits changed the way America drank. 

This version may be a bit sweet for some palates - we've decided to try it again sometime but dropping back on the Bénédictine just a bit, to about 0.75 oz or so. As is, though, the herbal notes in both the vermouth and Bénédictine are highlighted by the merest hint of Pernod. If you really don't like Pernod, you may even be satisfied with the results if you simply rinse the glass with it before you make the cocktail.

I'm looking forward to our continued adventures with Pernod but, honestly, I'm also glad that May is almost over. We can shove the Pernod in the back of the liquor cabinet all alone and let it think good and long about what it's done while we move on to another - hopefully more agreeable - alcohol. 

Yours,

Dave

Road runner, road runner - going hundred mile per hour!

As a child, I was always slightly annoyed by the roadrunner.

It seemed to me that, in a predator/prey relationship, it was only natural for Wile E. Coyote to want a piece of the bird.

But the bird was always a total asshole.

Rude. 

Or Wile E. Coyote was just incompetent.

Nothing about this idea is even remotely smart. 

Pernod is a bit like the roadrunner for me. It's got a vicious streak, and it makes me regret choices I made in the past. When I was in Prague a few summers ago, I decided to try absinthe - prepared the "right" way.

It did not agree with me. Luckily, my father had his camera on hand, and trapped the moment in amber.

Proof positive that I once had hair. 

It's not the anise flavor that gets to me. If anything, I've adjusted to it marvelously. I appreciate the complexity of the flavor and what it adds to a drink. But this is also its cripple, because Pernod + anything still tastes like Pernod. In that sense, it's a bit like Creme Yvette.

As you'll likely recall, one of the reasons I selected Pernod as our May liqueur was that I frequently saw it pop up as an ingredient in one of the cocktail recipe books I have. It was from this book that I selected the Roadrunner - mostly because, despite not having wine as one of its ingredients, it is served in a wine glass. Fancy!

Photoshopped Road Runner on the left. Actual cocktail not as fun.

Ingredients:
2 oz. gin
1/2 oz. Pernod
1/2 oz. dry vermouth
1 tsp grenadine

While pouring the cocktail into the chilled wine glass, the scent of Pernod assaulted my senses. "Really?" I thought. "This is the most insidious liqueur in the world. It makes Creme Yvette look like an amateur."

But the taste of the cocktail tells a different story. The dry vermouth somewhat evens out the Pernod's bouquet. The distinctive licorice notes are still there, but the headiness of the vermouth elevates the experience a little bit. The gin is totally lost in the mix, and the grenadine is just along for the ride.

Side note: I love grenadine. I think it's primarily used for color, and that's a shame.

Maybe the cocktail is served in a wine glass because it looks an awful lot like wine. But drinker beware: this heady combination warrants only a single glass. When Pernod is invited to a party, it stays for the long haul. I think this recipe halved would be totally acceptable.

Coincidentally, about halfway through writing this post, I accidentally knocked over the cocktail. So my experience was halved, and that was sufficient for me.

I did not make another one.

I am dreading our Pernod Death Match. I have no idea what to do with this ingredient.

Love,
Joe

Nerdy Librarian Citations
MIA. "Bamboo Banga" Kala. CD. Interscope, 2007.

Whitaker, Julie and Ian Whitelaw. A Pocket Guide to Cocktails. Bath: Parragon Books, 2006.

May Liquor: Pernod

Pernod was not the first choice for May.

Joe went to the liquor store with the intention of buying Luxardo, a maraschino liqueur. But fate had other plans.

Many cocktail recipes seem to call for Pernod, and maybe it was a good idea to have the spirit on hand for future endeavors. Having no idea what the primary flavor of the spirit would be, the bottle was acquired and hidden from Dave. 

And here we are. 

To learn more about this fine spirit, we, alas, had to turn to the official wesbite of Pernod. 

