Boozehound - Jason Wilson [37]
“We are not an oversophisticated drink,” Franke said. “It’s an easy, uncomplicated product. Just make sure it’s ice-cold, and have a group of friends with you.” In case buyers are unclear about the ice-cold part, it says “Serve Cold—Keep on Ice” in big, bold letters right on the label. “The recipe has never been changed for the American palate. In this case, the American palate matches up just fine.”
Franke and I were sipping Jägermeister and tonics at the Jägermeister guesthouse, overlooking a clay tennis court, and, as usual, several members of the public relations department were with us. In this case, there were two young German women and one young American woman who’d come over from New York. Now, one might wonder, why all the public relations support for one slightly inebriated spirits writer? Well, I’d been told I was the very first journalist who would be allowed into Jägermeister’s vaunted secret herb room. In fact, before I secured permission, I had to fill out a multipart questionnaire requesting, among other thing my “positions on the spirits industry.” It seemed a somehow appropriately German interrogation.
Here are some things I learned during my tour. Jägermeister is produced by macerating, rather than distilling, its ingredients of herbs, spices, roots, and fruits in pure, neutral spirits, then aging for a year in huge ten-thousand-liter oak barrels. Jägermeister spends more than $500,000 on barrels every year. Liquid sugar, 135 grams per bottle, is added to the macerate late in the process. Meaning that even though Jägermeister is often referred to as a bitter, it is actually a liqueur because of its high sugar content. This sugar, I think, is a key part of Jägermeister’s particular appeal in the States; without its sweetness, there would likely be way too much licorice and herbs for the American palate.
All of those facts were fine and dandy—and wandering among the huge barrels was pretty cool. But what I really came for was a visit to the herb room. I was hoping it would shed some light on the fifty-six-ingredient secret recipe. As we entered the building, I could smell a huge number of aromas, and then we stepped inside the room. For all the buildup in my head, the room very much resembled other sterile labs where people in white coats develop secret flavors. The main item of interest in the herb room was a huge display of fifty-six samples of secret herbs and spices, each labeled with its name. Right away, like a good journalist, I whipped out my notebook and began copying down the list. As I did, I could tell that the German public relations people were becoming agitated, and one disappeared from the room. “They’re getting nervous,” said the American PR woman. “You’re causing problems.” The German PR person sternly handed me a sheet of paper listing the five herbs that are “officially” disclosed: cloves, ginger, chamomile flowers, cinnamon bark, and saffron.
Well, I’m not usually one to stick to “official” lists, and so—much to the certain dismay of my German handlers—I will tell you that there is also licorice root, lavender, rose hips, hyssop, mace, turmeric, cardamom, coriander, star anise, clove, lemon, and orange, as well as many of the herbs and spices usually found in bitters. Of course, just knowing those ingredients, but not the amount and preparation of them, doesn’t make it likely that you or I can recreate Jägermeister in our kitchens at home.
It was in the herb room that I learned definitively, sadly, that the rumors of deer’s blood and opiates are completely unfounded. Telling you this, dear drinker, somehow feels like telling you that Santa Claus does not exist. It felt as though a small part of my youth shriveled up and died. Alas, we soldier on.
Jägermeister was developed in 1934 and for most of its history in Germany, it was an after-dinner digestif. It was a drink enjoyed by middle-aged men who might have worked in the Playmobil or Volkswagen factories, after their meal of pilsner