Boozehound - Jason Wilson [18]
We now live in an era of huge advancements in the world of gin, bitters, and vermouth. Today, we are lucky that many of the original nineteenth-century ingredients have been resurrected. There are now more styles of bitters—from aromatic to Peychaud’s, from orange to lemon, from cherry to celery—widely available. Hayman Distillers, in London, has reintroduced Old Tom gin to the United States for the first time in almost a century.
In the world of vermouth, most notable is the appearance in the States of high-end Dolin, imported from France and based on an 1821 recipe (and costing eighteen dollars to the usual seven dollars for Martini & Rossi or Cinzano). Even gold-standard dry vermouth Noilly Prat has returned to its roots and now sells its original European recipe in the States—the Noilly Prat we’ve enjoyed for years was a special (read: dumbed-down) recipe for Americans. I like the European-style Noilly Prat—it’s got a lot more flavor—but, of course, this change has been a lightning rod for criticism. When it was launched, the conservative Wall Street Journal called the new-recipe Noilly Prat “evil” and a “fussy imposter” and said that a martini made with it was “a mess.” I completely disagree—it’s just more of that Very Dry Martini bullying.
Most of the general public, of course, has ignored the various quasi-academic, pseudophilosophical discussions regarding classic cocktails. Perhaps this ignorance has been bliss. Certainly I’ve wanted to slit my own wrists once or twice after debating and dissecting the finer points of a martini or Manhattan. But surely those who’ve never ventured beyond vodka have also missed out on something.
Not too long ago, I was sitting at the bar of Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co., a faux speakeasy in Philadelphia that’s named after a historic bootlegging front. The Franklin follows almost all the standard conventions, including the entrance being below street level. There is actually a hint of real seediness though, since it took over the space of a previous bar that was known for a being a reliable place to buy ecstasy and cocaine. What I love about the Franklin is what I love about any speakeasy—its bartenders make great drinks the right way.
On this night, I was chatting with the bartenders and I was drinking a Carroll Gardens, a mix of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, an Italian amaro, and maraschino liqueur. This is one of no fewer than half a dozen variations of the Manhattan on their cocktail menu, all named after different neighborhoods and cities—the Brooklyn, the Bronx, the Newark, the Kensington (in north Philadelphia).
The place was getting crowded, and as I sipped, two big guys pushed their way to the bar. They wore suits, but these guys were of a familiar type in Philadelphia—hair gel, tans, definitely major gym time and some protein powder in the recent past. I don’t want to label, but if we’re calling the cocktail crowd geeks, then we might reasonably call these guys meatheads. Both were scoping the crowd. Instead of the male bartenders in the vests, they made a beeline to Katie, the lone female shaking drinks behind the bar. “Get me two Grey Goose martinis,” said the shorter of the two. “Very dry.”
“Oh, I don’t have that,” Katie said. She smiled.
“What vodka do you have?”
“We don’t have any vodka.”
The guy looked genuinely perplexed. For a moment, I sort of felt bad for him. “You don’t have any vodka? Are you shittin’ me?”
“No, we don’t have any vodka.”
He turned around to his friend and scrunched up his face. “What kind of fucking place is this?” He turned back to the bartender. “Are you fucking with me? You don’t have vodka?”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, smiling even more widely. She handed the pair a leather-bound, ten-page cocktail menu. “Take a look, and I can recommend something if you’d like. What other spirits do you like?” The two studied the menu for a moment as if it were written in Estonian.
The guy who’d ordered turned to me, exasperated, and asked, “What are