Fun Fact: Pernod is owned by Pernod Recard, a huge multinational corporation that owns countless brands, including Kahlua, Absolut, (my beloved) Glenlivet, Malibu, Chivas, Seagram's, etc. You name it, they probably own it. I find this obnoxious. Can't we just have nice, small companies instead of enormous conglomerates that own half the market share?

Anyway. 

Pernod was apparently the original absinthe liqueur. I had traditionally-prepared absinthe in the Czech Republic a few years back, and it was not an experience I'd be excited to replicate. I disliked the flavor immensely, and I am now greatly concerned about Pernod. 

Dave and I pretend we are in a turn-of-the-century French Cafe

The bottle we bought is the traditional Pernod, not the absinthe, though star anise is the key ingredient in Pernod. The original recipe was developed by a French doctor and was marketed as a medicinal remedy. Eventually this doctor joined forces with a distiller, the titular Pernod, and a full-on distillery was opened. 

The drink was a hit in France, and soon the product was imported to the United States. When absinthe was banned in 1912, the Pernod company went silent for a few years before reintroducing their spirit without the absinthe. That is the spirit we will try today. 

The Tasting

We opened the bottle, and immediately the entire balcony smelled like licorice.

"This is not something you drink by itself," Dave proclaimed before drinking it by itself. 

The color is a beautiful yellowish-green that looks a bit like olive oil. 

We weren't pleased to learn that, according to the back label, it is artificially colored.

Once poured into the glass, Pernod takes on a new scent profile. You can smell the liquor, but the licorice is subdued and accompanied by floral and herbal notes. 

Here we go!

WHOA.

Dave: It's great to drink if you're having sinus problems. 

Joe: Whoa-hoah. This could burn a hole through your tongue. This is definitely something you mix with another liquor. I am not a fan. At all. 

At this point, Dave has elected to remain silent, claiming that I surely have enough thoughts for both of us. And he's right. I do. 

I can't even begin to tell you how alarming the taste of this is. It is extremely licorice forward. It might as well have a warning label on it. Something like: DO NOT DRINK IF YOU HAVE NO TASTE FOR LICORICE. And then when you purchase the bottle, the clerk at the liquor store should be required to ask, "Are you sure?" And if you say, "Yes", you should have to sign a waiver that you will not complain when it hits your tongue.

Dave is now reading to me several cocktails that have Pernod in it, and I'm starting to worry about the month of May. 

Although... he just "oohed" contentedly. 

But he might be looking at kitty cat videos. 

Créme Yvette: chapter 4 of a cozy mystery

We humbly dedicate this post to the memory of Robert J. Cooper, who helped to bring back Créme Yvette, as well as the ubiquitous elderflower liqueur St. Germain. He passed away at age 39 on Monday, April 25 from causes that weren't immediately known.

_________________________________________________________________


Yvette Altelier was many things: hot-headed, incisive, bold - but she was not sycophantic.

So when Benedict E. Nelson strolled into her office on that balmy Tuesday morning, mewling about his client's stepmother and her vicious streak, she wasn't moved. Hell, she wasn't even interested. At all.

"I was wondering," Benedict said in that smooth, caressing voice of his, "if you'd agree to me submitting an injunction Ginny Alexander."

Yvette's eyes narrowed to slits ("Pure evil!" her ex-husband often exclaimed). "Against what?" she spat.

"Brandy's gone through enough in her short life. I'd like to warn Ginny against saying anything negative about Brandy's father... or Pernod, for that matter."

"Pair-no?" Yvette could hardly help herself from spitting out the word. It sounded like an idiotic term the nouveau riche would trot out to make them feel better about their status amongst the Old Money of Sweetberry Grove. Which, in the case of the Alexander family, was extremely likely. "What the hell is that?"

Benedict scoffed and rolled his eyes. As if he'd been in Sweetberry Grove long enough to know everything about everyone.

Yvette placed her hands on her hips.

"Pernod is... was... Brandy's childhood border collie."

Yvette shifted her weight, and picked at the cuticle of her left thumb - an action she subconsciously did whenever she was losing patience. If Benedict kept this up, she'd have a a raw scrap of meat instead of a nailbed.

