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.