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.

The Parisian

1/4/16 
6:45 PM

Dear Dave,

Well, here it is: the first cocktail post. 

Tonight I made something called The Parisian. The recipe seemed straightforward enough: equal measures gin, dry vermouth, and crème de cassis. However, the cocktail book in which I found this recipe has a tendency to be a bit off with its measurements. I went to Our Friend the Interwebz and located a tweaked recipe that called for only a quarter ounce of crème de cassis. I decided to use that recipe.

The cocktail has a lovely pink hue, but I'm a bit at a loss for words. It tastes, predictably, like a very dry, vermouth-y martini. The crème de cassis is buried in the mix, and I only get a hint of the black currant flavor after my brain acknowledges the vermouth. And good christ does this have an overwhelming vermouth note. The drink lacks balance and subtlety because the vermouth bangs down the door, hollering, "Y'all like fortified wine*, RIGHT?"

The only reason I'm posting this is because I want to make the cocktail with the book's recipe.

Look forward to an edit - I can't imagine that I'll make another one tonight. This first Parisian? Mai oui, c'est fort!

Joe

*Did you know that vermouth was a type of fortified wine? I didn't. Yay, reading. 

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UPDATE!

I attempted the Parisian again this evening, bringing the crème de cassis quotient up to a full ounce. This gave the drink a truly beautiful, other-worldly hue. It would not look out of place in a science fiction movie. 

 

This revision to the recipe, though, has led me to a bit of an existential crisis with crème de cassis. Dave, I ask you: what is the point of crème de cassis? Did we buy an inferior bottle? Is its role only to imbue your cocktail with color? Are French people this desperate to get drunk?

True: this version of the Parisian is infinitely better than the one I made last night. The vermouth has been subdued by the extra 3/4 ounce of crème de cassis, but I barely taste any of the pronounced black currant flavor we enjoyed a few days ago. Additionally, this Parisian has a slightly thicker quality to it, which only solidifies my initial opinion that crème de cassis is little more than glorified cough syrup.  

Maybe I'm being too harsh. Maybe the Parisian is just a bland, unoriginal cocktail that lacks depth of flavor. Maybe it's a cocktail designed for people who don't like cocktails. But, Dave, as you know, I love cocktails. I crave something interesting and unique, a remarkable flavor profile. I do not get this with the Parisian. I get Cosmopolitans for Slightly More Sophisticated Woo-Girls.

I wonder, too, if gin is too subtle a host for crème de cassis. Perhaps what this liqueur needs is a more robust host. Rum or (ugh) tequila or bourbon. Mmmmm... bourbon. 

If we had followers for this blog, this is where I would make a plea to readers to help me understand what this liqueur has to offer. Alas.

I'm looking forward to what your experiment yields. Perhaps you'll have more success. And if it doesn't result in success, perhaps our collective big, beautiful brains will uncover a combination that reveals crème de cassis' true character. 

I remain, though, doubtful.

Intrigued, but doubtful.

Nerdy Librarian Citations
"Parisian" Bar None Drinks. Bar None Drink Recipes, 2013. Web. 4 Jan. 2016. <http://www.barnonedrinks.com>

Walton, Stuart, Suzannah Olivier, & Joanna Farrow. The Bartender's Companion to 750 Cocktails. London: Hermes House, 2009.