"Perhaps I should explain," Benedict E. Nelson began.

Yvette arched her eyebrows as high as they could go.

"Well, you have probably figured out for yourself that Brandy and Ginny have a relationship that is...ahhh -- how should I say this? --"

"Yes, counselor. A difficult relationship. So what? I once pulled off my mother's wig at a debutante ball after she convinced my boyfriend, Sanders, that I wasn't a socially appropriate match for him. We all have our sob stories."

"Oh! Yvette, that sounds horrible. To think, your mother drove your beau off just because you were of better social standing!"

Yvette stared blankly at him and began tapping her long purplish-red fingernails on her desk with an air of impatience and aggravation. Benedict's stomach dropped, like those recurring dreams when you realize that you're completely naked in a public place.

"No, Benedict. She convinced him that I was too bossy and plain to be a good match for his family's station."

Benedict gulped and fidgeted with his collar.

"Anyway, sir, I know they have a tense relationship. What does that have to do with the damn dog?" Yvette kept drumming her fingernails on the desk, and Benedict couldn't help but watch them, almost entranced, to see when she'd rap them so hard against the dark oak desk that one would fly off and smack against a piece of her gilt-edged, monogrammed desk set.

"You see, Yvette, Pernod was...well...you might say she was Brandy's best friend growing up. Being from the wealthiest family in Sweetberry Grove and having a hard-nosed businessman like Gordon for a father, she didn't have much chance to get to know kids her own age. They were all either put off by her family's position, or had been on the wrong end of one of Gordon's business dealings."

Yvette's nails kept rapping the top of the desk. Lord, did they make Lee Press-Ons out of titanium these days? And how often did she have to get that gorgeous old antique desk sanded and refinished?

"W-w-well," said Benedict as he kept one eye on her nails, "the dog, Pernod, was a bit of a problem when Ginny came into the household. Brandy loved that old mutt, but Ginny - well - she was never terribly fond of animals to begin with. You wouldn't believe the pack of trouble that dog caused: screaming matches on the porch, surreptitious trips to the pound, late-night calls to animal control and to the police! The dog became like the child in a really bad divorce."

"And for this you've wasted 7 minutes and 24 seconds of my time, Mr. Nelson?" Yvette asked as her nails finally stopped digging into the desk and instead pointed menacingly at Benedict. As annoying as the constant tapping was, he did wish she'd kept doing it; this was menacing and downright scary. Whoever that Sanders fellow was, Benedict thought he'd dodged a bullet by avoiding a date with Yvette.

"Counselor, please leave my office and don't darken my door unless you have something that's infused with at least a hint of common sense or legal precedent. Either would be a delightful change of pace. Now, good day. My assistant, Trixie Belvedere, will show you out."

"Trixie!" Yvette called loudly into the next room, "I believe Mr Arnold will agree that our meeting is finished."

Benedict nearly sprinted for the door.

Hipster Grandma!

So, here's my thinking, Joe: 

Créme Yvette tastes like violets, right? 

Violets. Or, as you say, your grandmother's bathwater.

So, I says to myself, I says: What goes with violets?

Well, there's Smurfs. 

Vanity Smurf, who I always wanted to call
"Violet." But I think he has a violet in his cap.
Or maybe a pansy. Something gay, anyway.

Violets also apparently mean love or truth and they only existing American violet wholesaler sees their sales skyrocket around Valentine's Day, according to the website of the American Violet Society.

But none of those things really help me mix a drink. 

What else do you think of when you think of violets?

Well, violets are a flower. And they grow in dirt. And probably somewhere around them in the dirt there is also grass. 

No, this isn't a marijuana-laced cocktail. 

It's a cocktail featuring the only alcohol that I know that tastes like your lawn: IPA beer. 

Yes, I know the first time that I made you a beer cocktail you said "Oh! You're making a beer cocktail!" in a voice that you wanted to sound sweetly surprised, but instead sounded like this:

A beer cocktail? Bitch, please.

