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. 

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.