Nonetheless, you drank it. And you liked it. Or else you kept pretending that you liked it. Either way, it is my reality now.

And I predict you'll also like my newest creation: the Hipster Grandma! 

It's simple. Look in your fridge. Is there IPA there? 

Of course there is. You have too many ironic t-shirts, too large a vinyl collection, and too many Bernie Sanders bumper stickers for there not to be. And it's probably some local, hand-crafted, organic, free-range IPA.

Okay, not an IPA. But I wasn't at Joe's house,
so I had to make do with what I had on hand.

Now, does the IPA taste like grass? No, really - does it taste like you just shoved your hand in a bag of lawn clippings, dunked it in some water, and left it in a dark corner of your basement to ferment for a few months?

It does? Good. We're ready. 

Pour a wee bit of Créme Yvette in a pint glass. You'll probably want to use a half ounce. I prefer about three-quarters of an ounce. You don't want too much - it's powerful stuff, like kryptonite or florescent lighting. 

Then open an IPA - I actually used and American Pale Ale from one of our local breweries down here, Yee Haw Brewing - and dump it on top. If you like, add a little twist of lime or lemon. 

You'll get a lovely purple fizzy concoction. 

It's everything hipsters love: local and artisanal with a subtle undertone of something working-class, gritty, and authentic, whatever that means. But also, it has a sweet, floral, Victorian aftertaste. Yes, like your grandma's bathwater. 

So I give you the Hipster Grandma! 

Your hipster grandma, Joe.

Ginger Rabbit

Dear Joe,

I really don't understand your loathing for Créme Yvette. It isn't as syrupy-sweet as Créme de Cassis. And it has a really fascinating flavor - when is the last time you ate something that tasted like violets, except for maybe that one time you ate part of your mom's African violets from the kitchen window? I mean, you seem to like lavender, and they're both delicate, floral flavors that could easily overpower a drink or a dessert. You just need to pair it with strong flavors that can compete with its sweet, floral powers. Like you'd show your dominance to train a dog. Or, for that matter, a boyfriend: 

Apparently it's a game! And there are two of them!
I'd suggest we play, but perhaps we already are...

I think you just picked an unfortunate drink. Gin is lovely, but it won't do quite enough to temper the really strong violet and berry taste of Créme Yvette. I'd thought about doing a gin cocktail, but since you beat me to it, I decided to pick a dark liquor drink. 

For some harebrained* reason I picked a drink with a lot of prep, but it does have star anise in it, which seems appropriate given that our cozy mystery heroine is named Anise Starr. 

It's pretty, but I'm not sure it gave the
drink too much flavor...

Anyway, I had to make an infused sugar syrup, for which I didn't really follow the directions. I just heated up a simple syrup in the microwave, threw in a teabag and some star anise and let it sit for a few minutes while I made dinner and mixed up everything else. I think it worked passably.

Roughly 0.5 oz infused simple syrup.

The simple syrup, by the way, was pretty delicious on its own. I've saved some for your next visit to Bristol, should you want to use it for some fun new Créme Yvette cocktail. 

But then you muddle some ginger and lemon peel with it, add ice, lots of bourbon (I used Four Roses Small Batch this time), and a splash of Créme Yvette, then strain it into a new glass and voilá! You have the Ginger Rabbit. 

It tastes, to be honest, about 90% like bourbon. Which means it's definitely your kind of drink. And I was a bit scared of the simple syrup. In the same drink as Créme Yvette I was afraid it would just taste like sweet, syrupy alcohol. That would be okay if I were a sorority girl. Lucky for us both, I'm not. 

It did taste like a subtly sweet bourbon - the floral aftertaste was just barely there, but it was tempered by the depth of the bourbon and the earthiness of the simple syrup, not to mention the sharp notes of the ginger and the lemon. I found it a nicely-balanced and delicious drink, even vaguely appropriate for spring! 

I'll make one for you next time I see you. I think I can turn you around on Créme Yvette. I don't see us ever sipping it on the porch, at least not until we enter a Victorian-themed retirement home. But I still think it's an interesting addition to some cocktails. 

I think you'll like my next creation better, anyway. So get ready for...

H I P S T E R   G R A N D M A

Yours always,

Dave

* I still think "harebrained" is most correct, despite your apparent attachment to the "hairbrained" spelling. That's harebrained, I say. 

Submarine kiss

Dear Dave,

I poked around looking for a Créme Yvette recipe and couldn't find anything that felt truly compelling. Or anything that I could stomach.

I returned to the Créme Yvette website, which now just seems like a collection of carefully-curated lies by some hipster in Brooklyn who thought bringing back a long-dormant liqueur would score him some Kewl Points™ with the members of some starving artisenal booze collective.

One cocktail on the website continued to intrigue me: the Submarine Kiss.

On our walk earlier today, I kept calling it the Stratosphere. And I was going to draw a humorous parallel to my experience riding the Stratosphere in Las Vegas. Alas, I had the names confused and my Humor Bucket is devoid of anything clever regarding the Submarine Kiss.

Because god is this a dumb name for a cocktail.

I'd deconstruct its meaning if the drink made me feel anything more robust than pure apathy.

What intrigued me about this drink was that it required two preparation steps: the creation of the "silver fizz" and the layering of Créme Yvette.

The layering didn't work, maybe because I don't have a champagne flute. But even if I did, I don't think it would have made that much of a difference. 

Silver Fizz:

• 2 oz. gin (the website recommended Plymouth Gin, but I used London Dry Gin after confirming through a couple half-assed Google searches about the difference between the two)
• 3/4 oz. simple syrup
• 3/4 oz. lemon juice
• one egg white

This combination receives two different shakes in the cocktail shaker: a dry shake (one without ice) and then one with ice. I guess the one with ice is called a wet shake? That sounds so disgusting. 

Once the silver fizz has been prepared, you pour it over one ounce of Créme Yvette. The photo on the website makes it look like the Yvette magically sits on the bottom and the fizz floats on top of it. Maybe the champagne flute allows this to happen, but my result looked markedly different.  

Hide & go Créme Yvette: the Pepto Bismol Years

You know how whenever we made cocktails with Créme de Cassis we couldn't taste it no matter what? The opposite is true with Créme Yvette. 

I was positive it would be lost in the gin. After all, there are two parts gin to the Créme Yvette. 

I put my nose to the cocktail before drinking it, and there it was: the smell of moldy, flowery sadness.

And I took a sip. 

There was a banging at my palate's door.

Créme Yvette didn't wait for me to answer. She barged right on in and drunkenly accused me of not loving her. 

Before I could stammer an explanation, she punched me in the gullet and demanded an explanation. 

I tried to calm her down. 

But Créme Yvette isn't a lady, David. She is a boozy virago, all vitriol and pugnacious fire. 

Gin is no match for her. Lemon is no match for her. Sugar and egg and groveling is no match for her. 

She will find you and she will pummel you into submission. 

And if there is an explanation for this cocktail's lousy name, it is that Créme Yvette kisses like a submarine: a demanding, metallic, bulldozer liplock that tastes of flowery defeat. 

May you have more luck with her.

Love,

Joe

April Liquor: Créme Yvette

Hello, beautiful.

The story of Créme Yvette is, in a nutshell, the story of the last 100 years of American cocktail culture. The purple-hued liqueur was listed as an ingredient in published cocktails dating back to the late 1880s and until the 1930s and 40s, according to the company's website.

After prohibition, though, the way Americans drank changed. Many kids and teenagers who grew up during prohibition had little to no experience with drinking and went straight for drinks that could get them buzzed, and could get them buzzed quickly. This is part of the reason that vodka became an important and ubiquitous ingredient in drinks like the Bloody Mary, Screwdriver, and Moscow Mule, which helped its popularity soar.

Sad little digestifs like Créme Yvette were no match for this sea change in American drinking culture. It didn't help matters that one of Yvette's major ingredients was violet petals, as well as a masceration of berries, which I'm sure made it feel even more like something your grandma would drink, not a keen liquor you and your nifty friends would drink. Dig it, daddy-o?

Créme Yvette ceased production in 1969, but was resurrected in 2009 just as the classic cocktail craze was warming up in major American cities. There's a lovely interview with Robert Cooper, the head of the liquor company that owned the rights to the liquor's formula and decided to reintroduce it in Elements Magazine.

Bottoms up!

Cooper says that Yvette doesn't have the same broad appeal as the company's other famous liqueur, St. Germain, citing Yvette's lack of versatility and user-friendliness.

All the same, we're testing its boundaries this month with classic cocktails, new (and often frightening) creations, and, as always, a bit of murder thrown in at the end of the month.

Tasting notes: 

Dave:

When I took the cap off the bottle and sniffed, I was a bit shocked at how alcohol-forward it smelled. And when I poured it into the glass, I was really glad we hadn't decided to do Creme Violette this month instead, which is entirely violets, while Yvette is violets mixed with blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and cassis, with honey, vanilla, orange peel and spices added.  It still smells ridiculously like flowers, which is not a smell I'm used to in things I drink.

I think Joe may have a difficult time with this one. It tastes much like it smells. Like flowers. We're drinking fucking flowers. I can't imagine drinking this after dinner as a digestif - it might make me want to retch up everything I'd just eaten. Not that it tastes bad exactly... just very, very strong. It's the strength of the floral taste that's off-putting. It's also a thick, heavy liquid - much like Bénédictine from last month - and that just enhances the almost syrupy sweetness in a way that's, well, gross to a modern cocktail drinker. We like our alcohol to taste like alcohol and this tastes like perfume.

It's going to be an interesting month. If anyone wants to try Créme Yvette, come by our place. I'm sure we'll have some of this left, even if you can't make it by our place until the year 2062.

Joe:

I was really quite excited about this liqueur when Dave told me it was his choice for April. I had never even heard of Créme Yvette, and I am always up for an adventure. Plus the information Dave had found about the drink was just so darn fascinating! A resurrected liqueur of yore!

But.

This smells like my grandmother. Her house, more accurately. I should probably clarify that I don't really like the smell of my grandmother's house. Most people probably associate grandmothers with baked apple pies or rose perfume or something. But this is not the case with mine. This is going to come across as incredibly cruel, but I'm being honest: her house smells a bit like mildew. Mildewed flowers. It's a scent that embeds itself in everything: furniture, food, you name it. Dave is getting a hit of all these wonderful fruity notes, and I'm just getting a big hit of mold.

And then we tasted it.

Picture a ninety year old woman. Maybe she has that bluish-tinted hair because of a rinse she uses. Maybe she smells like baby powder with a hint of mothballs. Maybe she spends her days in the garden, tending to gardenias and gladiola, jacaranda and hyacinth, hyssop and violets. She's been out in the sun for a long time. She returns inside and draws a bath, adding Epsom salts and lavender bubble bath. And she bathes. For a couple hours. Once her wrinkly skin is even wrinklier, she emerges from the tub.

And that's when the makers of Créme Yvette swoop in and bottle the bath water.

Dave took two candid photos when I tasted Créme Yvette for the first time. I had no idea he was snapping shots, but I think they tell the full story.

Oh, Sweet Jesus

Sweet baby Jesus.

This is going to be a rough month, folks.

Nerdy Librarian Citations:
Dewing, Neal. "How Vodka Conquered America" The Federalist. The Federalist, 15 July 2014. Web. 27 March 2016. <http://thefederalist.com/2014/07/25/how-vodka-conquered-america>.

Simonson, Robert. "Creme Yvette" Elements Magazine. Imbibe Media, 14 August 2009. Web. 27 March 2016. <http://imbibemagazine.com/elements-creme-yvette>.